Who the hell starts their contract a week before the biggest game of the year?
The Ravensburg Reapers, apparently.
October 24th. Seven days until Halloween, and I’m standing in a locker room that reeks of sweat, blood, and fifteen years of history I’ve only ever worshipped from a screen. Gear hooks line the walls, jerseys slung over shoulders, shin pads drying. The ice might as well be a church, and I’m the rookie altar boy.
Well—me and Tyler. He’s fidgeting beside me, jaw clenched so tight I can practically hear it grind. He’s got that overeager, “please like me” energy that makes the vets circle like sharks.
Cole “Hollywood” Vance is the first to strike. Of course he is. He’s already half-dressed, hair slicked back, phone propped on his shelf for whatever content he’s manufacturing. His grin is sharp and cruel as he points his stick at me.
“Well look at that, boys. Fresh meat. What’s your name, curls?”
I grin back. “Depends. You asking because you wanna know it or because you wanna scream it?”
The room bursts with howls and whistles, sticks smacking the floor. Tyler flushes scarlet. I bask in it, chest out, smirk wide. This is the league. You don’t survive by shrinking. You chirp, or you’re chewed alive.
Cole winks. “Cocky. I like that. Better not collapse your first shift.”
Before I can fire back, Viktor Petrov rumbles from his stall—massive, arms folded, a scar cutting across his cheek. “Hollywood, stop flirting. Kid’s shaking already.”
“I’m not shaking,” I laugh, even though my legs buzz with adrenaline. “Just waiting for one of you to actually impress me.”
That earns a stick tap from Matteo Rivera, who’s lounging like he owns the place. Shane O’Rourke mutters something about curses. Tyler tries to laugh but it comes out strangled.
I’m doing good. I’m holding my own—until the door opens.
Silence slams the room. Every voice drops, tension thickening like smoke.
Damian Kade.
Captain. Enforcer. The reason I play center, the reason I begged for my first pair of skates. The man whose fights Imemorized, whose jersey I begged for at Christmas, whose poster hung above my bed from twelve to eighteen. I slept under his shadow and touched myself under it too, whispering his name.
Now he’s real. And holy fuck, he’s terrifying.
Tall as a nightmare, shoulders broad enough to crush me. Dark hair spilling around a scar-cut lip, one eye pale ice, the other almost black. Violence carved into a man. Every secret I’ve ever had.
I forget to breathe.
He scans the room once, slow, then pins Tyler and me with that mismatched stare.
“Two new faces,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate my ribs. “We’ll see how long you last.”
Then he walks to his stall like nothing matters. The room exhales. I don’t. My lungs are broken, my skin on fire, my heart clawing out of my chest.
That’s him—my captain—and I’d let him kill me if he asked.
“Breathe, rook.”
Cole smirks as he brushes past, stick slung lazy over his shoulders. Bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. My jaw flexes, hand twitching like I could slap him, but all I do is grin sharper. Never give ’em the satisfaction.
The hallway to the rink is knife-cold. My skates clatter against the rubber flooring, nerves fizzing under my skin likea live wire. I’ve done this a thousand times—walked down tunnels, stepped onto ice—but never this tunnel, never this sheet, never with him waiting at the end.
The doors swing open. Cold air swallows us whole. The arena hums under harsh lights, ice gleaming like a stage.
Practice starts.
Damian Kade doesn’t ease anyone in.
The first whistle sounds like war. Laps, suicides, sprints—no pucks, no drills, just punishment. Every stride sets my thighs on fire. Tyler’s wheezing two laps in, and I almost laugh, but then Damian’s gaze slices across the sheet and pins me in place.
