Snap.
My stick kissed the puck and sent it flying top shelf—just under the crossbar, clean and final.
The red light flared behind the net. The buzzer followed.
Goal.
The arena exploded around me—screams, sirens, the thunder of a thousand feet on concrete. Teammates mobbed me, and I let them—for a second.
But all I could think about… was her.
Mina.
This was for her. Always had been.
And now, the whole damn world knew it.
The second that final buzzer blared through the arena, I knew we’d won more than a game.
But I also knew the real storm was just beginning.
The crowd roared, a tidal wave of cheers crashing against the boards as my skates carved a slow path toward the bench. My jersey clung to my body, soaked in sweat. Blood still trickled from the cut above my eye, stinging like hell—but I didn’t care.
My chest heaved with effort, adrenaline still burning through my veins, but my thoughts were already spiraling far from the ice.
Reporters lined up near the tunnel, a swarm of vultures with cameras instead of claws. I caught a few of their shouts through the noise:
“Volkov! Did Mikel’s hit go too far?”
“Do you regret the fight?”
“Was this personal?”
I could’ve walked past. I should’ve walked past. But as I reached the edge of the swarm, I stopped.
I saw her.
Not physically—Mina wasn’t here—but I saw her in my mind: the way she’d looked at me this morning, defiant and trusting despite the garbage the world threw her way. She had stood tall when she could’ve folded. She believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.
And now… it was my turn.
I turned to the crowd of reporters, yanked off my helmet, and let their flashes hit me like lightning. My voice cut clean through the chaos.
“This one,” I said, locking eyes with the closest camera lens, “was for Mina.”
The noise dropped.
Just for a second—like a held breath. Then shutters clicked. Pens scratched. Murmurs swelled like the beginning of a storm surge.
“She’s not a headline. She’s not some damn rumor.” My voice was iron, raw and unpolished. “She’s not what Mikel made her out to be. She’s mine. And I’m hers. End of story.”
Silence again—just long enough to sting—before the place exploded.
Questions shouted. Phones raised. Tweets flying before I even left the tunnel. But I didn’t wait for the next spin. I didn’t need to.
Because that was the truth. And I made damn sure the world heard it.
For once, the noise didn’t matter. The only thing that did? Was that when Mina saw that clip—when she heard those words—she’d know. No more shadows. No more whispers.
