Armstrong isn’t loud. He doesn’t chase cameras. But his line—anchored by Maxim Renard, captain, on the right and Ash Thorne on the left—has scored in seven straight games. Heading into tonight’s matchup against the Las Vegas Vipers, the Dragons ride a three-game win streak, their best since before the scandal.
For the first time since the fire, Dragon fans are daring to believe again.
The Forge is sold out. The upper decks that sat empty two winters ago are packed, banners waving under the lights. There’s a new chant rolling down from the rafters: “Burn bright, Dragons!”
It’s still early. It’s only January. But if you listen closely, you can hear something that hasn’t lived here in a long time.
Hope.
Not sure what to think after reading that, I decided to add my game face to the players’ and breezed into the ballroom, snagged a flute of champagne, and positioned myself by the bar, scanning for potential marks, especially my particular one. The wealthy were easy to spot—they wore their money differently than the pretenders. My eyes landed on a tall figure sitting slightly apart at the bar, shoulders taut beneath a tailored suit. Even in celebration, he radiated isolation—Cole Armstrong, the British import whose lightning-fast reflexes had made such a difference and were steering them to the title. Up close, he was more striking than his posters: sharp cheekbones, haunted green eyes that didn’t match his celebrity status. Perfect. The lonely had fewer complications.
I slid in beside him at the bar just as the bartender set down his whiskey, and made sure not to meet Ricky’s eyes. I leaned my elbow against the counter, casual but deliberate and repeated the memorized conversation I’d overheard in the line outside.
“Everyone keeps replaying your goal in the third,” I said, keeping my voice smooth. “But what really won the game was the faceoff you took right before it. You broke their defense beautifully in the neutral zone—most guys don’t even see that lane.”
His hand stilled on the glass. He turned his head, eyes narrowing as they swept over me. Not dismissive. Assessing. “You watch hockey, then,” he said, his accent making the words sharper, cleaner. I smiled, letting just a little nervousness slip through the polish.
“Enough to know the difference between a lucky shot and a playmaker.”
For the first time since I'd studied his moves, his mouth curved into something real. Not the polite smiles I’d seen him flash at teammates and executives. Interest. “Most people only notice the puck hitting the net,” he said, lifting his glass and watching me over the rim.
"Maybe," I allowed.
“Clearly not you,” he replied, accent clipping the words, and sounding vaguely bored. I might’ve been guilty of overplaying my hand, but I knew fuck all about hockey,just how to fake my way through most things. He signaled the bartender. “Whiskey, neat.”
“Make it two,” I said before thinking.
He arched an eyebrow; I backed off. “Sorry—shouldn’t assume.”
He smiled thinly. “It’s fine. It’s free anyway. I don’t think we’ve met. I haven’t seen you before.”
I felt the lie take shape. “Sort of. I handle…promotional events. First time at one of these celebrations. To be honest, I’m a little out of my league.”
He lifted his glass without drinking. “We’re all out of our league somewhere. What’s your name?”
“Phoenix.” I clinked my glass against his. “To spectacular matches.”
He let a ghost of a smile flicker. “Cole. To getting through the night.”
We drank. I felt the spark of something unplanned. His loneliness was magnetic. “You must have people at home proud of you,” I ventured. “Star player, crossing an ocean…” It would sound completely implausible I didn't know who he was.
He scowled at his glass. “Something like that.”
“Not the supportive type?”
He paused. “They have specific ideas of how success should look—and how to achieve it.”
I nodded. “The kind who love the result but hate the way the person delivers?”
He met my gaze. “Surprisingly accurate.”
In that moment our masks dropped. I knew I was reeling him in, and I wasn’t sure how that made me feel. Then I remembered I’d been lucky to get a bed at a shelter last night, and the alternatives if I didn’t even get that. “I’ve known that type,” I said quietly. “They’re never satisfied, no matter what you do.”
He studied me. “You sound like you speak from experience.”
I let a half-truth slip. “My family had expectations, too. None involved me being…me.”
He glanced toward the entrance. A tall man with silver-streaked hair argued with security—his accent sharp, refined. Cole’s posture stiffened. “Fuck.He wasn’t supposed to be here.”
