The ref grips the puck. Shaw’s eyes flick up, narrowing. But they’re not on me.
They’re onhim.
On Damian.
Like the Phantom captain knows the real fight’s never been about me.
And that’s his mistake.
The puck drops—
And Shaw’s half a beat too slow.
Because he’s watching Damian.
Not me.
My stick snaps down, clean, fast, the rubber popping free before Shaw even realizes it’s gone. My legs are already burning fire, propelling me forward, puck on my blade.
I bolt.
“Thanks for the freebie, old man!” I spit loud enough for the glass to rattle. The crowd erupts in hate, silver-and-blackfans slamming the boards as I blaze down the ice, laughter tearing out of my throat, high and manic.
They don’t see me. They don’texpectme.
The ice is mine for a heartbeat. The crowd’s a blur, the puck’s glued to my stick. I can taste the goal already—taste the roar, the echo, the praise that might follow.
Then Shaw slams into me from behind.
It’s like getting hit by a freight train. My ribs flare, my vision flashes white, my body snaps forward into the ice. For a split second I’m airborne, nothing under me but cold and teeth in my jaw.
But the puck—
The puck isstill mine.
I twist, wrists jerking, every muscle screaming, and I fling it forward with everything I’ve got. My skates barely touch the sheet before the red light blazes behind the goalie.
Goal.
My goal.
The horn screams. The crowd howls in rage, Haverton fans pounding the glass. My teammates erupt on the bench, sticks hammering the boards.
Two seconds later, Shaw’s on me.
He’s snarling, helmet down, gloves still on, stick jammed against my chest. His weight crushes me into the ice, blade biting my side.
And then—he’s gone.
Because Damian is there.
He rips Shaw off me like he weighs nothing. Gloves drop, fists fly. The crack of knuckles against helmet echoes through the arena. Blood spatters the ice—not mine. Shaw’s lip splits wide, his head snapping back under the force of it. Damian doesn’t stop. He hammers him again, scarred lip curled in a snarl, his fists painting the Phantoms’ captain red.
The refs are screaming, whistles blaring. The crowd’s a wall of sound, half roaring, half shrieking.
I push up on shaky arms, lungs tearing for air, and all I can do is smile. Wide. Feral. Because my ribs ache, my body’s wrecked—
And Damian Kade just bled another man for touching me.
