Chapter thirty-four
You’ll be the safest place in the world
Reid
The Lightning are pressing, and the crowd is roaring behind them like it’ll make a difference.
I lock in. One breath, glance at the puck, the traffic, and the play unfolding like a roll of static. My body knows before my brain does.
Snapshot, top of the slot. I stretch glove-side and snag it mid-air.
The puck lands with a satisfying thud in the webbing, and the crowd groans. I don’t react, just hold it for the whistle, then hand it to the ref.
They’re desperate now. Cross-checking and slamming into boards. Chase takes a hit that makes Viktor chirp in Swedish as he hauls the guy off him.
Logan slashes back and earns a whistle. Idiot.
There’s a faceoff in the left circle, and I adjust my stance and blink the sweat from my lashes.
The puck drops, sticks clack loudly, and the shot comes hard and low—just enough bounce to make it messy.
I block it with the inside of my pad, drop to smother the rebound, and feel the weight of two bodies crash into the net behind me.
The whistle blows, but someone’s still leaning on me. A stick digs into the back of my ribs. Not enough to injure, but enough to test me. I keep the puck covered, but the stick comes down again, and something in me shifts.
I rise slower than I feel and shove the forward off me with both hands, but when he takes one more lazy jab at my glove, I don’t shove this time. I swing.
It’s a clean, sharp punch that catches him high on the shoulder and sends him stumbling back into the crease he just tried to claim.
The arena immediately changes pitch because Goalies don’t usually get involved. But this guy’s an asshole, and he’s pushing it.
Chase is on him immediately, followed by Logan barreling in. Viktor’s gloves are off, and he’s got someone else by the collar.
My eyes catch across the ice to where their goalie is already moving. He’s coming straight for me, pads chewing up the distance, mask still on but chin tucked like he’s made a decision.
I stare right back at him and let my blocker drop first. Then the glove. They hit the ice heavily between us as the arena explodes.
The ref’s shouting something, but it doesn’t matter. I’m being challenged, and I’m fucking ready.
He reaches center just as I push my mask up and off, letting it fall behind me near the blue paint.
We grab at the same time—jerseys fisted high on our chests, blades carving small, angry half-moons in the ice.
He throws first, but it glances off my shoulder, and then I answer.
The fight isn’t graceful; pads make everything awkward. We tug and spin, our skates slipping as we try to anchor and land something clean. He yanks at my collar, but I drive forward, forcing him back a stride. The crowd is on its feet now, roaring like it’s blood they paid for.
He tries to pull me off balance, but I hold.
For a second, everything narrows. The noise, the lights, the weight of the season. My injury. Carina and her job and the baby. Harry.
All of it funnels into the grip of my hands and the sharp burn in my lungs.
My fist lands clean against the side of his head, snapping him sideways. The padding makes everything clumsy, but I’m stronger and angrier.
The crowd is losing its mind.
He tries to anchor and throw again, but I roll my shoulder and land another, this one square to his chest, knocking the wind from him. I feel it in the way his weight shifts.
