Page 6

Chapter six

Leo

T he last practice before our first post-holiday game was brutal. Coach made sure of it. He drove us into the ice, one exhausting drill after another. It was his attempt to wring every ounce of hesitation out of us before tomorrow. Nobody left that rink without feeling it deep in their bones.

By the time the final whistle blew, the guys got the hell out fast. Stiff legs, aching muscles, empty stomachs—they entered self-preservation mode. They needed sleep, food, whatever it took to be functional by game time.

And then there was me.

And Dane.

Half in my gear, I sat on the bench, still lacing and unlacing a skate. I figured if I kept my hands moving, maybe the rest of me wouldn't lock up. The locker room was quiet, with the distant hum of the arena lights and the slow drip of a leaky pipe somewhere near the showers as the only sounds left.

Across the room, Dane peeled off his practice jersey, his jaw tight. He knew I hadn't left. Knew I was watching.

His shoulders were bruised up from the week—from practice, me, and whatever we'd been pushing each other through since day one. The marks stood out against his skin, deep and purple, a map of every time we'd collided on the ice. It was a chart I'd memorized, even if I wouldn't admit it.

It would have been smart to leave—grab my shit and walk out the door.

Instead, I sat there.

And he knew it.

I watched how his fingers curled around the hem of his shirt before he yanked it over his head. I couldn't miss his irregular breathing before he turned away.

Yeah. He fucking knew I was there.

"So, what's your deal?" My voice was casual, maybe a little too casual.

Dane didn't look up. "My deal?"

"Yeah. You act like you hate me, but I don't think that's it."

His head snapped up. His eyes locked onto mine, that deep azure blue dark and unreadable.

"Where to start?" His voice was tight, like I'd yanked on a thread he didn't want pulled.

I let my skate drop to the floor, my grin slow and deliberate. "I'm listening."

Dane stood slow. He took a step forward—not aggressive, but not hesitant either. He merely moved closer and closed the gap.

"Yeah? And where would you like me to start since you seem to think you know me so well?" His voice was quiet, steady, the kind of tone that let you know he wasn't looking for bullshit.

I could've let it go. With one shrug, I could've grabbed my bag and left him standing there, but that's not who I was. Not with him.

"I think you like pushing me to see if I'll push back."

His nostrils flared. Only a bit, but I caught it.

He took another step forward. Too close now. Only inches between us.

"What? You gonna hit me again, Dane?" My voice was smooth, but there was something sharp under it.

He didn't hit me.

He shoved me.

The impact knocked me back against the lockers, hard enough that the metal rattled, but I regained my balance quickly. My pulse spiked, and my hands curled into fists at my sides. Not from anger. From something else. Something worse.

He stood there, chest rising and falling. He was waiting to see what I'd do next. He knew I wouldn't walk away.

"Real mature," I muttered.

Dane didn't say a word. He watched me, waiting, jaw tight, eyes darker blue than I'd ever seen them.

Waiting for me to make the next move.

I made it.

I grabbed him by the front of his jersey, twisting my hands into the fabric, and pulled him into me. It wasn't gentle.

Without thinking and without hesitating, I crashed my mouth against his.

The first kiss wasn't soft. It was a collision—messy, too hard, too fast, like neither of us had any control over it.

Dane's hands were on me in an instant, gripping, pulling, pushing back hard. There was tension in every movement. His fingers gripped my shirt, and he pressed his chest against mine.

The cold bite of the locker seeped into my spine. The kiss was all heat, breath, and the raw, urgent hunger I hadn't expected Dane to give back.

His mouth was rough against mine, his teeth scraping against my bottom lip before he dragged me in deeper. A low sound rumbled in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh, and it sent something sharp, electrical sparks, straight up my spine.

I didn't know my next move. There was no script for this. Should I be cocky and joke about it?

Nah, that wasn't right. I tightened my grip, fingers raking into his golden hair, twisting, keeping him there, almost afraid to let go.

He kissed like he fought—like he had something to prove. And, fuck me, I wanted him to prove it. Again and again.

His breath was uneven when he finally broke away, chin dropping. We both breathed hard, like we'd skated full speed into each other with no padding or protection.

His lips were swollen and red. His pupils dilated.

I did that.

Neither of us spoke.

Neither of us moved.

For a second, the world narrowed to the space between us and the weight of what we'd done. Nothing could ever be the same again.

Then, he started to check out.

He stepped back first, his breath still ragged, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. His hand came up, swiping across his mouth like he could erase the last minute.

I knew better.

So did he.

I stood there, my back against the lockers, panting for breath. The heat from Dane's body lingered in the space between us, but he had already stepped away, pacing.

He swore under his breath, ran a hand through his hair, and then turned away.

My fingers curled against my thighs, still buzzing with the feel of him. My lips throbbed, and my pulse pounded in my ears.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice rough.

"Yeah," I rasped.

He looked at me then, eyes wild, searching, something raw behind them that made my stomach clench.

Before either of us could say another word, and before I could reach for him again, he grabbed his bag and bolted.

I stood there, letting the weight of it all settle in. My fingers twitched, still burning. It was impossible to shake the ghost of Dane. My breath hitched, and too much energy surged through my body.

He ran.

Not literally, but close enough.

