Page 119 of Broken Blades

I became what I'd always been on the ice: The Bounty Hunter. Not the man who held her hair back while she was sick. Not the man who'd kissed her in the parking lot with cameras flashing. Not the man who'd felt his world tilt when she'd pressed her lips to his cheek in the kitchen.

This version? Pure brutality. Earned over years of punishment and pain.

The opposing center tried to push through our defensive line. I caught him mid-stride, shoulder driving into his chest, crushing him against the boards with enough force to shake the glass. The impact reverberated through my bones, through the arena, through everything.

The crowd roared.

I skated away without looking back.

"Nice hit, old man!" Ryker shouted, grinning as he glided past.

I grunted, eyes already tracking the next play.

Second period, their left wing—kid with too much confidence and not enough sense—skated close during a faceoff. His voice was low enough the refs wouldn't hear.

"Heard your little college girlfriend's real sweet. Bet she doesn't know what she's gotten into."

My blood went cold. Then hot.

I didn't respond. Didn't acknowledge. Just filed it away.

Three minutes later, the puck came loose near center ice. The kid went for it.

So did I.

I hit him clean—perfectly legal, perfectly timed—but with every ounce of controlled violence I'd been storing. He went down hard, skidding across the ice like a rag doll.

The whistle blew, but no penalty. Clean check.

I skated away without even glancing at him sprawled on the ice, gasping.

Don't talk about what's mine.

The thought hit before I could stop it, dangerous and possessive and absolutely unwanted.

She wasn't mine. Couldn't be mine. This whole thing was performance, leverage, revenge. Except it didn't feel like any of those things when her face flashed through my mind.

Third period. Game tied. Thirty seconds left.

The puck deflected off a defender's stick, spinning loose near the blue line. I caught it, pivoted, and saw the opening—narrow, closing fast, defended by their goalie who'd been playing lights-out all night.

I wound up for the slapshot. The impact of stick meeting puck cracked through the arena like thunder. The rubber disc flew—a black blur that looked like it could shatter bone—and punched past the goalie's glove into the top corner of the net.

Goal.

The arena exploded.

Sound crashed over me—horns, screams, music, my teammates swarming. Ryker crashed into me first, followed by Jared, both of them shouting something I couldn't hear over the roar.

I lifted my stick, automatic response drilled into muscle memory after hundreds of goals over the years.

But my eyes weren't on my teammates.

They weren't on the crowd.

They tracked instinctively—dangerously—toward the VIP suite.

And there she was.