As the puck dropped again, everything inside me snapped into razor-sharp focus. Every stride I took had purpose. Every hit I landed came with precision. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just clean, brutal hockey.
Because this wasn’t just about points on the board anymore. This was personal.
Her belief in me—her being here—it bled into my game, sharpening every edge until I was skating like a man possessed. Every shift, every collision, I left pieces of myself on that ice. Not for the crowd. Not for the highlight reel. For her.
Every time I rounded that side of the rink and caught a glimpse of her? It hit like a jolt of pure electricity. I saw it in her face—that awe, that wonder, like I was something more than I’d ever been told I could be. And hell if I wasn’t going to live up to that.
So when Riggs came at me again—shoulders hunched, mouth twisted with the kind of fury that came from being humiliated—I didn’t flinch. He was telegraphing every movement like a rookie, driven by bruised pride instead of strategy.
I waited. Timed it down to the second.
Then stepped out of his path at the last second and gave him a hard shove—just enough to redirect his rage straight into Dominic, who’d been lurking like a lion near the boards. The impact was bone-rattling. Riggs and Dominic went flying into the bench, chaos exploding around them.
I skated off calm and controlled while our bench roared, and the puck stayed with us.
The air in the arena thrummed like it had a pulse, every beat synced with the pounding in my chest. Tie game. Final minutes. The kind of pressure that either broke you or forged you into something unforgettable. My lungs burned, legs on fire, but adrenaline didn’t let me feel a thing. I wasn’t tired. I was wired.
When the whistle blew for a timeout, I coasted over to the glass where I knew she’d be. Kennedy. Eyes locked on me like I was the only thing anchoring her to the moment. I tipped my helmet back just enough to take a swig from my water bottle, then turned and met her gaze full on.
One look. That was all it took.
I gave her a grin and a glance that said later. Later, when we weren’t wrapped in blood and ice and rivalry. Later, when I could make good on every promise simmering beneath my skin.
Her cheeks flushed instantly—bright, red, and fuck-me beautiful. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, but it lit something in me. Set me on fire in a way the game never could.
Grayson flew past me toward the bench, snorting. “You two are disgusting,” he tossed over his shoulder with a laugh that sounded half bitter, half amused.
I didn’t answer. My answer was the way I slammed my visor back down and pushed off, rejoining the boys on the ice.
The crowd roared. The whole damn building shook with it.
This was it—the final stretch. We were back on the ice, the puck dropping like a grenade between us and the Scourge. They came in hot, throwing hits and shoulders like they wanted blood.
Every stride I took was calculated. Every check, every pivot, every pass—surgical precision mixed with pure instinct. My stick was an extension of my will, and my will was fucking relentless.
Five minutes left.
I spotted Riggs lurking, head down, charging like a man who still thought he had something to prove. I wasn’t going to just beat him—I was going to bury him in regret.
Luke sent the puck slicing through defenders and straight toward me. It kissed the ice, skimming low and fast. I caught it clean, my blade hugging it like a secret.
Everything else disappeared.
Crowd, noise, weight of the moment—it all faded.
It was just me. Me and the net. Me and the silence before the storm.
I weaved left—bait. Swerved right—slip past. Cut across the crease. The goalie braced, low and wide, glove twitching.
I snapped the shot off my stick.
And time restarted.
The puck rocketed through the air, kissed the top corner of the net, and hit twine with a crack like thunder splitting the sky.
GOAL.
The crowd detonated.
