They had no idea.
This wasn’t a romance. This wasn’t a tabloid stunt.
She was mine.
And I didn’t take kindly to jokes about what belonged to me.
Let them laugh now.
They wouldn’t when I took someone’s teeth out on the ice tonight.
Especially if she showed up in the stands—wearing my name on her back.
Then?
The whole fucking world would remember exactly who I was.
And what happened when they disrespected what was mine.
The ice bit back that morning.
Perfect.
Every stride, every slash of my blade across the surface felt like control—cold, clean, mine. I went through the drills like a machine, tuned and merciless. No room for thought. No room for her.
But she bled in anyway.
Every pass reminded me of her silence. Every slapshot echoed with the click of the front door she didn’t follow me through. I should’ve thrived in that space—no leash, no glances, no games. But instead? My focus twisted, warped by the image of her still in that robe, still tasting like resistance on my mouth.
She hadn’t shown up to say goodbye.
And that told me everything.
When practice ended, I didn’t linger in the locker room. I peeled off my gear in silence, ignoring the low buzz of rookie chatter, the quiet glances, the not-so-subtle speculation about my marriage.
Let them whisper. They wouldn’t when they saw what I’d do tonight.
Gideon was already waiting near the exit, baseball cap backward, ego forward. “You look like you just buried someone.”
I barely glanced at him. “Maybe I did.”
Jafar joined us, sleeves rolled and clipboard gone for once. He always moved like he had a plan no one else was smart enough to understand. Gang Lu followed in silence, eyes sharp and unreadable. Jeremy trailed last, hoodie up, smirk barely concealed—Scar in every way that mattered.
James made his entrance fashionably late, twirling his car keys and sauntering like sin itself. “Are we eating or just brooding like the League’s most dysfunctional boy band?”
I grunted. “Food.”
It was tradition. No matter how brutal the practice, how ugly the press, how tense the locker room—we gorged before every game. Pasta, pancakes, waffles—didn’t matter. We loaded up like it was our last meal before war.
The local diner knew us by name. Knew not to seat anyone within earshot. We took the back booth—same one every time—spread out like kings about to feast.
Jeremy ordered steak and eggs. Lu stuck with black coffee and three plates of noodles. Gideon went full Gaston mode—three omelets, four sides of bacon, and still stole bites off my plate. Jafar dissected his pancakes like he was in surgery. James flirted with the waitress and stole the syrup bottle.
I sat there with my jaw tight, my appetite mechanical, my mind burning with one thought:
Would she show up tonight?
Would she wear that jersey? That choker?
