“The captain looks grumpier than usual,” he said with a grin that begged to be punched. “Trouble in paradise?”
I turned to him, smile razor-thin, and let the silence stretch long enough to make even the ice nervous.
Then I said, “Focus on your own game, Hook.” A pause. “Leave my paradise out of this.”
The room went still for a beat. Just long enough for the message to land.
Because make no mistake: I let them talk. I let them joke. I let them think this was a democracy.
But when I speak?
Everyone listened.
Because on this team?
I wasn't just the captain. I was the goddamn underworld.
And the only thing worse than crossing me on the ice was thinking you could cross me off it.
I brushed off their banter like it was lint on a tailored suit—annoying, beneath me, and barely worth a second thought.
But underneath?
Oh, baby. There was a storm brewing.
Possessiveness coiled low in my gut, a slow, hot burn, like I’d swallowed a live wire.
They didn’t get it.
Couldn’t.
To them, Persephone was a headline. A bet. A trophy.
Maybe a mistake.
To me?
She was the fucking endgame.
And I was playing to win.
Across the room, Jafar lifted his gaze from his clipboard full of complex plays and cold-blooded theories. His eyes narrowed—always seeing too much, always two inches from calling bullshit. “You’re distracted.”
I didn’t blink. “I’m focused.”
Smooth. Steady. Not a crack in the glass.
Focused on the soft press of her mouth when she was too tired to fight.
Focused on the fire in her eyes right before she looked away.
Focused on the way she’d bit her lip.
Yeah. I was focused. Just not on hockey.
Scar, never one to sit out when there was blood in the water, raised a brow. “You’re not worried she’ll ruin it before you finish?”
I smirked.
