He stood over me, that smug bastard, chin high, chest puffed, like he’d just scored a damn goal instead of cheap-shotting me in front of the whole world.
No. Hell no.
I dropped my gloves before I even had time to think. The crowd felt a mile away. All I saw was him.
He threw the first punch—sloppy, wide, full of ego.
I ducked it and came back with precision, a hook that cracked against his cheek. My fists weren’t just fists anymore—they were fury incarnate. Every insult he ever hurled at Mina. Every lie. Every bruise he left that no one could see.
I made him feel them all.
Each punch I landed screamed you don’t get to win.
He tried to come back at me, but his rage made him sloppy. Mine made me sharp. Controlled. I could hear Mina’s voice echoing through the fog in my head—I trust you. That was all I needed.
Another punch—square in his jaw.
Another—this one to the ribs.
He staggered, breathless.
I stared into his eyes and saw it—that flash of doubt, of fear.
Then I gave him one final shot, all my weight behind it, and watched him crash to the ice like a toppled statue.
The refs swarmed in, pulling me back, dragging Mikel away like the wreckage he was. My lip bled, my knuckles throbbed, but I didn’t care.
He wasn’t just down on the scoreboard anymore.
He was done.
And I wasn’t finished yet.
The crowd erupted—a surge of noise crashing over me as I stood above Mikel’s crumpled form. I let it stretch for a breath, maybe two. Long enough for him to feel it—that I had bested him in front of the whole damn world.
Then I skated off, slow and deliberate. My teammates met me with grins, shouts, gloves pounding against my back in a chorus of approval. But I barely heard it. My ears rang from the hit, from the fury. My ribs screamed, my knuckles burned, and warm blood slid down the side of my face from the cut above my brow.
And I didn’t care.
The fight hadn’t broken me. It focused me.
By the time I sat on the bench, my breath was shallow, chest tight—but I was steady. Eyes locked on the clock. One period left. One shot to finish this.
And I would finish it.
The third period dropped like a hammer. I hit the ice, heart pounding in rhythm with the roaring crowd. Pain stabbed at every movement—hips bruised, shoulders stiff—but I used it. Turned it into drive. Into speed. Into hunger.
We were tied. It was all or nothing.
Every stride I took carved into the ice like it owed me something. I played like my life depended on it—because part of it did. Mina’s face lingered behind my eyes, sharper than any pain, brighter than the blinding arena lights. This wasn’t just about revenge. This was about protecting her, proving her faith in me wasn’t misplaced.
We crashed the zone with under a minute to go. Weston cut left, dragging defenders with him. I ghosted to the crease, eyes on the puck, heartbeat a war drum.
One shot fired from the point—loud, wild. I tracked it instantly.
The rebound snapped to me.
I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.
