Page 109 of Broken Blades

"Barbara. She came straight to Isla about it. Wanted a psych eval on your 'little girlfriend's reckless attachment.'"

I nearly crushed the water bottle in my fist.

Nikolai "Russian Reaper" Volkov glided over silently, all cold menace and thinly veiled amusement. The man moved like death on skates. "Chastity is good girl. Soft. Innocent."

Every muscle in my body locked. "How the hell do you know that?"

Nikolai shrugged, unbothered by the threat in my voice. "Mina showed me photos online. Mina says she is sweet."

My eyebrow twitched. "Tell Mina to stop looking at her."

Nikolai's smirk widened. "Ah. Possessive."

I almost swung my stick at him.

Ryker, hearing this from across the ice, shouted loud enough for half the team to hear, "HE'S IN LOVE!"

I was going to kill all three of them.

But the problem—the real, unavoidable problem—was that they weren't wrong.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. The way she'd looked at me this morning, vulnerable and trusting despite everything. The way she'd defended me to Barbara without knowing the full story. The way she fit against me when I carried her out of the bar. The way she was getting under my skin in ways I couldn't control.

This was supposed to be revenge. Clean. Simple. Devastating.

Instead, it was becoming something else entirely.

Something that scared me more than any hit I'd ever taken on the ice.

Practice shifted into full scrimmage, and I moved into my element.

Defense was warfare. Every shift, every hit, every stride—calculated violence wrapped in control.

I read the play before it developed. Rookie winger tried to cut inside—I angled him into the boards so hard his mouthguard flew out. Clean. Legal. Devastating.

Jared had the puck, weaving through traffic with that infuriating Southern grace. I tracked him like a predator, waited for the exact moment he committed to the pass—and stripped the puck clean off his stick. His curse echoed through the arena.

"Christ, Garrison!"

I didn't respond. I was already moving, scanning ice, finding Nikolai streaking up the wing. Saucer pass over two sticks—landed perfectly on his tape.

Ryker grinned from the blue line. "Still got it, old man."

"Never lost it."

Next shift, their second line came hard. Three-on-two rush. I dropped back, forced the play wide, cut off the passing lane. The center tried to deke—I poke-checked the puck away and immediately transitioned into offense, sending a breakout pass that hit Ryker in stride.

Goal.

The assistant coach blew his whistle. "That's how you play position, gentlemen! Garrison makes it look easy because he's been doing it for sixteen goddamn years."

I skated back to the bench, breath controlled, muscles warm and loose. This was home. This made sense. No complications. No emotions. Just ice, puck, physics, and pain.

The coach's whistle cut sharp through the arena. "That's it! Hit the showers!"

Skates carved final lines across fresh ice. Bodies peeled off in groups of two and three, sweat-soaked and loose-limbed. The rink emptied in waves—rookies first, always eager to escape scrutiny, then the veterans who moved slower, bones protesting years of accumulated damage.

I stayed longer than necessary. Let the cold air work through my jersey, felt the familiar ache settle into my knees, my shoulders, the old fracture in my wrist that never quite healed right.