She snorts. “I know, I know. Thanks, though, mister scary hockey hero. Your concern is…noted. Don’t get too soft on me, okay?”
“I’m not soft,” I growl, but the line between worry and anger tightens in my chest. “Just…don’t make me worry more than I already do.”
“Copy that, boss,” she says, smirking. “End of lecture.”
I hang up, running a hand over my face. Misha’s reckless streak is a spark, but she’s smart. Mostly.
I just hope it’s enough.
I shake off the melancholy, pour the anger into my workout, and drink a ton of water, like it could wash the booze from my system.
Shower done, suit on, no tie; I head to the arena, ready to let the ice hear my fury.
We’ve got a home game,but when Coach Harris gives the pre-game speech, I can see the fire’s gone from his eyes.
Thrown game. Fantastic.
We head into the tunnel, and while the crowd roars, our team feels flat. Everyone can sense that something’s off, even if no one knows why.
Dom smacks my elbow and leans in. “What the fuck, man? You feel that?”
I shake my head, keeping my jaw tight. “Yeah. I do.”
Lights flash, music blares, the arena shakes. It should fire us up. It doesn’t.
My eyes flick to the corporate box, which is filled with Campisi’s yes-men in cheap suits, and I feel my blood boil. Not a single one of them knows what it’s like to bleed for a win.
I can’t help thinking that Campisi is a fucking pussy for not showing up to watch his investment tank.
“Fuck him,” I mutter under my breath, grinding my teeth.
Dom frowns. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just…watching amateurs try to play big.”
The puck drops, and the familiar, ruthless fire takes over. Ivanov disappears.
Tonight, I am Barkov. Nikolai Barkov.
The anger I’ve carried all my life ignites in every hit, every slash, every strike. The ice knows it. I know it. And everyone else will feel it too.
Vicious, unrelenting, untouchable.
First period: a bone-crunching hit, two penalties, a goal.
Second: another goal, a fight, another penalty.
Third: I score again. The crowd goes wild. Hats fly onto the ice, some sliding under the boards.
Coach Harris paces on the bench, his jaw tight, eyes flicking between us and the scoreboard. I skate past him at the final buzzer, slow and deliberate.
“You’re killing me out there,” he snaps, voice low, almost a growl.
I lean close, letting the words hang. “You look scared.”
He freezes. Eyes locked on mine. Not the look of disappointment. Not anger.
I skate past, letting the roar of the crowd drown him out. “Enjoy your victory,” I murmur over my shoulder.
