Cade
By the time I hit the ice, I’ve already run through twelve different ways to ruin Luke Dempsey’s life and rejected eleven of them for being too fast.
That is the problem.
Fast feels good. Fast is easy. Fast is what my hands want when I see that bruise on Bliss’s neck every time I blink, blue and purple against skin that never should’ve known his grip. Fast is driving to whatever house Glory Days crawled back into last night, putting him through drywall, and letting the consequences sort themselves out after.
But fast doesn’t protect her.
Fast gives him a story. Fast gives him leverage. Fast makes him the victim if he’s smart enough to bleed in front of the right people.
And everything Bliss told me last night made one thing very clear: Luke Dempsey is smart enough to bleed with an audience.
So, I skate.
I skate until the blades feel like extensions of my bones and the cold air cuts the heat out of my lungs. The rink is mostly empty this early except for the team and coaching staff, the overhead lights throwing hard white glare across fresh ice while pucks scatter black against the boards. Five days until the season opener. Five days until Fury hockey stops being preseason noise and becomes the thing every person in this town watches like religion.
Normally, that thought centers me.
Today, it barely gets through.
I take the first passing drill harder than I need to, snapping the puck tape-to-tape with enough bite that Rider lifts his brows when he catches it.
“Morning to you too, psycho,” he calls, skating backward.
“Move your feet, Rider.”
“I am moving my feet. You’re just having a villain origin story before seven.”
Briggs glides past us with a puck on his stick and his usual lack of concern for personal safety. “Technically, this is his third villain origin story this semester. We need a punch card.”
Easton cuts across the blue line, smooth as hell and annoyingly controlled, because Wade plays like he was born with edges under his feet. “Five villain origins gets you a free felony.”
“See?” Briggs points his stick at him. “This is why Aura likes you.”
Easton’s head snaps up so fast he almost misses the puck Rider sends him. “Aura doesn’t like me.”
“She tolerates you aggressively,” Rider says. “That’s basically foreplay for law students.”
Easton shoots the puck so hard it cracks off the boards behind the net.
“Sensitive,” Briggs mutters.
I should chirp back.
Usually I would. Usually I’d tell Easton he’s one ignored text away from writing Aura’s name in his notebook with hearts around it, tell Briggs his mouth is the reason our team needs insurance, and tell Rider to stop encouraging both of them before Decker gets annoyed enough to end the conversation with one sentence.
But the puck comes back to me, and I bury the shot top corner so hard the rookie goalie doesn’t move until it’s already in the net.
Silence hits for half a second.
Then Briggs whistles. “Cool. So we’re all dying today.”
Coach barks for us to reset, and I do.
Drill after drill. Breakout. Neutral-zone regroup. Two-on-one rushes. Battle work along the boards. I hit harder than I should during contact, not dirty, not reckless, but enough that Rider grunts when I pin him and Briggs mutters something about me needing a licensed exorcist.
The ice helped because it gave my rage structure. Lines to stay inside. Rules to obey. Whistles to stop me. Systems to follow. A place to put the violence where it could be useful instead of catastrophic.
