Faulker nudges my shoulder. “Switch on.”
I already have. The world narrows into instinct. I touch two fingers to the side of my helmet, then to the boards. A small ritual. A quiet prayer, not to God, but to the part of me that knows how to survive. Keep me sharp. Keep me fast. Let me leave every piece of myself on the ice.
Then, as always, it comes. A whisper under my skin, like the ghost of a memory. Mikhail.Do not stop hitting me.
It pulses through me like a second heartbeat. The voice of the past, the one that shaped the man I became. It never leaves me, not on game day.
The doors open and we’re off.
We skate onto the ice, and the crowd loses its mind. The energy hits in a wave. I glide out, low and controlled, legs stretching long as I work through my edges and then begin stretches. Big hip flexor sweeps. Deep cuts. The kind of warmup move that makes the female crowd lean forward, eyes glued to the place where strength becomes something else entirely. I pretend I do not notice, but I always feel it. No shame to admit, I like it.
I skate a slow circle, eyes scanning the boards, the lower bowl, the upper decks.
That is when I see her.
High up in the Fairfax Media Box, Sofie sits like a miniature monarch. Perfect posture. Perfect clothes. Perfectly uninterested in being impressed.
Her eyes lock on mine for half a second. A half second too long. Something hot and sharp flares low in my gut.
She looks like a little princess, polished and smug, exactly the kind of woman who thinks she is above every filthy thought I have about her. I can picture her on her knees, that perfect arrogance cracked open, drool sliding out of the corner of her mouth as she licks the pearl at the tip of my cock.
I tear my gaze away before it turns into a challenge I cannot take up right now. I’m not even sure I want to. She’s not the type of woman I could imagine calling mine, even if only while I am here. She’s too slight, too entitled. She’s the settling-down type. It’s in the air they’re all breathing in that box. It’s poison.
The whistle blows. We angle toward the bench. The arena lights flare, and the speakers erupt, shaking the whole damn bowl.
No Sleep Till Brooklyn blasts through the sound system, which fits the zip code, but that is not where the irony hits. The irony is we slept just fine. The Brooklyn Bears are number one in the league. We’re locked in. A machine built to steamroll whoever steps in front of us.
Brooklyn slept just fine, but the other New York team did not sleep. Not the players. Not the coaching staff. Not their front office. Not after Costello bought the franchise, gutted it, rebuilt it, and made them watch while we turned Brooklyn into a fortress.
They hear this song tonight and feel pressure. We hear it and feel ownership.
“DJ is petty tonight,” Evan says with a crooked grin. “I like it.”
Bass taps his stick, amused. “New York must love hearing their nightmares with a beat.”
I breathe in the noise, the vibration, the unity in the seats. Brooklyn is awake. Brooklyn is proud. Brooklyn expects violence. And we are more than ready to deliver it.
The lights dim. The spotlights sweep the ice in a sea of red. The crowd rises as one, loud enough that the floor beneath my skates vibrates. The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, smooth and thunderous.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a packed house here in Kings County. There is not an empty seat in the building as this borough prepares for the biggest battle on ice this season. The air is electric, the tension is palpable, as we gear up for another classic clash for the soul of this city.”
The crowd surges. Seats rattle. Someone behind the bench slams a drum in perfect rhythm with the heartbeat of the arena.
“Tonight, the ice is hostile territory. We are set for the Battle of the Boroughs. In the blue corner, representing high finance, luxury suites, and the polished steel of Hudson Yards, the New York Capitals.”
The boos hit like a tidal wave. Long, loud, and personal. Brooklyn does not do polite hate. Brooklyn goes feral. I like it here more and more every day.
The Capitals skate out, pretending they do not hear it.They hear it.
“And in the opposing corner, the home team, fueled by the grit of the Navy Yard, the pride of the Parkway, and the heart of this community, your Brooklyn Bears.”
The roar that erupts is not a sound. It is a force, a living thing. It pours over us like gasoline over open flame.
We skate our arc across the blue line. Bass taps his stick on mine. Leo adjusts his helmet. Evan smirks like he knows he is about to ruin someone’s week. Faulker rolls out like he’s a fucking figure skater, and Moretti looks down.
The announcer milks the moment, voice rising with the crowd behind him.
“Strap yourselves in. The puck is about to drop, and these two teams hate each other. This is for New York City bragging rights.”
