And I’ve already gone for the jugular.
The ref hasn’t dropped the puck when Cole’s groan drifts from the wing, muffled through his mouthguard. “He didn’t waste a second…”
The ref’s hand flicks down, the puck drops—
And it’s mine.
My stick snaps quick, blade cutting under Shaw’s, and I rip the puck back clean. I blast forward, legs pumping fire, the crowd screaming louder. My first touch, my first play, against the man they sent to crush me.
I tear through neutral ice, Shaw’s shadow at my back, his stick slashing, his breath hot behind me. Let him chase. Let him break his lungs on me.
I hit the blue line, two defenders closing fast. I should shoot. God, I want to. But Cole’s already there, streaking wide on the wing, his teeth flashing plastic fangs under his cage.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.
The puck slides clean off my blade, sharp, fast, threading through Phantoms sticks like they weren’t even there. Straight onto Cole’s tape.
He fires without breaking stride.
The shot cracks like a gunshot, hammering against the goalie’s pads. It doesn’t go in—but it rattles him. Rebound spits loose, chaos erupts in the crease, Haverton scrambling. The crowd roars, half in rage, half in fear.
Cole’s laugh cuts through it, wild and triumphant. “Not bad, curls!”
First shift, first pass, and we’ve already tested them. Already made them scramble.
And when I glance to the bench, I see him.
Damian.
Watching me.
Unmoving, unreadable, ice and void in his eyes.
Second shift.
The crowd’s louder now, the boards rattling with boos and claws scratching against glass, but none of it matters. Because this time—he’s on the ice with me.
Damian Kade. Captain. God. Predator in black.
And somehow—don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why—the puck ends up on my stick again.
I swear the whole Phantom bench moves at once. Suddenly it’s not just Shaw, it’severyone.Like the puck’s glued to me, like I painted a target on my chest. Their sticks stab at the ice, their bodies crash forward. It’s me against all of them.
I yelp.
Actually yelp.
“Jesus fuck—do you all want my autograph or what?” I poke, legs pumping. I cut left, cut right, my blades screaming against the ice. Every Phantom jersey is a shadow at my back, a wall in my face.
And right before Shaw closes in, shoulders braced, about to drive me so deep into the boards I’ll leave a dent in Haverton’s barn—
I send it.
The puck screams off my blade, sharp, clean, slicing straight across the slot. Onto his tape.
Damian catches it like he’s been waiting all night. One stride, one slash, and the puck hammers past the goalie, slamming into the back of the net.
Goal.
