Of course.
The boy from earlier, the king of the ice, glides into position on defense near the blue line. Up close, he looks even more expensive. Clear skin. Calm eyes. A jaw that has never met hunger.
He looks at me like he is sizing up a challenge. I do the same.
“Mikhail Volkov,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear. His accent is old money. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”
“Aleksandr Kilovac,” I answer. “Try not to fall.”
His mouth twitches.
Coach drops the puck at center. “Go.”
I take it up the ice, cutting wide, building speed. Volkov skates backward, watching my hips, not the puck. Good. He knows what he is doing.
I feint left, cut right, then shift inside.
He moves to angle me off the lane, shoulder lowering. He thinks I will try to dance around him. Most guys do. I do not. At the last second, I drop my shoulder and drive straight through him. Impact explodes through my chest. Board rattles. The sound echoes around the rink. He goes down hard, back hitting the ice. His helmet pops slightly, eyes wide in surprise. The puck slides free and taps lazily toward the boards.
For a second, no one says anything.
Then one of the guys whistles low. “Shit.”
I stand over him, breathing hard, every muscle humming. He blinks up at me. Then he laughs. Not a bitter laugh. Not a humiliated one. A real one. Bright and sharp. He reaches up, grabs my forearm, and hauls himself up. His grip is strong.
“Again,” he says, grinning.
Coach blows the whistle. “Good hit. Reset. Volkov, keep your feet. Kilovac, do not kill my star on the first day.”
The boys snicker. Volkov does not look offended at being called the star. He knows he is.
I skate back to the starting point; adrenaline twisted into something that feels dangerously close to satisfaction.
I do not like rich boys. I do not trust rich boys. But this one? He might be interesting.
We reset. Coach drops the puck again. And I know, as I charge up the ice for the second time, that whatever this is, rivalry or something worse, it is not going away any time soon.
That is fine. I did not come here to blend in. I come to make the ice remember my name.
Chapter Two
The Hit Heard Around the Rink
The drill restarts,but everything feels different now.
Volkov skates backward into position, jaw set in a way it was not before. The lazy confidence is gone. He is focused, locked in, watching me the way predators watch each other.
Good.
The rest of the team lines the boards, sticks tapping lightly, eyes bright. They know something is happening. Teen boys can smell rivalry before it has a name.
Coach drops the puck. “Go.”
I explode off the line.
My skates bite deep, the cold air cutting past my face, breath tight in my chest. I shift the puck left, tap it to my right heel, pull it back. Testing him. He mirrors me perfectly. No panic. No wasted movement.
He is better than I thought.
