1
WILLOW
The rink hums with tension.Frost curls off the boards, lights glare off the ice, and the crowd’s roar swells and breaks like a wave every time the puck hits a stick. The scoreboard glows3–3, third period, thirty-seven seconds left in the championship game.
I can taste my heartbeat in my throat. The air smells like popcorn and cold metal, the kind of sharp that burns your lungs when you breathe too deep. Damien is out there—black and silver jersey, number19—skating like he was born with blades instead of bones.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper under my breath, fingers tight around my cup of hot chocolate.
Cast sits beside me in his tailored wool coat, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his watch. Calm, collected, infuriatingly unbothered, even as Damien fights for control of the puck. He leans forward slightly, eyes tracking every move. He’s not here for hockey—he’s here to help me pick up the pieces if Damien doesn’t win the championship for the third year in a row, though, we both have hope this time. He even took time off from running the Cartel during the holidays to fully be here, trading meetings and mayhem for family and the rink.
Two rows down, our section is alive.
Penny, seven years and full of sugar and sunshine, has her black curly hair just like Cast, twisted into two messy braids, with tiny Stars flags clutched in each mittened hand. She’s bouncing on the edge of her seat, chanting “Go, Stars, go!” in a voice that’s somehow louder than the adults behind us. Beside her, Rose—eight, serious and dramatic, an exact miniature version of Cast—keeps trying to orchestrate the cheering, telling everyone when to clap and when to stop. “Timing is everything!” she yells, as if the game depends on her.
Next to them, Theodore—also eight, all long limbs and a jokester-like personality, similar to Vincent—tries to explain the rules to Elise, four and endlessly curious with a scowl on her face just like Damien, her blonde curls escaping her pink hat. “See, it’s called icing when the puck crosses the line,” he says, gesturing with his hot chocolate like a mini coach. Elise nods solemnly, then promptly forgets, licking the whipped cream from the rim of her cup instead.
The whole section vibrates with energy—stomping feet, thunderous clapping, and the rhythmic chant of“Go, Stars, go!”The crowd’s noise swells and crashes like a wave, drowning out thought, thick with adrenaline and hope.
I wish Vincent were here.
He’s our good-luck charm—the one who always sits at the aisle, chants the right things, draws circles at the base of my spine, distracting me until Damien scores. But he had to fly out this morning for a meeting in Austin, leaving a hole on the bench that even the noise can’t fill.
On the ice, Damien takes a hit that makes me flinch. The sound of his body hitting the glass shudders straight through me. He rebounds instantly, spins, and chases the puck down like a wolf under all that human skin. My breath catches when hecuts across the center, skating backward, eyes sharp and feral. Sweat and frost blur together on the boards.
The seconds bleed out—twenty… fifteen… ten. My body feels tight as a bowstring, every nerve pulled taut. Everything has been building to this moment: him, the puck, the impossible shimmer of light off the goal net.
He shoots.
The sound when it hits the net isthunder.
The crowd erupts—screams, horns, pounding feet, the deafening joy of victory. My hot chocolate flies from my hand, splattering across my gloves as I leap to my feet.
“YES!” I scream, voice breaking. “YES, DAMIEN!”
Elise who snuck next to me while I was distracted shrieks beside me, her little mittened hands covering her mouth, and still down next to the glass Rose jumps so high her scarf falls off. Penny’s chanting his name in perfect rhythm with the crowd, and Theo’s waving his program in the air like a flag. Cast’s hand lands on the small of my back to steady me, but even he’s smiling now—the rare, slow kind that softens every sharp edge of him.
“See,” he whispers in my hair. “Nothing to worry about.”
The scoreboard flashesSTARS 4 – AVALANCHE 3.
Damien raises his stick overhead, helmet off, grin bright enough to outshine the ice. Steam rises from him like smoke. He looks up into the stands, searching—finding me. For a heartbeat, everything stops: the roar, the lights, the camera flashes. His mouth moves around my name without sound, and the whole arena disappears. It’s just him and me.
When the horn fades and the team skates off, my legs feel weak. I sink back into the seat, grinning so hard my face aches.
Cast stands, brushing off his coat. “Come on,” he says smoothly. “We should get to the tunnel before the press floods it.”
The kids tumble after us, a blur of voices and scarves and wild energy. Penny’s still chanting, Theo’s bragging that heknewDaddy would win, and Elise wants to run down to the ice. I laugh, herding them toward the stairs.
At the tunnel, chaos reigns. Reporters shout questions, cameras flash, security weaves a barricade around the players. Cast shows our family badge like it’s a royal seal, and the staff parts instantly. That’s the thing about him—he doesn’t yell or demand. He simply exists, and people obey.
We stop at the edge of the restricted hallway. The kids are still bouncing, faces flushed with excitement.
“Can we go see Daddy now?” Penny pleads, clutching my sleeve.
Cast crouches down to her level, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Not yet, sweetheart. Daddy needs hisspecial congratulationsfirst.”
I shoot him a look over their heads. He smirks.
