“He doesn’t get to do that anymore,” he says quietly.
“He already did,” I answer
“No,” he says.“Not anymore.”
His hand comes up carefully to my shoulder. He’s avoiding the place that still hurts, and the gentleness of the gesture makes the tears come harder instead of slower.
“I don’t want him anywhere near you,” he says.
Something in his voice changes when he says it. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something steadier than that.
“I want you safe,” he continues.
My throat tightens.
“I want you ok?” he says again, softer now.
And then, after a pause…
“I want to be the person who makes sure he never gets to hurt you like that again.”
I cry even harder now. No one has ever said something like that to me. Not like this, like it was a promise instead of a condition.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he adds quietly.
And for the first time since I came back to Chicago, I believe him completely.
So I step closer without thinking. And this time, when he wraps his arms around me, I don’t hesitate at all.
Chapter 19
Blake
There are rivalry games, and then there are nights like this one. A night where the air inside the arena feels heavier than usual. An event where every shift of the crowd carries a kind of anticipation that settles into your bones long before the puck ever touches the ice. One where you know, without anyone needing to say it out loud, that something personal is about to happen, whether you are ready for it or not.
I feel it the moment I step onto the ice for warm-ups.
Not in the noise. Not even in the tension rolling through the stands.
I feel it when Perth skates out from the opposite tunnel and doesn’t look anywhere else before looking directly at me.
And then he smiles.
Not the casual kind, players give each other across the rink before a game starts. Not the respectful kind you exchange with someone you’ve battled against for years. The other kind.
The kind that says he’s already decided how tonight is going to go. The kind that says he remembers the bar. The kind that says he remembers Lisa. The kind that says he still thinks he owns something he never actually earned.
Normally, rivalry noise fades once the game begins. It turns into something distant and rhythmic that disappears behind the speed of the ice and the instinct of movement. Tonight, however, the energy in the arena doesn’t fade at all; it sharpens instead, tightening around every shift as if the building itself is waiting to see who breaks first.
I don’t look up toward the stands during warm-ups. I don’t let myself. Because I know exactly where she’s sitting, and if I look at her before the game starts, I won’t stop looking.
The puck drops, and everything narrows the way it always does when the game actually begins. The crowd dissolves into background pressure while the ice becomes the only real place that exists. Every movement is faster and cleaner, every pass automatic, every decision already made before my brain catches up with it.
Zane is fast tonight.
Not just sharp.
Not just focused.
