He laughs, a mocking sound. “You his bodyguard now?”
“Yes,” I reply flatly.
He shoves me, testing my resolve.
I shove back harder. The ref intervenes, barking warnings that echo in the chaos. I skate away, pulse steady, jaw clenched tight. On the bench, Aleks leans closer, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’re on fire tonight.”
“I’m just efficient,” I reply, my tone flat.
“Right,” he says, skepticism dripping from his words. “That’s definitely what this is.”
Midway through the period, I find myself in the penalty box for interference. It’s a call I saw coming the moment I committed to the hit, but I did it anyway. No point in arguing. I glide to the box, settle onto the hard seat, resting my elbows on my knees while I fix my gaze on the ice.
The crowd erupts in boos, a wave of sound that crashes over me, and I let it wash over me, the noise a familiar backdrop.
Inside the box, the din dulls, but the buzzing under my skin sharpens instead of fading. It’s irritation, not anger—an incessant hum that refuses to quiet.
We kill the penalty. Deacon makes a save that’s more flair than necessity, and I can’t help but smirk at the show he puts on.
Back on the ice, I play with more weight. Not sloppily,there’s a difference. I block shots with purpose, lean into passing lanes like a wall, and clear the crease with a force that commands attention. The Gators react in kind, their frustration simmering as the game edges toward a boiling point. Third period. Tie game. This is where I typically become precise, surgical even. Tonight, however, I’m all blunt force.
I step into a winger at the blue line, making solid contact that echoes in the arena. The crowd erupts again, a cacophony of cheers and jeers mixing in the air. I don’t glance at the replay; I don’t need to,I was there.
Aleks skates past, shaking his head. “You’re gonna make them hate you.”
“I’m fine with that,” I reply, a hint of a smile tugging at my lips.
“You’re gonna wear yourself out.”
“Also fine,” I shoot back, adrenaline surging.
As the period wears on, we take the lead; Leo Stone thrives in hostile environments, and the atmosphere is thick with tension. The Gators pull their goalie, and everything compresses—the stakes rising with each tick of the clock.He scores.
I block another shot, the impact jolting through my shin like a live wire. I ignore the pain. They dump it in, and I retrieve the puck under pressure, bracing myself for the hit. I absorb it, keep my feet moving, and instead of opting for the safe rim, I charge through neutral ice, daring anyone to challenge me.
Someone does, and it ends poorly for them. I dump the puck deep into their zone, peel back, and the final seconds bleed away in a chaotic blur of bodies and noise.
The horn sounds right after Smith gets one in. Win.
I stand there for a moment, chest heaving, stick planted against the ice, feeling the aftershocks of a game played just outside my usual rhythm.
Aleks nudges my shoulder. “You were a menace.”
“Effective,” I correct him, a satisfied smirk creeping across my face.
Deacon thumps my back. “You can’t do that every night.”
“I won’t,” I assure him, and I mean it.Probably.
The game is over.
The win is logged, the tape will be reviewed, the bruises will bloom where they always do. Normally, this is the part where we move. Shower, load, board the redeye, pretend sleep is a real thing that exists on planes.
Tonight, we don’t move. The weather has other plans.
Thunderstorms roll in fast and unapologetic, the kind Florida does best. Airport delays stacked on top of each other. The call comes down while I’m halfway through unlacing my skates.
No flight out tonight. Earliest option is early morning.
