I stumbled back, vision jolting, but not falling.
I tasted blood. Copper. Warm.
“Bastard,” I muttered, voice low and Russian and final.
The gloves dropped.
Mine. His. Everyone else faded.
Only him now.
The crowd roared as we faced each other—two men, no masks, no puck. Just rage.
He charged first, wild and emotional. Always emotional.
I ducked his punch. Slid under it like water. My fist slammed into his ribs—clean, deep. He gasped.
Good.
I hit him again—cheek, sharp and cracking. My knuckle split, but I didn’t register the sting.
He struck back, a left hook. Solid. My head snapped to the side.
Pain bloomed. Brief. Contained.
It only sharpened me.
The refs were late. Lost in the mess of other scuffles. No one came for us.
This was war now. Personal. Real.
“You’re not touching her!” he spat, eyes wild.
I met his fury with something colder. “She is not yours to give.”
Then I hit him again. Harder.
He reeled back, off balance. I pressed forward—no anger in my limbs, only precision. A final uppercut caught him clean under the chin.
He dropped.
Flat on the ice.
The crowd exploded.
I stood over him, chest heaving, blood on my lip, on my glove. My vision blurred at the edges from pain and adrenaline, but I remained upright. Present. Dominant.
A glance at the glass showed my eye swelling. My cheekbone darkened already.
I did not care.
Pain was momentary.
Victory lingered.
I didn’t raise my arms. Didn’t yell.
I simply turned and skated off, leaving him on the ice—his pride broken, his bet lost.
