“You might’ve started a war,” I tell him.
He beams.
Scoreboard flashes: 8–2. Reapers.
The horn blares again and the barn loses its goddamn mind.
Fucking Maulers.
Their rink reeks of piss and bad decisions, and their fans are nothing short of rabid. Every scream from the stands sounds like a curse hurled straight from Hell. The boards are warped, the ice cracks in all the wrong places, and I swear on my life the scoreboard is rigged. And somehow—some fucking how—we’re down. Just one point. Halfway through the goddamn game, and it feels like the weight of ten goals pressing on my chest.
I’m seething. I feel it in my throat, in my fists, in every pulse of my body as the Maulers chirp our bench like they’ve already won. We beat them at home. Twice. But here? Here, they’re monsters. Every shift, they come harder, sloppier, meaner. They slash when the ref blinks. Cross-check when the puck’s not even in the same zip code. One of the bastards tried to trip Shane behind the net and I swear to fuck, I’ve never seen a man literally foam at the mouth before—but Shane? Shane is foaming.
Cole’s still chirping back, louder and louder, but even he’s starting to sound winded. And Damian’s gone cold. Not quiet in that smirking, slow-burn kind of way. Cold. Stone silent. Eyesforward, shoulders squared, not a single goddamn word since warmup. And that silence? That’s war. That’s the version of him that ends careers with one swing and a look.
The horn blasts the end of the period and we skate off, shoulders aching, rage simmering beneath every stride. I yank my helmet off halfway down the tunnel, curls plastered to my forehead, chest heaving with every breath, and he’s there. Right behind me. Silent. Solid. Ice.
I snap. I spin around and snarl, “Say something. Growl at me. Push me. Tell me I’m not doing enough—just fucking say something.” Because silence is worse than punishment. At least when he’s screaming, I know he sees me. When he’s quiet like this? I start wondering if I failed. If I’m not worth the fire anymore.
And he does. His glove fists my jersey, slams me back against the tunnel wall, and his mouth crashes into mine. Hard and fucking desperate. A kiss that rattles my spine, shatters the fog in my brain, and pulls a sound out of me I didn’t know I had. I gasp, teeth scraping his lip, fingers curling in his gear like I need to anchor myself to this moment or fall through the ice.
“Just tell me we’re not gonna lose,” I whisper, already cracking around the edges, eyes wide.
His breath stutters just once. Then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, fire burning behind his silence. “We’re not gonna lose.”
It’s a vow. And I believe it. Because it’s him.
His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His voice drops low, and I feel it more than hear it. “You want a win? Then make them pay for touching you. And don’t stop.”
I nod fast, everything inside me tightening around his voice.
“Good,” he growls, knuckles brushing my throat, a soft warning laced with promise. “Now skate like you’re wearing that ring already.” The words hit harder than the kiss. That’s whatthis is, isn’t it? Every shift. Every bruise. I’m skating for the promise I see burning in his eyes. The one he hasn’t said out loud. And then he turns and walks away.
I stay where I am, sagged against the concrete, heart jackhammering, lips tingling, brain reeling with only one voice echoing inside me.
Don’t stop. Make them pay. Skate like I’m his.
And I will. God help them, I will.
The third period starts like thunder. Brutal. Each hit lands heavier than the last, refs swallowing their whistles, letting the game devolve into something feral. Every Mauler on the ice wants blood—mine specifically. They know I’m fast. They know I’m first line. They know Damian’s hand never left the small of my back walking out of that locker room.
So they try to break me.
Let them.
I eat a hit at the blue line, keep skating. Take a slash to the ribs, don’t even flinch. Blood’s dripping from one knuckle, but I win every faceoff they throw at me. Damian’s on my wing, silent and vicious. Cole’s a snarling mess. Shane guards the net. Viktor’s throwing bodies. Mats is dragging two Maulers behind him.
Forty-five seconds left on the clock. Cole intercepts at center, rips down the ice. I bolt down the middle, wide open. I call once and Cole doesn’t even look. He knows. The puck hits my stick and I shoot. Top shelf. Left side. Clean and beautiful.
Goal.
Yes!
4–4.
I don’t hear the horn. Don’t feel the crash of bodies hitting mine in celebration. Not even Damian’s glove wrapping around the back of my neck as I’m hauled off the ice registers. All I hear is that next buzzer.
Overtime.
