The bass hits so hard it rattles the ice in my glass. It’s the kind of beat that dares you to stay still. Impossible in this flashy downtown Manhattan club, lit up and showing off. Neon strobes slice through the haze, glass walls catch every shimmer of the skyline, and the crowd sways in time with the music.
We’re celebrating. Media scrum cleared, the city’s still awake. The girlfriends and wives showed up. Sophie swipes Liam’s glass, Jessica tucks under Finn’s arm, Erin settles at Dmitri’s side. I claim the edge and pretend I’m not the third wheel tonight.
Liam lifts his glass. “To burying the Titans.”
Finn taps his beer. “And to Russo stopping a puck with his face.”
“Better than letting one slip under your stick in the second,” I say.
The table cracks up. Finn flips me off; Jessica says something in his ear that puts trouble in his smile.
Adam and Wesley go full peacock, their shirts half undone, drawing a radius of Vogue-ready women andhamming it up on the dance floor. They’re loud, charming, and determined to make content out of oxygen.
“Rock stars,” Sophie says, kissing Liam.
“Let the rookie enjoy it before Coach tears him a new one,” Finn drawls. “Adam’s got no excuse, he just loves an audience.”
Jessica smirks over her glass. “And the women clearly like giving him one.”
Laughter rolls through the group, and I take a sip of my drink, the taste sharp as the memory of tonight’s game. We didn’t just beat the Titans. We owned them. Liam dominated the faceoff circle, Finn ripped one past their goalie on a shorthanded breakaway, and Adam sealed it with a wrister that left Blake White—Philly’s cocky winger—flat on his ass. Dmitri was a wall on defense, dropping anyone who dared cut through the slot.
And me? I stuffed Ken Edwards twice on the power play, stretching out into a full split to snag one glove-side. I felt the familiar twinge in my hip when I popped back up. It’s been nagging me for weeks, the kind of thing you ice after every game and hope doesn’t get worse.
This morning it was the same as always: tight, sore, that dull ache when I take the stairs too fast. Manageable. As long as no one’s asking questions.
A ripple moves through the crowd, and I spot him—Leo Carver.
U.S. heavyweight champion, his face is on billboards and magazine covers for a reason. Six-three, broad through the chest and shoulders, all fight-hardened muscle. Dark hair cropped close, a faint scar at his brow that adds just enough menace. Heads turn, women peel off to follow. He gives them an easy smile that disarms without promising a thing, then keeps walking straight toward me.
“Russo.” He claps my shoulder, half greeting, half challenge.
“Carver.” I grin back, and in that split second we share the look—shorthand for summers on Fire Island, sand between our toes and bruised knuckles from fights that were more about pride than pain. A friendship that’s weathered everything. “Thought you’d get lost in the crowd.”
“Not a chance.” He glances around, taking in the lights, the music, the heat of the place. “You promised a celebration. When do we ever line up our schedules like this? I wasn’t about to miss it.”
Jessica steps away from Finn, her champagne glass catching the neon. “And here’s our future champion,” she says, her smile warm but assessing—and I know for a fact that she’s running story angles in her head.
Leo tips his glass toward Jessica, grinning. “Hard to believe you actually married this guy. Brave move.”
Finn slides a hand to the small of Jess’s back, smirk set. “You sound jealous, Carver. You still sore from the last time we moved around?”
Leo laughs. “I carried you three rounds to entertain Jess.”
“Three and a half,” Finn says, tapping his bottle to Leo’s. “And I still tagged your ribs.”
“You tagged air,” Leo comes back, easy. “You want a real round, you sign a waiver.”
Jessica rolls her eyes, smiling. “I don’t care who bruised who. I care about your brand.”
Leo leans in, listening with genuine interest, no trace of the cocky fighter act. “Just point me whereyou want me.”
I lean back, watching them fall into an easy rhythm, the music pounding around us.
“Setting your buddy up with the best?” Finn mutters to me with a smirk.
“Just making sure he’s got the right team behind him,” I reply.
The beat surges, and the rooftop vibrates with energy. The crowd gets louder, and the city burns bright around us. Finn drains the rest of his beer, then loops an arm around Jessica’s waist. “Come on, Red, I’m not letting the kids have all the fun. Let’s show them some cool moves.”
