He was already hers.
Even if he hadn’t realized it yet.
We napped for an hour before the alarms buzzed.
The suit clung to me like armor.
Black on black. Tailored within an inch of its life. No tie. No need. Just me—controlled, cold, collected.
Gideon buttoned his jacket beside me, hair slicked back, sunglasses still on even though the sun was long gone.
“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” he said without looking at me.
I smirked. “Maybe I am.”
By the time we hit the garage, night had fallen. The city lights were harsh and wild, the kind of chaos I craved before a game. Gideon slammed the trunk shut with his duffel over his shoulder, swagger in every step. I walked beside him, slower, quieter.
Focused.
The rink was waiting.
And maybe… she was too.
We stepped out of the car to a wall of flashing lights.
Photographers lined the walkway like vultures waiting for a fresh corpse.
Questions flung like bullets. “Sinclair! Is she here?” — “What’s the deal with the marriage?” — “You think a wife’s gonna slow you down tonight?”
Gideon raised a middle finger behind his back without turning. I knew because he always did. “Parasites,” he muttered.
Inside, the roar faded. Concrete halls swallowed the noise. The air was cooler here, sharper, electric. I rolled my shoulders as we headed for the locker room—our sanctuary and war zone wrapped into one.
The boys were already gathering. Jafar leaned against his stall, tapping a stick against his thigh like he was waiting for permission to unleash something violent. Jeremy—Scar—sat hunched over, lacing his skates like he was stringing a weapon. Gang Lu was dead silent, calm as a sniper. James twirled his blade on one finger like a pirate counting down to mutiny.
I pulled off my jacket and started changing, slipping into my gear like a second skin. The weight of it felt good—familiar. Heavy with intent.
Then came the footsteps.
Measured. Sharp.
Coach Frollo entered like a judge walking into a courtroom.
He wore a black suit, a blacker tie, and a gaze that could make grown men forget how to breathe.
He didn’t shout. He never needed to.
He just looked at us—all of us—and spoke like he was delivering a sentence, not a speech.
“You don’t step on that ice tonight to play. You step on to remind the world why they fear this team. You play to devour. You play to ruin.” The room stilled. Even Gideon went quiet. Frollo’s voice dropped. “Anyone touches your puck, your zone, your goalie—or your reputation? You don’t just check them. You bury them.” His eyes landed on me. “And if anyone mentions your wife tonight, Sinclair…” A pause. Deadly soft. “Make sure they regret it.”
I nodded once.
Not for him.
For me.
Because tonight? Someone was going to bleed.
