He buries it.
The arena detonates.
Atlas doesn’t celebrate much—just a sharp nod, a shove from Finn, and then he skates toward the bench with that same intense, quietly furious focus he always carries.But when he reaches me, he drags his glove across the glass—not a tap, a drag—and his eyes hook into mine for a fraction of a second.
Heat shoots straight down my spine.
The horn ends the period.I exhale for what feels like the first time all night.
In the tunnel, the guys peel off toward the locker room.Trainers swarm.Staff move in practiced chaos.I grab extra tape, refill water bottles, and restock the medical bag for the second period.Kael brushes past me, shoulder grazing mine—nothing obvious, just enough for my breath to catch.
“You good?”he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
His gaze searches me for a beat longer than necessary, then he nods and disappears inside.
Finn stops as he passes, leaning in close.“Best seat in the house, huh?”
“Pretty sure the goal judge behind the net disagrees,” I tease.
“Yeah, but you’re prettier,” he fires back, winking as he follows the others.
Atlas is last.He doesn’t stop.Doesn’t wink.Doesn’t smile.
But he slows.
Just enough to say without words:
I saw you all night.
I’m not done watching.
The second period is faster.Meaner.The opposing team comes out hot, throwing their weight around like they’re trying to knock the Reapers off rhythm.One of their forwards slams into Finn behind the net, and my stomach drops until he pops up with a grin like he enjoyed it.
Kael takes a puck off the inside of his knee and winces but plays through the next shift because he’s made of something sturdier than bone.Atlas gets in a scuffle after someone takes a late hack at Finn’s ankles.He doesn’t drop gloves—Kael yells something sharp from the blue line and Atlas listens—but the warning in his posture sends the other guy skating away fast.
By the time the whistle blows for a TV timeout, my heart is beating in sync with the arena.
I’m not scared.
Not thinking about Denver.
Not thinking about texts or shadows or an ex who carved too many scars into my reflexes.
Just the game.
Just the ice.
Just them.
I lean against the boards, breathing in the cold air that rises off the rink like mist.Finn skates by and flicks a snowflake at me.Kael shouts a command to the defense.Atlas jams his helmet back on with a snap that makes sweat drip down his neck.
God, no one warned me how hot hockey players are when they’re actually playing.
The clock ticks down to the final minute of the second.I glance up at the Jumbotron, checking the shots on goal, and—
Something pricks the back of my neck.
