This is my home, my favorite place in the entire fucking world. This is what I want to share with Serena. I just hope she comes.
“Number fourteen …BatesFinnegan!”
I shoot onto the ice as the crowd roars in the arena, getting even louder as I hit the blue line and they announce Kol Brighton.
The colors are presented, the anthem is sung, and the entire time, I’m counting down the seconds until the lights come on, and I can see ifshe’shere.
We all slap our sticks on the ground after the resident singer is done. The color guard leaves the ice, and finally, it’s showtime.
My body moves me through the motions, going through the same loop around our zone and twirl I do every game before puck drop, during that short thirty-second gap between pregame performances and the official start of the first period.
As I follow the boards, rounding the ice toward our bench, I glance up and lock eyes with her, my entire body releasing tension I didn’t even know I was holding.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod or wave.
Instead, she lifts her hand, the back of it to me, and flips me off, a smirk forming on her lips.
Kerrigan laughs and slaps her hand down, murmuring to her, and I desperately wish I could hear it. Serena says something back, and Kerrigan cocks her head to the side, staring at Serena like she doesn’t believe whatever was just said.
The official blows his whistle, pulling my mind and body toward the center of the ice. As much as I want to watch her all night, I want to murder the Hawks in front of her just as badly.
The last thing I expected tonight was to bethisemotionally involved in the game. But here I am, at the start of the third period, on the edge of my seat, more nervous for the outcome of this high-intensity game than I’ve been for anything in a while.
The Hawks and the Sinners are tied, two to two. The game’s beenintense, to say the least. Constant jabs, dirty hits, and violence, contributing to the boiling volcano that is soon to erupt.
The refs have called eight penalties on us and only two on them. I agree with their calls, but they also missed a few on the Hawks side that shouldn’t have been passed by.
They’ve been targeting one of the Sinners’ younger guys, Ty Ramirez. He’s insanely good, and he’s only nineteen. Our guys are very protective of him, and the Hawkshave made it their mission tonight to get under his skin, but that only gets under everyone else’s too.
Another missed cross-check at the young rookie’s back is the tipping point of the chaos.
Bates is out on the ice, and I knew he’d be fighting this game. It wasn’t a matter ofif, butwhen, especially with the way the Hawks have been playing. Ramirez immediately fights back, gripping his stick with both hands and smacking at the other player’s chest.
Bates is the first one to Ramirez’s defense, ripping the much larger player off him. They’re right in front of the bench, giving me a damn near unobstructed view of the unfolding brawl.
Bates lands a heavy blow into his ribs and another to his face, knocking his mouthguard out of his mouth. The player tries to hit back, only managing to land a weak punch to Bates’s jaw. But Bates only smiles.
The guy’s face is open, ready for the next hit, but Bates waits, hesitating, and a chill runs down my spine. Not because of the violence, but the familiarity of his power and restraint.
He’s not swinging to his full strength or utilizing every opening. Bates is calculated, enacting a plan in which only he knows, just like the masked man who’s been watching me for months.
Suddenly, I can see how easily they are one and the same. The parallels between them are agonizingly clear. There’s been an itch in my brain, something I haven’t understood until this moment.
To me, Bates has been this arrogant, uncontrolled dog that needed obedience training. A player who thinks he’sbetter than anyone in the league. I viewed him as a self-righteous and annoying brute who only flirted with me for the fun of the game.
But now, it’s like the pieces of my brain that were fuzzy and unclear before are suddenly visible and sliding into place.
Bates is arrogant as hell, yes. And heabsolutelythinks he’s better than anyone in the league. But he isn’t just the menacing enforcer I once thought him to be.
He’s more than the violence and the darkness that stirs beneath the surface. He uses his anger and physical strength as a tool in the game as much as he does his stick. He’s far more controlled than I gave him credit for.
He could beat that player until red speckled the ice. I’ve seen him do it before. It used to scare me a little bit. But I appreciate it now more than I ever knew I could. Knowing how strong and merciless he can be and seeing him hold himself back is the most attractive thing I’ve ever witnessed.
It’s what drew me to my masked man in the first place. It was tantalizing, being pulled to something that I shouldn’t. This unknown person invaded every space of my life, and I let them, not completely sure they wouldn’t hurt me.
I gave my trust to someone I didn’t know when I absolutely shouldn’t have. A stranger, a man at that, who left me letters, telling me how obsessed with me he was.
I should’ve called the cops, turned him in. But I didn’t. Instead, I let him have access to every second of my day with hidden cameras that I didn’t try to find. I let him into my mind and body, knowing that, at any second, he couldsnap and hurt me. That right there was why I fell for him in the first place. There’s something beautiful about the balance between the capability of violence and the restraint to know when to use it.
