“No.”
The first period ended 3-0 Fury.
One goal from me with two assists. And enough hits that Coach looked ready to frame the game tape.
The second period somehow got worse.
Or better.
Depends who you asked.
Because now the other team was pissed.
Which meant I got real confident.
One of their forwards chirped something at me after a whistle, and I barely even heard it before shoving him backward hard enough he nearly ate ice. The crowd roared instantly while refs separated us and Easton skated by grinning like a psychopath.
“There he is.”
“Shut up and score.”
“Working on it, captain.”
Five minutes later, he did exactly that.
The Furnace erupted again. Student section losing their minds. Briggs banging his stick against the boards screaming absolute nonsense. And every single time I looked toward the glass, Bliss was there. Just watching me like I was hers too.
That was the thing wrecking me most.
Not the sex. Not waking up in her bed. Not even finally hearing her admit she wanted me.
It was the trust.
The way she looked at me now like she believed I could hold every broken piece of her life without dropping any of it.
Late in the second period, I scored again, and this one wasn’t pretty hockey. It wasn’t finesse or patience or some clean textbook goal Coach could pause during film review and call beautiful.
It was violence.
The turnover happened fast. Briggs buried one of their forwards against the boards hard enough the glass shook beside the Fury bench, and the puck kicked loose into open ice before their defense could react. The second I saw it sliding toward center, instinct took over completely.
I exploded forward.
The Furnace roared immediately because twenty thousand people knew exactly what a Cade Mercer breakaway looked like before it even fully developed. The sound followed me down the ice in one massive rising wave while my skates carved hard into the frozen surface, spraying ice behind me as I accelerated through center with everything I had left in my legs.
One defender lunged to cut me off near the blue line.
Too slow.
I dropped my shoulder and blew past him hard enough he nearly lost an edge trying to pivot with me, his stick clipping uselessly against the air behind my hip while I drove deeper into the zone. The crowd was already on its feet now. I could feel it more than hear it. The energy in the building swelled violently around me while the goalie came out aggressive at the top of the crease trying to challenge the angle.
Wrong move.
My hands moved automatically, fast enough the puck looked glued to my blade while I shifted left just enough to force the goalie to bite. He dropped early, tracking low side, and the second his weight committed, I snapped back right and ripped the shot top shelf with every ounce of force still sitting in my body.
The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net cracked through the arena like a gunshot.
The goal light exploded red behind the glass.
