My eyes scanned the boards. Then—there. High in the stands. Her.
Mina.
Petrov’s jersey on her like a bad joke. Draped over her like loyalty. Like she belonged to someone too foolish to keep her.
Her hair framed her face, soft. She watched the ice too carefully. Eyes fixed, not blinking. Like if she stared hard enough, she could turn this into something romantic. A love story.
It wasn’t.
This was war.
And she was the prize he gambled. Not me.
I skated past the bench slowly, letting my blade hiss over the ice. A chuckle rumbled in my chest—not joyful. Not amused.
I didn’t smile. I rarely smile.
But tonight, I let it happen.
A face-off neared. I slid into position like a blade slipping into flesh. Opponent across from me. Nervous. Twitchy. He would lose. He already had.
As I waited for the puck drop, I let my mind wander—briefly. To Mina. In my colors. Not borrowed loyalty, but chosen. Not a bet. A declaration.
I would not ask.
I would make her see.
The puck dropped.
Small. Insignificant. Yet it carried weight. Power. Everything that mattered in this moment sat between us like a live grenade waiting for the first hand to claim it.
Petrov crouched low across from me, too cocky. Too eager. He always was. Shoulders tight with pride. Mouth twitching like he had something to prove.
I leaned forward. Quiet. Measured. Our eyes locked.
“Hope you’re ready to lose her,” I said, low. Precise. A scalpel, not a hammer. “She’ll make a fine trophy.”
His jaw tightened. There it was. Rage. Fast and stupid, like everything about him. He blinked. That was all I needed.
I struck first.
The puck snapped under my blade like it had never belonged to anyone else. I moved before he could think. Before he could feel. That was the problem with men like Petrov—they felt too much, too fast.
I cut past him cleanly. No noise. No celebration. Just ice and speed.
The defenders came like ghosts, big bodies, louder footsteps. I did not stop.
Left. Right. Blades whispering across the ice like razors.
The net opened ahead of me—a quiet promise in a loud arena. I felt the weight of thousands of eyes on my shoulders and shrugged it off like snow. I didn’t play for the crowd. I didn’t play for applause.
I played to win.
A voice behind me shouted something desperate—“Not today!”—but I didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch.
They never learn. Not until it’s over.
I reached the crease.
