Chapter 2 – Tonight, you belong to me.

The water was still scalding when Damian heard the lights flicker.

He had been standing under the showerhead for what felt like an hour, his palms flat against the cold tile, letting the heat hammer the back of his neck until his skin turned raw and pink. The championship loss was in his bones—not just the score, not just the broken stick, but the weight of three years of pretending. Pretending he hated Sebastian. Pretending his heart didn't race every time they faced off. Pretending the whispered threat "A deal is a deal" meant nothing.

The cut above his eyebrow had stopped bleeding, but the water still stung when it hit the wound. He welcomed the pain. It was the only thing that felt real.

He had locked the main door. Muscle memory from years of being the last man out of locker rooms. The bolt had slid home. He had checked it twice. The emergency exit was another story—that door led to the parking garage, and Damian had been too rattled by the black rose on his bench to check if it was secure. He had just stood there in the doorway, staring at the dark concrete, waiting for someone to step out of the shadows.

No one had.

So he had gone back inside, locked the main door again—this time shoving a broken skate blade under the gap for good measure—and stepped into the shower to wash away the loss.

It wasn't working.

The fluorescent lights above the sinks buzzed and flickered, casting everything in that sickly green glow of places where hope came to die. Damian pressed his forehead against the tile and listened to the water hammer against his shoulders. His ankle throbbed. His ribs ached. His right hand, the one that had held the stick, was still numb.

You lost, he told himself. After three years of fighting, of planning, of telling yourself you hated him—you lost.

And you're not angry.

The thought surfaced like a body breaking through ice. Damian opened his eyes. Stared at the water pooling at his feet.

You're not angry. You're relieved.

He finally did it. He finally beat me.

Now I don't have to pretend anymore.

The lights flickered again.

Damian turned off the water. The sudden silence was louder than the shower had been. Drips echoed off the tile. The ventilation hummed. And somewhere behind him, near the lockers, he heard something that didn't belong.

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. The sound of someone who wanted to be heard.

Damian's heart slammed against his ribs. He grabbed a towel from the hook and wrapped it around his waist, his movements quick and quiet. The locker room was shaped like a long rectangle—rows of stalls on either side, equipment bench in the middle, training tables at the far end near the emergency exit. The lights were still flickering, throwing shadows that moved when they shouldn't.

Click. Click. Click.

Boots on wet tile.

Damian turned.

Sebastian Montgomery stood at the far end of the locker room, still in his game gear. His jersey was unbuttoned, hanging open over a black compression shirt that clung to his chest. His hair was wet, curling at the temples, dark as the centers of the roses that had been left for Damian. His left cheek bore a fresh bruise—Damian's elbow, second period. His lips were parted, his breath visible in the cold air of the room.

He smelled like ice and blood and something else. Something sharp. Something wild. Something that made Damian's throat go dry.

Sebastian walked forward slowly. Each step was deliberate, measured, the walk of a predator who knew his prey wasn't going to run. His boots squeaked softly on the wet tile. His eyes never left Damian's face.

Damian didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't run.

Sebastian stopped three feet away. His gaze traveled down Damian's bare chest—still damp from the shower, still flushed from the scalding water—and then back up to his face. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. Not a smirk. Something softer. Something almost sad.

"Don't look at me like that, Captain," Sebastian murmured.

Damian's voice came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by the loss and the silence and the impossible fact of Sebastian Montgomery standing in his locker room. "Like what?"

"Like I'm the monster who stole your trophy."

"You are."

"No." Sebastian took another step closer. Two feet between them now. Damian could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, the small scar on his chin from a fight two seasons ago, the way his chest rose and fell like he was running a marathon standing still. "I'm the monster you've been waiting for."

Damian's back hit the lockers.

He hadn't moved backward. Or maybe he had. Maybe his body had decided to betray him in ways his mind couldn't control. The cold metal pressed against his spine, grounding him, reminding him that this was real. That Sebastian was real. That the three years of hatred and rivalry and whispered threats had led to this exact moment.

Sebastian closed the remaining distance.

He didn't touch Damian—not yet. But he was close enough that Damian could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the ice still clinging to his gear, could see the pulse hammering in his throat. Sebastian leaned in slowly, giving Damian time to flinch, to turn away, to push him back.

Damian did none of those things.

Sebastian's breath ghosted across Damian's ear, warm and slow, carrying the faint taste of the champagne he must have drunk from the Cup an hour ago. The air between them thickened until Damian could taste it—sweat, ice, and something darker. Copper. Adrenaline. Want.

"A deal is a deal," Sebastian whispered.

His voice had dropped an octave, gone hoarse and ragged like a blade dragged across stone. It vibrated against Damian's skin, sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Tonight… you belong to me."

The words landed in Damian's chest like a physical blow. Not because they were threatening—though they were—but because they were true. Because somewhere, deep in the marrow of his bones, Damian had known this moment was coming since the night he pulled Sebastian off the locker room floor three years ago.

"One day I'll own you," Sebastian had said. "And you'll thank me for it."

Damian had laughed it off. Had told himself it was just bravado, just the rambling of a scared rookie who didn't know what he was saying. But he had never forgotten those words. Had carried them with him like a secret, like a promise, like a threat he was secretly hoping would come true.

And now it had.

Damian's knees buckled.

Not from fear. Not from exhaustion. Not from the loss or the hit or the blood he had lost from the cut above his eyebrow. From wanting. From wanting Sebastian so badly that his body had forgotten how to stand. From wanting to be owned and seen and loved by the man who had spent three years pretending to hate him. From wanting to finally, finally stop pretending.

Sebastian's hand shot out and caught Damian's arm before he could fall. His grip was firm, warm, steady. He pulled Damian upright, not roughly, not gently—just enough to keep him standing.

"I've got you," Sebastian said.

Damian looked up. Sebastian's face was inches from his own. The bruise on his cheek was dark in the green light. His eyes were hungry, but underneath the hunger was something else. Something that looked like fear.

He's just as scared as I am, Damian realized.

And then his knees buckled again—not from weakness, not from the cold, but from the unbearable weight of three years of wanting finally crashing over him. Sebastian held him upright, their bodies pressing together, the towel the only thing between them. Damian's hands came up to Sebastian's chest, not pushing, not pulling, just touching.

"Don't," Damian whispered.

"Don't what?"

"Don't let me go."

Sebastian's arms wrapped around him. And Damian let himself be held.