The refs are in chaos, whistles shrieking, arms waving, but the crowd is louder—half of Haverton screaming for blood, the other half screaming because they justgot it.Shaw’s jersey is streaked crimson, his helmet crooked, his sneer dripping through split lips. Damian’s knuckles are raw and painted, chest heaving once, steady again like he didn’t just tear a man open in front of twenty thousand people.
Both benches are roaring.
The decision comes fast: double penalties. Both captains. Two minutes each.
Shaw snarls as he’s dragged toward the Phantoms’ box, fighting the refs even as blood spatters his jersey. Damian doesn’t fight. He doesn’t need to. He just lets the stripes haul him in, silent, towering, hands still dripping red.
The bad boy box door slams shut. Shaw sits with his head tipped back, cloth pressed to his mouth.
Damian sits across from him, calm as a storm at sea.
And me?
I can’t stop staring.
His gloves are off, blood still slick on his knuckles, his lip curved faintly at the corner. Not a smile, not exactly—but something sharper. And when his eyes cut across the rink, they lock straight on me.
He smirks.
Just that. Small.
And my whole body goes off like a bomb, my brain screamingfuckfuckfuckbecause what the hell am I supposed to do when the man who just bled their captain dry looks at me like that?
The puck drops again.
The Phantoms are shaken. Shaw’s off the ice. Their bench is rattled, their crowd unsettled. And we take advantage. Colebarrels down the wing, threads a pass through Mats, and Viktor, of all people, rips a slapshot that screams past their goalie.
Goal.
The horn splits the air again, Reapers bench exploding.
By the end of the second period, the scoreboard glows ugly and perfect:3–0. Reapers.
And I can’t stop glancing at the penalty box. At the blood still drying on his fists. At the smirk that hasn’t left his scarred mouth.
Christ. I’m ruined.
Intermission.
The locker room is a furnace—steam rising off gear, helmets clattering, the stink of sweat and blood thick in the air. Water bottles crack open, towels hit the floor, everyone’s buzzing.
Three to nothing.
Against Haverton.
On Halloween night.
And somehow, I’m still breathing.
“Not bad, curls.”
I whip my head up. Cole Vance—Hollywood himself, the king of chirps—leans back in his stall, pointing his waterbottle at me like it’s some kind of award. “Hell of a setup on that first goal. Hell of a shot on the second. You keep that shit up, I might actually have to call you a real Reaper.”
The room laughs, a ripple of sound, some half-cheers, some grunts of agreement. Even Viktor mutters something that might be praise, which is terrifying in itself.
My grin damn near splits my helmet in half. Cole—Cole—praised me. It feels like winning a second game inside this one, a hidden victory no one can steal.
But I can’t stop staring.
