I sipped my cocoa to disguise the fact that I was basically floating out of my body.
And then, in true heartthrob fashion, Nikolai turned and flicked a puck toward a little boy in the front row. The kid’s eyes went huge, like someone had just handed him a key to the city. He beamed, hugging the puck like it was priceless, and I swear, my entire soul melted into a puddle of heart-shaped goo.
Yeah. That’s my guy.
Ruthless on the ice, soft with kids, and apparently capable of reducing me to a pile of dreamy sighs just by looking at me. What kind of sorcery was this? Whatever it was, I was in deep—and judging by the way he kept stealing glances back at me, he might be too.
The second that puck hit the ice, everything snapped into focus—and I mean everything. The crowd surged to its feet, the rumble of shouting fans vibrating beneath me like the world itself had come alive.
But all I saw was him.
Nikolai.
Number 91.
No smile now.
No wink.
Just steel behind his eyes and fire in his veins.
It was like watching a storm break open across the ice. One moment he was skating with quiet control, the next he was gone—racing down the rink like a missile with a purpose.
I leaned so far forward I nearly spilled my hot chocolate, eyes wide as I watched him weave through defenders like they were traffic cones. Holy crap, he was fast.
Ferocious.
His passes were slick, clean.
Calculated violence wrapped in grace.
And then—bam. A hit. A huge one.
I gasped—like full-on hand-to-mouth gasped—as he leveled some poor soul against the boards with a force that rattled me. The crowd roared. Someone behind me yelled, “That’s the Reaper!” and my spine did this weird mix of prideful shiver and oh my gosh who even IS this man?
Gone was the grumpy, hoodie-sharing Nikolai who kissed my neck in the kitchen. This was something entirely different. This was war.
But even as adrenaline screamed through me and my heart pounded like a snare drum, I couldn’t look away. My fingers gripped the edge of my seat and I whispered a ridiculous little “Be careful” to the glass in front of me, even though I knew—he wouldn’t be. He didn’t do careful on the ice. He did dominance. He did destruction.
Still, when he caught my eye again after another wicked check—helmet low, chest heaving—I swear to God I forgot how to breathe. There was no warmth in that gaze, just heat.
Challenge.
And yet somehow, I knew that fire was mine.
He was out there breaking bones with a smirk on his face, but he was still thinking of me.
And I? Was a goner.
I clutched the railing like it might keep me tethered to reality, my fingers wrapped so tight around the cold metal I was surprised it didn’t leave grooves in my palms. The world had narrowed down to one singular focus: Nikolai. Everything else—the roaring crowd, the announcer’s voice, the sharp scent of ice and popcorn—blurred into meaningless noise as I tracked his every movement.
Then it happened.
A crash echoed so loud it felt like a gunshot. Nikolai collided with another player at full speed, and the impact rattled the glass right in front of me. The sound of bodies slamming against the boards sent a jolt through my spine. I gasped, heart flying into my throat as I watched them tumble in a twisted mess of limbs and skates.
Time stopped.
The other guy got up first, already skating off, shaking his head. But Nikolai didn’t. He lay there for a beat too long—flat on his back, one arm curled in, helmet slightly askew—and suddenly the air was gone. Like poof, oxygen? Never heard of her. I leaned over the railing, eyes scanning every inch of him in panic. Move, please move. Say something sarcastic. Flex. Breathe.
