The enforcer keeps her hands to herself. Always has. On the ice she breaks other women's bodies; off it, nobody gets close enough to touch hers. The team's falling apart around her and she likes the distraction, likes having something to hit that isn't her own loneliness.
The strategist sees anyway. Has been seeing for months, watching from behind the glass with a patience that makes the enforcer's mouth dry, her thighs clench under all that padding. When the pursuit finally begins, it isn't gentle. It isn't kind. The strategist wants her on her knees in the equipment room, wants her shuddering apart against the lockers with fingers inside her and commands whispered against her ear, wants ownership written into every gasp.
The enforcer thinks she can walk away. Thinks she can take what her body craves and keep her heart locked down tight. She's wrong. The strategist's hunger only grows sharper with every surrender, more demanding, more consuming - until the enforcer can't remember why she ever wanted distance, only knows she'll do anything to be kept.
A dark sapphic hockey romance featuring obsessive possession, locker room desperation, and the ruin that comes from finally being seen.
