I stop dead on my skates, snow spraying up around me, and turn toward the glass. I find her instantly. Zoë is on her feet, hands gripping the railing, eyes wide and locked on mine. The noise of eighteen thousand people fades into nothing but background static.
I lift my stick, pointing the blade directly at her. Contract fulfilled.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across her face. She gives a single nod—sharp, decisive.
I skate toward the bench, my teammates swarming me, gloves in my face, helmets knocking against mine. They’re screaming, hauling me into a hug, but my eyes stay on the glass. On her.
I scored the goal. She’s the one who owns the ice.
The final buzzer hits like a physical blow, sharp and absolute. Zero on the clock. We’re going to the Championship.
Ice erupts beneath my skates. Sticks are thrown, gloves go flying, and I’m buried under two hundred pounds of muscle and pads as Dante and Cole tackle me from behind. We hit the surface hard, a tangle of limbs and sweat, the dog pile suffocating and perfect.
The air turns thin, reeking of rubber and exertion, but the noise is deafening—a roar that shakes the rafters. I shove Cole off, gasping for air, and scramble to my knees. My chest is heaving, my legs burning, but I feel light. Unburdened.
My eyes squint against the blinding arena lights as I look up, searching the stands. I find her in the same spot. Zoë stands rigid now, hands gripping the railing so hard her knuckles are white.
Her stare cuts through the chaos like a laser.
I lift a glove, tapping my chest over my heart.
She answers with one nod. Just once.
The media swarm is already gathering at the bench, a pack of vultures with microphones and cameras, hungry for a headline. They’re after the scandal. The fallout. The story of how the disowned heir feels about winning without the name.
I push to my feet, skating toward the bench, but I hop over the boards, ignoring the shouted questions, and head straight for the tunnel.
I have a debt to collect.
The hallway is cramped, the air thick with the smell of sweat and ozone, but I don’t stop until I hit the security barrier. Zoë is already there, waiting. She’s pushed past the line of fans, bypassing the VIP protocol, standing near the tunnel exit with her coat unbuttoned, looking like she’s ready to tear the place apart.
I step through the gate, and the reporters surge forward, a wall of noise and lenses.
“Gio! Gio! Is it true your father cut you off?”
“How does it feel to win without the family money?”
“Any comment on the lawsuit?”
I walk straight to Zoë. She plants her feet, assessing the threat level of the press pack like she’s calculating a blast radius.
I reach out, grabbing her hand. Her fingers are cold, grip firm.
“You’re done,” she says, her voice cutting cleanly through the shouts.
“Not ye t.”
I turn, pulling her with me, stepping right into the teeth of the swarm. A microphone shoves into my face, the reporter desperate, eyes wide.
“Gio, tell us about the trust fund. Are you broke?”
I stop. I look at the camera, then at the guy holding the mic.
“The truth is out there,” I say, my voice steady, carrying over the noise. “Read it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to celebrate with my girl.”
I pull Zoë in, wrapping my arm around her waist, and kiss her. I claim her mouth right there in front of the flashing lights, tasting her, letting the world see exactly who I belong to.
She stiffens for a fraction of a second, then melts into it, her hand fisting in the front of my jersey, pulling me closer. The shutters click like machine gun fire.
