Mid-second period.
I was locked in.
We were up two goals. Sweat burned my skin beneath the pads, lungs pumping like pistons. The puck was a blur. I didn’t feel my legs anymore—just instinct. Just rage and rhythm.
And then?—
I saw her.
Glass seat. Center ice. First row.
Sitting straight-backed, legs crossed, every inch of her a fucking vision of defiance.
She wore my jersey.
Black and gold swallowing her frame.
She wore the choker.
The one I told her to.
And the ring—my ring—glinted on her finger like a brand.
And she…
She had the fucking audacity to pretend not to look at me.
But I saw it.
The flicker.
The crack.
The fire behind her eyes that gave her away. Like she couldn’t help but glance up, couldn’t help but search for me on that ice like I was the only thing she could see.
She came.
She fucking came.
I nearly missed the puck flying toward me.
Nearly.
I snapped it out of the air with a flick of my wrist, teeth clenched as my gaze locked back to the game. I couldn’t afford to stare—but it didn’t matter. That image of her burned into the back of my mind like a brand.
There was no escaping it.
There was no escaping her.
And now that she’d come?
Someone was going to pay for every second she made me wait.
Face-off.
Logan Rhys.
Captain of the Bay Harbor Ravens, poster boy for cheap shots and broken noses. Smug bastard stood across from me like he belonged in my arena—on my ice.
