The music thumped through my chest as the players started filing onto the ice. And then I saw him—Nikolai. Number 91. The Russian Reaper himself, cool and deadly in his gear, slicing across the ice like it was made for him. My stomach flipped. My cheeks went warm.
That was my chaos demon in skates. And somehow, I was here. Watching him. Cheering for him. Falling for him a little more with every stride he took.
I nestled deeper into the seat, heart thudding in time with the arena’s pulsing music. The air buzzed with energy—fans shouting, laughing, waving signs like seasoned pros of this chaotic hockey world.
And me?
I was just a girl in an oversized hoodie, clutching a hot cocoa like it was my emotional support animal, trying not to feel like I’d wandered into someone else’s dream.
What was I even doing here? A week ago, I was dodging conversations and tucking myself into the shadows of a relationship where I was more secret than someone worth showing off. Mikel never brought me to games. Never introduced me to his teammates. He made me feel like I’d ruin his image just by existing too brightly in public.
But now?
Now I was in an arena of thousands… sitting here for a man who’d told me I was his, plain and simple.
Still, the thought crept in, quiet but sharp—what if I was just a fleeting thing to Nikolai? A girl he won in a bet. A temporary story he’d one day laugh about. My chest tightened around that fear, breath catching in my throat. I stared down at the swirl of whipped cream melting in my cup, searching for reassurance in the cocoa.
And then—like magic—his eyes found mine.
He paused, one gloved hand holding his stick, and just looked. The corners of his mouth curled into that crooked smirk, the one that sent my stomach straight into the stratosphere. It lasted only a second, but I felt it everywhere.
I smiled back, small but certain. This? This felt real. I didn’t know what day thirty would bring, or what we’d be by then, but I knew right now I wasn’t hiding. I was here. In his hoodie. In his world. And he saw me.
There was twenty minutes after warmups where the Zamboni came out and cleaned the ice. I pulled out my phone and looked at the Serpents roster, trying to memorize names and numbers.
Until the lights dimmed, and the announcer’s voice boomed overhead.
The second the players surged onto the ice, the entire arena erupted like it had been struck by lightning. I jumped—literally jumped—and almost spilled my cocoa all over my jeans. The crowd roared around me, every voice melting into a single sound that buzzed through my chest like a drumline. The lights seemed brighter, the rink almost glowing beneath them. It was chaos and magic and adrenaline all at once.
And then I saw him.
Nikolai glided into view like some broody ice god carved out of marble and swagger. My breath caught hard in my throat. There was something about the way he moved—sleek, powerful, completely in command—that made it impossible to look anywhere else. The confidence radiating off him was magnetic. He wasn’t just playing hockey—he was ruling the ice like it was his kingdom.
I leaned forward in my seat, the cocoa now forgotten and probably burning my palm, but I didn’t care. I watched him handle the puck with the kind of focus that made my insides fizz. Shot after shot, perfect aim, no hesitation. Each one felt like a punctuation mark: bam, bam, bam—exclamation points made of ice and fury. Every time the puck hit the back of the net, a cheer followed, but I barely registered the sound. My eyes were locked on him.
This guy. This chaos tornado of intensity and dry sarcasm and stupidly good hands—he’d kissed me in the kitchen, teased me like it was breathing, and now here he was: larger than life and twice as dangerous. And somehow, somehow, I was part of this.
When he skated by near the boards, just close enough to spot me in the stands, his head turned. Our eyes met for a second—and he winked.
Dead. I was dead. Melted right there in my seat, hoodie and all.
I covered my face with one hand and tried to suppress the very uncool squeal clawing its way up my throat. This was real. I was here. I was his—whatever that meant—and for the first time in a long time; I didn’t feel invisible. I felt electric.
My heart was straight-up sprinting in my chest when Nikolai skated past me during warm-ups. One second, he was focused—eyes locked on the puck, shoulders tense with that trademark intensity—and the next, he looked up and found me. It was like a lightning bolt straight to my spine. His gaze landed on mine and didn’t waver. And then… the smirk. That subtle, stupidly sexy tug at the corner of his mouth that said, I see you, baby.
I think I momentarily forgot how lungs worked. Because wow. Blushing? Understatement. I was probably glowing like a human space heater. I tugged the hoodie tighter around me like it could hide the full-body tomato transformation I was undergoing. Behind me, the girls in Row Drama immediately lit up like a gossip bonfire.
“Oh my god, did you see that?” one of them whisper-screeched. “He winked at her. He’s totally into her!”
Another scoffed, clearly scandalized. “Are you serious? He could literally have a model. Like… any model.”
Okay. Ouch. But also? I couldn’t even be mad.
Because they weren’t wrong—he could have anyone.
And yet, there he was on the ice, glancing up at me like I was the only thing in this whole arena worth noticing.
My insides did this chaotic flip-flop thing and I couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my lips.