His hands were shaking when he grabbed his bag. His shoulders were stiff as if he were holding himself together through sheer force of will. He barely looked at me. One quick, sharp glance before Dane turned away.

He took a step toward the door, then hesitated.

For half a second, I thought he might say something, anything. His fingers flexed around the strap of his bag. His knuckles were white, and his whole body wound tight. He clenched his jaw again, and whatever thought had flickered through his head died before it made it past his lips.

The door slammed behind him, echoing through the arena.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The cold air from the vents hit me then, slicing through the heat left in my body, making me shiver. My jersey clung to my skin, damp with sweat, and the contrast between that sharp cold and the warmth of minutes ago made my stomach twist.

It wasn't only adrenaline.

My gut knew.

My brain still wanted to believe another story. I tried to force it to make sense and file it away as nothing more than a fight that got out of hand, followed by a moment that meant nothing.

My body didn't buy it. My pulse still raced. My lips still tingled.

Fuck.

I reached up, rubbing the heel of my hand over my mouth, tasting the aftermath. Raw. Bruised.

And fuck him for leaving me standing there alone to deal with it.

My pulse hadn't settled when my phone buzzed in my locker. The sound rattled against the metal, sharp and intrusive. I didn't want to look. I didn't want to get dragged into anything else. I wanted to let the taste of Dane linger.

But I looked at it anyway.

Colby: Icehouse tonight. Team's heading over. You coming?

I let my head fall back against the locker with a dull thunk, exhaling through my nose.

The Icehouse. Loud music, cheap beer, and guys getting rowdy enough to burn off the pre-game nerves. It would be a distraction, but it also sounded like a bad idea. Still, since when did I avoid bad decisions?

I grabbed my bag, fingers tightening around the strap before I tapped out a response.

Leo: Yeah. Be there soon.

I needed an exit ramp—a way to get out of my head. Out of the memory of Dane's hands fisting my jersey like he didn't know whether to fight me or hold me there forever.

He could pretend it never happened. He could convince himself he didn't feel it.

But I fucking knew better.

***

The Icehouse was a wall of noise the second I walked in. It was a rush of familiar sounds—laughter, low hum of music, sharp clatter of pool balls breaking, and glasses slamming on sticky wooden tables.

The air was thick with the familiar scents of beer and fried food.

Someone bumped into my shoulder, nearly knocking me off balance. "Shit, man, watch where you're—oh, Leo. Didn't see you there."

I barely heard him and barely registered the clap on my back as whomever it was passed. My eyes were already scanning the room, finding the usual faces, noise, and chaos.

But Dane wasn't there.

Why was I looking for him? He bailed. My stomach twisted when I realized he wasn't slumped in the corner with a beer, half-listening to the guys and nodding along like he gave a shit. He wasn't at the bar either.

He wasn't anywhere.

"Jesus, you look like someone kicked your puppy."

I blinked, dragging my focus to Colby, who had parked himself beside me at the bar. He shoved a beer into my hand, eyeing me like he was waiting for an explanation.

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are." Colby leaned against the bar, watching me over the rim of his glass. "You haven't said a word since you got here. Instead, you're lurking like some broody-ass villain."

I rolled my shoulders and took a sip. "Thinking about the game tomorrow."

Colby snorted. "Bullshit. I haven't known you long, but I can tell when you're in your head about hockey, and this?" He gestured vaguely at me, his grin sharpening. "This isn't that."

I exhaled slowly, trying to shake the tension out of my limbs. I still felt Dane's hands twisted in my jersey and tasted his breath in my mouth.

Colby watched me. "You and Whitaker are always going at it. I swear, the two of you should just—"

He cut himself off, laughing like it was a joke. Ignoring the fact he'd dropped a grenade between us.

My grip on my beer tightened. "Just what?"

Colby chuckled, shaking his head. "Nothing, man. Forget it."

Maybe he could, but I couldn't. The memory of Dane pressing into me flashed bright and sharp behind my eyes. I pushed off the barstool abruptly.

Colby frowned. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Home," I lied.

The frown deepened, but he didn't push. "Don't get too far into your head, man. We need you sharp tomorrow."

I threw a half-hearted nod over my shoulder and shoved my way outside, sucking in the cold air, hoping that it might clear it all away.

I wasn't going home.

My feet carried me forward, away from The Icehouse and away from everything familiar. I didn't think about where I was going. I merely walked, fast and aimless, hands shoved into my pockets, heading into the wind. My boots crunched over ice-crusted sidewalks, past quiet streets and darkened storefronts, and past the glow of streetlights casting long, distorted shadows.

I only stopped when I reached the Androscoggin River and the falls. The water was black, with rippling highlights reflecting the moon. Reflections of streetlights and brick buildings stretched across the surface a hundred yards downstream in jagged, broken lines.

I stared at my own reflection, but all I saw was Dane.

Flashes of him hit me in waves—his breath rough and uneven. I couldn't forget his body's solid, unyielding press against mine.

Then, there was how he looked at me after. He wanted to take it back, but he knew he couldn't.

I dragged a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. I should've let it go. I could have shoved it into the same mental drawer as all the other mistakes I wasn't ready to face.

But I fucking couldn't.

Because it wasn't only me.

Dane felt it, too.

And next time?

I wasn't going to let him run from it.