Chin strap clicks. Visor drops. The light shifts from locker room yellow to arena blue when I step past the stalls toward the tunnel mouth.
She paces backward ahead of me, camera up. “Ready?”
My face is carved from stone as I stare into the lens. I hit my marks—two steady strides, shoulder roll, glove tap to the wall logo.
The red light blinks. The camera hums. Citrus cuts through rubber and sweat—hers. She twitches once on the rig, barely there, then steadies.
She lowers the camera a fraction. “Perfect. Got it.”
I stop on my mark. She’s turning away, the tunnel’s cold air breathing from beyond.
“Good luck out there, Kane.”
And she’s gone.
Silence hangs for a beat, and I want to howl. I walk back into the locker room and drop onto the bench.
Dmitri clears his throat, cautious. “Alaska,” he says gently, “you maybe need a new pre-game ritual.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, taking off my helmet, voice low enough to end it. “Maybe I do.”
Dmitri claps my shoulder—comfort and encouragement. All I can think is that she didn’t even look back.
The tunnel opensinto white light. The crowd roars—thousands of voices coalescing into one. The air smells of ice and metal and adrenaline. Dmitri bumps my shoulder with his glove. “Let’s go, Alaska. Use the pain.”
I grunt. “You always know when to talk.”
He shrugs. “North men, we smell anger. Same ice, different side.”
“You’re from St. Petersburg,” I mutter.
“Close enough,” he says, grinning. “Alaska, Russia—neighbors, da? Cold makes us stubborn.”
He taps his helmet to mine. “Now skate.”
I nod. The anthem fades. The puck drops.
First shift, Titans’ winger barrels down the boards, fast hands, cocky grin. I close the gap, shoulder through his chest, and the impact rattles my bones. He hits the glass so hard, his stick bounces. The crowd explodes. My pulse evens out for the first time all night.
Between rushes, I catch a flash of blonde at the boards, camera rig steady. She never looks at me. It’s worse than if she did.
Second period, Titans go on the power play. Their captain tries to screen me. I drive him out with a crosscheck that draws blood and a whistle. Two minutes for roughing. Worth it.
I skate to the box, chest heaving. The camera follows me the whole way. I don’t need to look to know whose it is.
Two minutes stretch into a lifetime. I can feel her there.
The penalty expires. Dmitri’s waiting at the gate, expression worried. “You look possessed, Bear.”
“Good,” I growl. “Means it’s working.”
Every hit, every block, every time I drop to one knee and send the puck screaming out of our zone—it’s all for her. Every violent motion, every sound from the crowd, is a word I can’t say out loud.
The final horn blows. Defenders win 4–3. Helmets off, sticks up, gloves clapping. I tap Dmitri’s shoulder and mutter, “Good game.” My jaw’s tight, my throat tighter. The crowd is still chanting when I see her lowering the camera, packing up, walking away.
The win should feel good.
It doesn’t.
