The cold hits instantly—clean, sharp, grounding. The sound changes out here. The world narrows to blades carving ice, sticks tapping, the low rumble of anticipation. I take a slow lap, just to feel it again, every muscle remembering. The edge of the rink, the drag of my blade, the controlled give of the turn. I missed this more than I’ll ever admit.
Across the red line, Grayson Locke skates lazy circles, his smirk as polished as his visor. He glides past me on his next loop, close enough that I can smell the mint gum he always chews before a game.
“Hope your roommate’s watching,” he says under his breath, eyes flicking up toward the stands.
My grip tightens on my stick, but I don’t bite. Not this time.
I meet his gaze, steady, unreadable. “Play the game, Grayson.”
He chuckles, skating backward with a shrug. “Oh, I plan to.”
The ref’s whistle cuts the air, sharp and final. The players line up for the anthem, the whole arena rising to its feet. I glance toward the lower section just as the first notes echo through the rafters.
There—front row behind the bench—Sage.
Her hands clasped, her eyes locked on me, every ounce of belief in her focused like a spotlight. My chest tightens, not from nerves but from the weight of everything we’ve survived to get here.
The anthem ends, and the crowd explodes again, a wave of noise crashing over the ice. I pull my helmet on, roll my shoulders back, and take my place at center ice.
The puck drops.
Everything else disappears.
The first period hits like a sprint. Bodies collide, sticks clash, the air thick with motion and noise. Every second on the ice feels electric. I’m not rusty—not even close. My body remembers, myinstincts sharper than they’ve been in months. Every stride feels like defiance.
Grayson’s line hits the ice midway through the shift, and the temperature changes. He’s fast, reckless, desperate. Every time he touches the puck, the crowd’s roar spikes with equal parts excitement and hatred. The guy always did love being the villain—as long as it was on his terms.
He tries to bait me early, cutting across center ice too close, stick high. I don’t rise to it. Just shoulder past, clean, and keep moving. The bench bangs their sticks in approval as the puck slides up the boards. Control. Focus. No mistakes.
Between shifts, the camera lights flash. I can feel them hunting for cracks—for the smirk, the sneer, the moment they can twist into a soundbite. I give them nothing. Just sweat, breath, and focus.
On the bench, Coach leans in. “You’re reading him like a book, Voss. Keep him off balance.”
“Copy that,” I say, voice low, steady.
When I step back onto the ice for my next shift, I catch sight of Sage again. She’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees, eyes tracking every move. Her belief is a physical thing—I can feel it in my chest, pulling me tighter, stronger.
Second period bleeds into the third. Every play is a war of inches—shots ringing off the post, passes intercepted, goalies on fire. The scoreboard sits locked at two apiece, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Grayson’s frustration starts to show. Missed passes, sloppy line changes, the sharp jerk of his shoulders when the crowd boos his name. He’s unraveling, and I know it. I can smell it on him—the sweat, the ego, the panic under the polish.
At one point, he skates close enough to hiss, “Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Captain. They always end.”
I skate past him with a single word. “Watch me.”
The horn blares for the final timeout. One minute left on the clock. Coach’s voice cuts through the roar of the crowd. “One more push. One shift. Make it count.”
I nod, heartbeat steady, vision narrowing to the ice.
Everything we’ve fought for—every headline, every bruise, every lie—is about to come down to sixty seconds.
The whistle blows. The puck drops for what feels like the last breath of the season. Every sound blurs—the crowd, the announcer, even the slap of skates against ice. It’s all instinct now.
Grayson takes the faceoff, trying to muscle through, but I’m faster. Stronger. I sweep the puck to our winger and pivot hard, cutting across center as the play unfolds. Every stride burns. Every breath tastes like adrenaline.
Grayson chases the puck like it owes him something. He’s gunning for a breakaway, eyes locked on the far blue line. I see it before it happens—the shift in his stance, the tell of his left shoulder. He’s about to force it.
“Not today,” I mutter.
