“Okay, so. We have a problem.”
I don’t look up from my textbook. “I’m aware.”
“No, a different problem,” she says. “It’s Friday night. We are not going to sit in our rooms and let Captain Creepshow win by making us miserable. So, we are going to do a normal college activity. We are going to the hockey game.”
I finally look up, my expression flat. “Absolutely not. There is no reality in which I voluntarily go to watch that man play a game.”
“Think of it as reconnaissance,” she argues, her eyes pleading. “You said you wanted to study him, right? See him in his natural habitat: the jungle, the savanna, the ice rink… whatever. See what makes him tick. Plus, all our friends are going. It will be weird if we aren’t there.”
I hate that she’s right. Hiding from him is letting him win. I plan to watch him, to find a weakness. Seeing him in his element, where he’s lauded and worshipped, might be the most critical intelligence I can gather. The thought sparks a flicker of that defiant energy, a desperate grab for control over this chaotic situation.
“Fine,” I say, the word like a stone in my mouth. “But the second I want to leave, we leave.”
“Deal,” she says, a triumphant grin spreading across her face.
Hours later I’m sitting in the stands of the Northwood arena, a sea of green and white around me. The air is cold enough to see my breath, and the roar of the crowd is a physical force. It’s loud, chaotic, and my senses are already overloading. Every cheer, every whistle, every scrape of skates on ice feels magnified, assaulting my ears.
The players skate onto the ice for warm-ups in a blur of green. They’re in full gear; helmets, shoulder pads, bulky hockey pants, making them seem larger than life. Most of them are a chaotic swarm, firing pucks at the net, laughing, and bumping into each other.
My eyes, however, find him instantly. He’s number 19. He’s not part of the swarm. He’s off to the side carving long, deep, silent lines into the fresh ice. While the others are all explosive energy, he is all fluid power. There’s a coiled intensity in his movements. Every crossover is perfect, every turn sharp and effortless. The bulky gear doesn’t make him look clumsy; it makes him look formidable, like a predator in its armor. He skates with a predatory grace that is both beautiful and terrifying.
My mind, the one that knows he’s a monster, is screaming in protest. But my body, my stupid, traitorous body is reacting on a primal level that I can’t control. A low, unwanted hum starts deep in my belly. It’s a reaction to the raw, masculine power he’s displaying, the absolute command he has over his body and the ice. It’s infuriating. It’s another violation, him reaching into my own biology and getting a response without even knowing I’m here. The shame of this unwanted reaction threatens to pull me down into a dark, self-loathing spiral.
The game starts, and the violence is immediate. It’s a blur of motion, of bodies slamming against the boards and the sharp crack of sticks hitting the puck. And in the middle of it all isWest. He’s not just playing; he’s commanding. That fluid grace from the warm-ups is now transformed into brutal efficiency.
Early in the first period, he scores. It’s not a goal of finesse; it’s one of pure, brute force. He takes a pass just inside the blue line, winds up, and unleashes a cannon blast of a slap shot. The puck is a black blur that screams past the goalie’s ear and slams into the back of the net with a deafening crack. The crowd erupts. I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the ice. I’m watching the same controlled aggression he uses on me but out here, it’s celebrated. It’s worshipped.
His second goal comes midway through the second period. This one is different. It’s quiet, intelligent, and far more terrifying. He intercepts a pass at center ice, creating a two-on-one breakaway. The defender sprawls to block the pass, so West doesn’t pass. He holds the puck, skates directly at the goalie and with a subtle, almost imperceptible feint of his shoulders, he makes the goalie commit. The goalie drops, expecting a shot and West simply glides around him, tucking the puck into the empty net with an air of casual disdain. It’s a predator toying with its prey. My stomach twists. He’s not just a jock. He’s a genius, and his intelligence is as potent a weapon as his strength.
The game is tied late in the third, and the tension in the arena is palpable. The clock is ticking down. West takes control of the puck in his own zone. He moves up the ice with that predatory grace, a fluid, unstoppable force. He weaves through one defender, then another. The world seems to narrow to him, the puck, and the net. He fakes a shot, drawing the last defender out of position and with a flick of his wrists, sends the puck flying into the top corner of the net.
Goal.
The arena explodes. The horn blares, a deafening, triumphant scream. It’s a hat trick.
A cascade of dark fabric begins to rain down from the stands as fans throw their hats onto the ice in tribute. It’s a chaotic, almost biblical scene. And in the center of it all West glides to a stop, his teammates mobbing him. He’s a king on his throne of ice, the adulation of thousands washing over him.
But he isn’t looking at his teammates, he isn’t looking at the hats littering the ice. He shrugs off the pats on his helmet and slowly turns, pulling it off; his dark, damp hair clings to his forehead. For a sickening moment, stripped of his helmet, he’s not just a player. He’s a portrait of infuriating perfection. A strong, sharp jawline that could cut glass. High cheekbones slick with sweat. A mouth that, even in a neutral line, looks both cruel and beautiful. It’s the kind of face ancient sculptors would try to replicate, a mask of masculine beauty that makes the monster beneath it all the more terrifying. His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, scan the crowd.
It’s not a general sweep. It’s a search. My breath catches in my throat. It feels like the world narrows, the roar of the crowd fading to a dull hum. His gaze passes over section after section, and then it stops.
It lands directly on me.
I’m one person in a crowd of thousands, but he sees me. He’s not celebrating his victory with his team, he’s claiming it with me. There’s no smirk, no nod. Just a look of cold, possessive acknowledgment. A look that says,All of this. All this power, all this glory. It’s for you to see. This is who I am, and you are mine to watch.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I feel exposed, pinned by his stare.
“Holy shit, Kins,” Chloe whispers beside me, her voice a mix of awe and confusion. “I think he’s into you. That look… that was not for the general public.”
Her words are like a splash of icy water, a shock that is somehow worse than his stare. She doesn’t see it. She sees a crush. I see a predator. And the fact that she can’t tell the difference, that she interprets his predatory claim as romantic interest, makes my blood run cold. No one will ever believe me. I am completely and utterly alone in this.
The panic, which had been a claw in my gut, now threatens to swallow me whole. But then, a different kind of fire ignites. Not fear, but a cold, stern defiance. He wants me to run, he wants to see me flee. But I am not prey. Not anymore.
I meet his gaze across the arena, my chin lifting fractionally. My heart is still pounding, but it's not from terror. It's from the sheer audacity of this man, and the equally audacious surge of my own will. He wants me to watch him. Fine, I'll watch. But I won't break.
I hold his gaze until he finally, slowly lowers his helmet back into place. The moment breaks. The crowd surges forward, and his teammates engulf him, pulling him off the ice for the final, triumphant handshakes. The players are already heading back to the locker rooms, their victory secured.
“Kins, what was that?” Chloe asks, her voice a mix of awe and bewilderment. “You just had a staring contest with West Monroe after he scored a hat trick.”
