The rink burned beneath me.
Skates cut across the ice like blades across flesh—clean, sharp, precise. My pulse synced to the rhythm of the game: pass, pivot, hit, breakaway. Castle Rock Inferno in black and gold—monsters in motion.
I was the monster.
Every shift felt like controlled demolition. My stick met the puck with brutal elegance. Every shoulder I threw rattled the glass. No penalties. Not yet. Just power channeled like a weapon.
But still…
My eyes kept drifting.
Across the rink. Dead center.
The glass seat reserved just for her—front and center, spotlighted like a throne carved from ice and power.
Empty.
A hollow space that taunted me with every turn I took.
She wasn’t there.
I gritted my teeth, carving through defenders like they were made of paper, but the cold sting of disappointment clung to me like sweat under my pads.
Back on the bench, I slammed down beside Gideon.
He took one look at the seat and smirked, cocky as ever, helmet off and jaw bruised already. “She’ll come,” he said, flexing his taped hand like he was ready to knock out God if it meant proving his point. “Women like her always do.”
I didn’t look at him. “You’d know.”
He barked a laugh and cracked open a water bottle like he didn’t just prove a point and twist the knife at the same time. “Damn right I would.”
But I wasn’t laughing.
Because she should’ve been here.
Watching me rule this ice.
Watching me bleed for her.
Watching me burn for her.
And yet?—
That seat sat untouched.
Like a challenge.
Like a throne she refused to claim.
I took a breath. Gloved hands gripping my stick so tight I felt the shaft groan beneath the tension.
If she didn’t show?
I’d still win this game.
But if she did?
I’d make someone bleed for thinking they could look at her.
