As they introduced the players one by one, my stomach twisted tighter with each name called. My fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, knuckles pale, heart stuttering in anticipation. The commentators’ voices blurred together—until one cut through the haze like a lightning strike.
“There’s number 91,” the announcer said, voice alive with excitement.
And there he was.
Nikolai.
My breath caught, everything inside me stilled for a second too long. He skated onto the ice like he owned every inch of it—fluid, commanding, unstoppable. Even through a screen, his presence was magnetic. The way he moved wasn’t just athletic; it was poetic. Like every muscle in his body remembered exactly what to do before he even had to think.
He looked fierce beneath his helmet, eyes sharp with focus, shoulders squared like he was preparing for war. And yet, I could still see him beneath all that armor—the man who kissed my temple before leaving, the one who reached for my hand in the dark when words weren’t enough.
My chest swelled with something that was equal parts pride and ache. “You’ve got this,” I whispered, like saying it aloud might tether him to me somehow—cut through the noise of the crowd and travel straight to his heart. A promise for him, and a promise for myself too: that no matter how loud the world got, we would keep choosing each other.
As he took his place on center ice, shoulders tense with anticipation, I leaned forward on the couch, breath held tight in my lungs. The arena lights cast long shadows across the rink, and in that moment, the rest of the world faded. There was only this—him, me, and the echo of everything we were fighting for.
The puck dropped. The game began.
And I was right there with him.
Chapter 30
Nikolai
The locker room thrummed with tension, a coiled wire ready to snap. I sat on the bench, tightening my skates with methodical precision, my hands moving on muscle memory while my thoughts roared louder than any pregame speech. This wasn’t just a game. It was the game. The one where everything either settled—or exploded.
Coach’s voice echoed in the background, rallying the guys, reminding us of what we’d fought for to get here. I barely heard him. My pulse thudded too loud in my ears. None of it mattered as much as what burned behind my ribs.
This wasn’t about the standings.
This was about Mina.
I could still hear her voice from earlier—quiet, but certain. “I trust you.” That stayed with me more than any strategy, more than the tension coiled in my muscles. Mikel had tried to humiliate her. Hurt her. Drag her name through the mud like she was disposable.
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt. I’d been raised not to start fights—but I’d finish this one.
When we filed out toward the tunnel, the din of the crowd hit like a tidal wave. The cold air of the rink hit my face, bracing and sharp, like the slap of reality I’d been waiting for. Lights flared overhead, bright and sterile, slicing through shadows like judgment.
The crowd roared. I barely heard it.
Helmet on. Chin strap locked. Stick gripped like it was an extension of my spine.
Center ice.
I met Mikel’s gaze across the rink. He smirked.
Good. Let him smile. He wouldn’t be for long.
The puck dropped.
I exploded off the line like a shot. My body knew what to do before my brain could think it. Feet pounding across the ice. Opponent in my way—gone. Stick low, puck snapped clean onto the blade. The arena faded to static. It was just me and that frozen black disk—just me and the mission.
Every stride dug deeper than the last. Every check, every shove, every shift—I poured everything into it. Anger, love, pride. Every bruise he’d left on Mina became fuel in my legs, in my fists, in my heart.
Tonight, I wasn’t just playing to win.
I was playing to end this.
The ice pulsed beneath me like a second heartbeat. Every stride cut clean through the surface, sharp and decisive. I could feel the energy from the crowd rippling through my body, but it wasn’t them I was playing for.
