I flew across the ice during warmups, veering a little too close to a Scourge winger and letting my shoulder clip his on the way by. He stumbled. Let them see what kind of night this was going to be. Let them try to leash me. They’d fail.
Because I was going to win.
For her.
And then I was going to take her home, flip that jersey up over her hips, and show her exactly what it meant to wear my name.
The warmups were a blur of motion and muscle—blades carving lines into fresh ice, the echo of pucks slamming against boards and glass. I skated hard, no coasting, no showboating—just repetition and rhythm. Stickhandling drills, one-timers, controlled bursts off the line. My breath came fast, but steady. Focused.
Across the rink, Drew rifled shots into the top shelf like he had something to prove. Rhys stayed low, eyes sharp, running drills like they were battlefield formations. Axyl chirped at Luke for missing the net, and Luke flipped him off without breaking stride. Classic.
I kept my head down, pushing through crossovers, sharp turns, pivots. Every pass I made hit tape. Every slapshot cracked like thunder. The Scourge watched from their side, pretending not to care—but I saw it. They were clocking us. Clocking me.
Good.
By the time the horn blared for final prep, I was loose, dialed in, and humming with adrenaline. No distractions. No doubts. Just the game ahead—and the promise of blood on ice.
The puck dropped, and everything else disappeared.
No crowd. No noise. Just me and Riggs—Scourge center, known for cheap shots and broken noses. He stared me down like he had something to prove. Bad move.
I crouched low, muscles coiled, stick poised. The second that puck hit the ice, I lunged—cut under his blade and yanked it free. Clean. Fast. Mine.
Cheers exploded around us, but I didn’t hear them. I was already flying up the boards, carving through the neutral zone like the ice belonged to me. Skates biting, adrenaline burning, pulse steady.
Riggs’ D-men rushed to intercept, closing in. I dropped my shoulder, faked left, then cut hard right, body curling around the puck like a shield. One tried to sandwich me against the glass—I let him. Absorbed the hit, shoved off his momentum, and kept pushing. He stumbled. I didn’t.
Riggs came barreling back, pissed now. I saw it in his eyes—he wasn’t after the puck anymore. He wanted blood. Mine.
Too bad.
He lunged. I sidestepped just enough to redirect his weight, then shoved him into the boards so hard the plexi shook. The crack of his body hitting glass snapped through the arena like a gunshot. Gasps followed—momentary silence, that beat of collective shock.
I didn’t flinch.
I turned back into the play just as Luke streaked up the wing. Scourge scrambled to recover, but they were already too late. I read the pass coming, jumped the lane, and intercepted it before it could land on their forward’s stick.
“Luke!” I barked, snapping the puck toward him with pinpoint aim.
He caught it, weaved through two defenders like a ghost, and I chased—breath even, blade to ice, ready. Luke curved around their last man and fed the puck back to me, clean and fast, right at the top of the crease.
No thinking. No doubt.
I ripped it.
Top shelf. Glove side. The net rippled as the horn screamed.
The bench exploded. My team surrounded me, fists pounding my back, war cries echoing around the rink—but all I saw was the flash of movement above. Her.
Kennedy.
Hands clasped over her mouth, eyes shining. Lit up like I’d given her the whole damn world.
And maybe I had. Or maybe she was the world now.
Either way, I wasn’t stopping.
Not for the Scourge. Not for the refs. Not until she wore that jersey home again—and I got to tear it off with my teeth.
