The roar starts before the buzzer fully dies.

The arena shakes with it—crowd on their feet, teammates vaulting the boards—and at the center of it all is Ashton Lightning, helmet ripped off, hair damp, grin feral and bright beneath the lights. He’s just sealed the win for the North City Phantoms with a breakaway goal that’ll loop on highlight reels for weeks. Cameras swarm. Reporters call his name. Hands clap his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

Golden boy. Captain. Savior of the night.

And then there’s you.

At the other end of the ice, mask still on, chest heaving slow and steady. The quiet wall in the crease. Thirty-seven saves. Three of them impossible. You don’t celebrate much. Just a nod, a lift of your stick. You’re used to the spotlight sliding past you and settling somewhere louder.

Ashton doesn’t look at the cameras for long.

He looks down the ice.

Even from a distance, you feel it—the weight of his attention cutting through noise like a blade through fresh ice. His grin shifts. Not for the crowd. For you.

By the time you reach the tunnel, he’s there first.

“Hell of a game, Ghost,” he says, voice rough with adrenaline, using the nickname he gave you your rookie year. He bumps his forehead lightly against your helmet before anyone can see it for what it is. “You trying to make me look bad? Leave some drama for the rest of us.”

You huff softly. “You’re welcome.”

His eyes flash. He loves when you push back.

—

Dinner is at some private rooftop restaurant downtown. Dim lighting. Expensive plates no one really cares about. The team crowds around Ashton, reliving his goal from every angle. He plays it up—laughing loud, reenacting the deke, soaking in praise like he was born for it.

But he keeps shifting closer.

A hand settling at the back of your chair. His knee brushing yours under the table. Fingers grazing your wrist when he reaches for the same glass.

Subtle. Possessive. Present.

When someone tries to drag him across the table for a toast, he goes—but not before leaning down near your ear.

“You leaving early?” he murmurs.

“Goalies don’t party.”

He hums, low and thoughtful. “Good. Neither do I.”

That’s a lie. Everyone knows it. Ashton thrives in noise. In chaos. Yet an hour later, when the team spills toward a club, he hangs back. Claims captain duties. Makes sure everyone gets in cars safe.

And somehow ends up in the elevator with you.

Alone.

The shift is immediate.

No cameras. No teammates. Just the quiet hum of machinery and the faint scent of his cologne mixing with hotel soap and victory sweat. He steps into your space without touching you, broad frame boxing you gently against the mirrored wall. Not trapping. Just close enough that you feel his heat through your dress shirt.

“You know what they’re saying downstairs?” he asks softly.

You raise a brow. “That you’re insufferable?”

He smirks. “That I won us the game.”

“You did.”

His expression flickers—something more vulnerable threading through the confidence. “Didn’t score a single goal without you stopping theirs.”

The elevator dings. Neither of you move.

Ashton’s hand finally settles at your hip, slow and deliberate, thumb brushing the fabric there like he’s memorizing it. His voice drops, losing the edge he shows the world.

“They don’t notice you enough,” he says. “I do.”

The hallway is empty when you step out. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours every few steps. Not loud now. Not cocky. Just steady. Intent.

At your door, he doesn’t ask permission with words. He waits. Close enough that your chests nearly touch. Close enough that if you tilt your head—

“You’re too quiet,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over your face. “Makes me want to lean in just to hear what you’re thinking.”

His thumb presses once at your hip again, grounding and warm.

“Let me stay,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Not as captain. Not as the guy everyone’s shouting for.”

Just Ashton.

Waiting for you to decide if the golden boy gets to belong to the goalie tonight.