It was her.
Always her.
Mina had anchored me through every high and low. She believed in me when I couldn’t even trust myself. That belief? It lit something in my chest I couldn’t shake. I carried it into every zone rush, every check, every shot.
And I was just getting started.
I spotted my winger streaking down the flank and dropped into position, calling for the puck before his stick even twitched. “Now!”
It came sailing toward me—tight, fast, clean. I caught it effortlessly on the blade, instinct flowing smoother than thought. No hesitation. Just movement.
A defender came in hot, eyes locked on me like he was gunning for blood. I could see it before it happened—the hit, the angle, the desperation in his stride. He thought he could stop me cold.
He thought wrong.
I dropped my shoulder and plowed through him, felt the crack of his gear against mine, the give of his weight as he stumbled back like a ragdoll. I didn’t break stride. The rush was electric. Like I’d taken the noise of the world and crushed it under my skates.
Charging the net now, speed peaking, vision narrowing.
One more defender. He lunged low, blade out. I cut inside him, fast and brutal. The goalie squared up, crouched like a predator. But I’d already made the kill.
A flick of the wrist. A whisper of the puck against tape.
And then—net.
The red light flashed. The crowd exploded.
I raised my arms, teammates swarming me. Cheers thundered like an avalanche, but I barely heard any of it.
All I saw in my mind was Mina—smiling, proud, her faith in me burning brighter than the rink lights.
This goal was hers.
But this game?
This war?
That belonged to me.
And I still had a score to settle.
Mikel was next.
The second period kicked off like a shot of lightning. I was still riding the high of that goal, my veins humming with heat, every stride cutting like a blade through the ice. Everything clicked—the rhythm, the rush, the roar of the crowd.
Then Mikel happened.
He came in from the blindside like a damn freight train—no warning, no chance to brace. Just his full weight slamming into me, shoulder to ribs, bone to glass.
The world tilted sideways.
I hit the boards so hard the sound cracked through the rink like thunder. Pain shot through me, violent and blinding. For a second, the ice was spinning under me, everything swallowed in white static and ringing in my ears.
The crowd erupted—shouts, gasps, boos. I could barely hear them. Could barely breathe.
I blinked through the haze, pushing myself up off the ice. My hands stung, my ribs ached, and the taste of blood bloomed copper in my mouth. Through it all, one thing burned hotter than the rest:
Rage.
