I didn’t answer.
I snapped my stick in half. Clean. One motion.
It clattered across the ice like a warning shot.
Greyson just grinned wider, unbothered.
Fucker loved the chaos.
He skated off, whistling.
Then the air changed.
No footsteps. Just presence.
Everett Parker.
Defenseman. Ice-cold and methodical.
He didn’t enter the rink—he arrived. Quiet. Purposeful. Always watching.
He didn’t say a word.
Just came up beside me and skated in sync—like we were built from the same machine.
We didn’t need words. We never did.
But tonight?
Tonight, he broke the silence.
“Someone's got you bothered,” he murmured.
Simple. No fluff. Just a statement.
I clenched my jaw so hard I tasted blood.
Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because if I spoke now, I’d scream.
Wyatt Hudson skated in dead last. Shorter than the rest of us, leaner, tighter-built—but every ounce of him was lethal. Hair military-short. Jersey clean. Eyes sharp enough to cut bone.
Precision incarnate.
He didn’t bother with warm-ups or trash talk. He slid in beside me like a scalpel slipping under skin.
“You’re distracted,” he said simply, not even looking at me.
I kept my stare forward. Cold. Focused.
“I’m dialed in.”
Wyatt exhaled through his nose. One beat. Two.
“No.” He met my gaze, dead-on. Unshaken. “You’re fucked.”
Ackerman stepped onto the ice in full silence, like he’d been watching from the shadows the whole time. He lifted a single gloved hand and barked, “Cage match.”
