I had something to come home to.
Someone.
She was probably still wrapped in my sheets, smelling like me, thighs still sore from how hard I’d fucked her before practice. The thought made my grip tighten on my stick.
I was going to walk through that door, drag her back into bed, and fill her all over again—slow this time. Worship, not war.
I’d never felt anything like this. Not even close.
And I didn’t want to.
She was mine now.
And I was going to spend the rest of my life making sure she never forgot it.
The rink was clean. Cold. Brutal.
The ice hissed beneath my blades like it knew me—welcoming me back with that familiar burn in my lungs and fire in my thighs. Every stride was a purge, every sharp turn a way to bleed out the tension coiled inside me like wire.
The others were loud—shouting, laughing, chirping like this was just another morning. I didn’t hear them.
All I heard was the rasp of my skates and the crack of my stick against the puck. Control. That’s what this was. That’s what I craved. And this was the only place I’d ever found it—until her.
Drills started easy. Passing lines. Fast flicks. Tight turns. I didn’t think. I moved. The puck felt like it belonged to me—an extension of my will, like everything else I took and bent to my command.
“Let’s see that speed, Sinclair!” Coach barked from the boards.
I didn’t respond. I just pushed harder. Faster. Until the burn in my legs was white-hot and perfect.
Jeremy passed to me on instinct—we’d played together long enough to read each other without words—and I snatched the puck, snapped a shot off the blade of my stick, and sent it screaming past the goalie’s glove.
Thwack.
Back of the net.
Cheers erupted, but it all sounded distant—like I was underwater. All I could feel was the buzz in my blood. The need curling hot under my skin.
Because no matter how many times I scored, no matter how hard I hit… my thoughts kept sliding back to her.
Persephone.
Naked in my bed, trembling under my hands, saying my name like it meant something. Like I meant something.
I tightened my grip on my stick as the scrimmage kicked off, body-checking the first guy dumb enough to come near me. The contact reverberated through my bones like music.
I didn’t hold back.
Didn’t want to.
James tried to sneak past me on the left wing—cocky bastard—but I saw it coming. I cut him off mid-stride, stripping the puck with a quick twist of my blade.
“Come on!” he groaned, spinning around, skating after me like he hadn’t just gotten owned.
Jeremy was up ahead, yelling something snarky while shoving his way through the D-line, trying to get open.
But none of it mattered.
Not the laughter. Not the drills. Not even the goddamn puck.
