More blades hit the ice.
I didn’t have to turn. I could feel the shift—like a pressure drop before a storm.
Andrew Crown.
Defenseman. Ghost. Living shadow in black tape and bruises.
The guy moved like death in slow motion—precise, cold, unbothered. Permanent bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in years.
He didn’t speak unless something needed to die or get done.
Tonight? He skated past me, glancing once at the fresh cut splitting across my knuckles.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat and unimpressed. “Either stop skating, or bleed faster.”
I nodded once.
That was it. That was our language.
Then I heard it—louder, sharper. That chaotic stomp that meant trouble was coming.
Axel Ryder.
No helmet. Scar across his jaw. Wild eyes and a grin that never quite reached sanity.
He skated in like a wrecking ball with no brakes.
Didn’t warm up. Didn’t stretch. Just tore across the ice like he was looking for someone to hurt.
He spotted me immediately.
“You look like hell, Maddox.” That sick, crooked grin spread wide. “Need me to carve someone up for you?”
I growled low, not breaking stride. “Stand in line.”
He barked out a laugh and skated ahead—probably to slam into the first unlucky soul dumb enough to be standing upright.
Ryder didn’t need a reason to hit.
He just needed permission.
And sometimes not even that.
More footsteps.
More blades cutting into the ice.
Greyson Williams skated in like he owned the fucking league.
Perfect flow. No helmet. White grin full of teeth and trouble.
He didn’t practice. He performed.
Flashy. Fast. Dangerous in that way only the cocky bastards were—because he could back every word up.
He circled once, loose and lazy, before zeroing in on me like a goddamn heat-seeking missile.
“You’ve got that look again,” he said, flicking his stick toward me. “Like you tasted something you weren’t supposed to.”
