Chapter one
Faceoff - The puck drop that starts play or restarts after a stoppage.
Cole
Denver had every right to stop believing. After two seasons at the bottom of the standings—after the betting scandal that gutted the roster and dragged the Dragons’ name through every headline—the fans had come tonight ready to hope, not to trust. Over eighty percent of the team that skated this season was new: rookies with something to prove as scouts had started watching, veterans trying to wash the stink of the old franchise off their jerseys. And me, the latest gamble in a rebuild nobody believed could work.
The puck snapped against my stick as if it belonged there. I angled my body low, already reading the blue jerseys lining up across the zone. The Vipers’ defense wasn’t bad—tight, hungry, exactly the kind of wall we’d been too timid to break before. Not tonight.
“Left, Cole!” Max—our right wing and captain—yelled, already streaking up the boards. I sold the pass with my eyes, shoulder twitching like I was ready to dish it off. Their defenseman bit, cutting toward him hard. Perfect.
I pulled the puck in close, toe-dragging around his stick with a quick snap of my wrists. My blades carved deep into the ice as I slid through the narrow gap he’d left open. My lungs burned with cold air and adrenaline, but the fire in my chest wanted more—always more. The dragon inside me clawed for release, the magic binding me thrumming like barbed wire.
“Go, Cole, go!” Ash’s shout—our left wing—cut across the ice as he crashed the net, dragging their second defenseman with him. The goalie shifted his weight left to track Ash, exactly what we wanted.
Time slowed. I feinted wide, pulling their last defender just half a step the wrong way, then snapped the puck backward between my legs straight onto Max’s tape. The crowd gasped. Max didn’t hesitate—he ripped it back across the crease before the goalie could reset.
The puck was on me again. No time to think. No need. My wrists snapped, blade cutting pure, and the puck lifted clean. It slid through the narrowest opening between blocker and pad and rattled the back of the net.
Goal.
The arena exploded—pure thunder rolling through me, shaking the rafters. I dropped to one knee, fist pumping the air before Ash, Max, and Kael slammed into me, helmets clashing, gloves pounding my shoulders. For a heartbeat, we were untouchable. A line that worked. A team with teeth again.
The scoreboard lit up. The Dragons weren’t dead yet. And with me on the ice, I’d make damn sure no one buried us again.
For sixty minutes, I could pretend. Pretend I wasn’t Edward Armstrong-Wells’s son. Pretend I wasn’t bound, caged, cut off from the fire that should have been mine. Pretend I was only Cole—the center who could turn a dying season into something worth believing in.
And tonight, belief tasted better than fire.
The goal horn still echoed in my chest when we lined up for the next faceoff. I set my stick down, crouched low, and locked eyes with the center across from me—Troy Jensen.Their captain. Their enforcer in everything but name. He grinned like he was already planning how to cut me in half.
“Nice fluke, Brit,” he muttered under his breath. His breath steamed between us. “Won’t happen again.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The puck dropped, and I won the draw, snapping it back to Kael on defense. Troy came in late with his shoulder, slamming into me after the whistle. Cheap. The crowd booed, but the ref pretended he hadn’t seen it.
Fine. If that was how he wanted it.
We reset, and this time he shadowed me everywhere—every stride, every reach. He leaned on me in the corners, hooked his stick against my ribs when the officials weren’t looking, all teeth and malice. He wanted me rattled.
But fire burned hotter under pressure.
When Maxim dumped the puck deep, I chased. Troy was on me, trying to pin me to the boards. I twisted just before impact, letting his momentum carry him an inch too far. My shoulder clipped him hard enough to stagger, and I spun out with the puck. His snarl chased me, but I was already gone, skating the line, waiting for the right opening.
Their defense closed, two men converging. I felt Troy charging back behind me, desperate to finish the hit he’d started. Instead, I feathered the puck across the crease to Ember. He one-timed it—straight into the goalie’s pads, rebound spitting loose. I dove, stick outstretched, beating Troy by half a stride. My blade caught rubber, and I sent it flying high. The goalie barely snared it with his glove, the crowd screaming in disbelief.
No goal. Not this time.
But the look on Troy’s face when he hauled me up off the ice? Pure fury. He wanted me broken.
I grinned through my mouthguard. Let him try.
Shift after shift, Troy shadowed me like a curse. Every rush I led, he was there with an elbow or a cross-check just light enough to avoid the whistle. My ribs throbbed. My shoulder ached where he’d driven me into the glass. My legs screamed every time I pushed through the neutral zone. Coach had me off and on the ice so many times I lost count.
But pain was just noise. I’d lived with worse.
We traded chances back and forth, the score locked tight. Maxim rang iron halfway through the second. Kael sprawled across the crease to block what should have been their go-ahead goal. The crowd lived and died with every gasp, every near miss, the arena vibrating with hunger we hadn’t felt all season.
By the third period, sweat stung my eyes. My gloves were heavy, my lungs ragged. Still, I chased every loose puck like it mattered more than breath. Troy caught me square in the back behind the net, dropping me to one knee. My vision flashed white, but I forced myself up before the ref even looked. I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction. Troy missed me once—only once—but it was Ash who paid the price. We’d just cycled out of the zone when Troy barreled in late, his shoulder aimed square at my chest. I twisted, too quick, and he slammed into Ash instead. The crack of impact echoed over the ice. Ash hit the boards hard, crumpling before he managed to stagger upright, one arm clutching his side.
