Rebound. Chaos.
Bodies everywhere. Someone shouted my name.
I threw myself across the crease, sprawled, glove open.Thwack.Caught it again. Held it.
Whistle.
The roar was deafening.
I stayed down, breathing hard, glove still raised in disbelief. Mason was the first to reach me, pounding my helmet. Tucker tackled both of us in a heap.
When the buzzer finally went, the ice became a blur of blue jerseys, helmets flying, sticks tossed aside.
We’d won.
The Surge were going to the finals.
By the time the noise started to fade, I was shaking hands with Dallas players, their stick taps hard and grudging. My heart was still somewhere up in my throat. When I finally skated off, the tunnel lights felt blinding. Every cheer, every camera flash, was a rush straight to the chest.
And then I saw her.
Holly, just past the barrier, hair loose, eyes bright. She was beaming, hands clasped together like she couldn’t hold herself still.
For half a second, the world felt perfect again.
Then reality slammed back in.
My family.
In the stands.
Because ofher.
My stomach churned. I was supposed to be flying high with the rest of my guys but I couldn’t get past the betrayal. I trusted her, and she used that against me.
She stepped forward, voice lost in the roar, mouth forming my name.
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t even look.
I just kept walking, pads creaking, jaw locked so tight it ached.
31
Holly
The launch was everything the invitation promised: Loud, glossy, and crawling with the kind of people who treated free champagne like a blood type.
The ballroom at the Carlton shimmered. Gold light spilled from the chandeliers, catching on crystal glasses and sequined dresses. Branded banners lined the back wall—SURGE x LUXE SPORTSWEAR—the team’s new sponsorship deal being unveiled with all the subtlety of a Vegas show. Cameras were everywhere, a low buzz of shutter clicks and laughter threading through the music.
I adjusted my press badge and smoothed the lapel of my black blazer. I’d traded my usual pencil skirt for a sleek jumpsuit that actually let me breathe, heels that looked painful but weren’t (much), and a soft gold necklace that felt like borrowed confidence.
The players cleaned up almost unrecognizably well. Mason had ditched his backwards cap for an actual tie. Grayson wore charcoal with an open collar, already half-surrounded by reporters. Hunter—God help me—was across the room in a dark suit that fit too well, hair slicked back but still slightly messy, talking with a group of sponsors near the bar. He looked relaxed. Controlled. A little distant.
Our eyes almost met. Almost.
Then someone laughed near him, and his focus shifted away.
