Slash Me Savagely (The Blackwater Reaper Hockey #1)

3. Gemma

Chapter 3

Gemma

T he game had been a frenzy of noise and chaos. Bodies collided, blood sprayed, and the air thickened with the smell of sweat and something metallic. I stood near the exit, still processing what I’d just witnessed.

"Ready?" I asked, trying to shake off the adrenaline.

“Hell no,” Rob shot back, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. “As a season ticket holder, I get to meet the team after the game. And you get to take pictures for me.”

He pinched my cheek, that annoying gesture that made me feel five years old again.

I pulled away, rolling my eyes. Meeting the team? My stomach churned at the thought. The players loomed larger than life on the field, but up close? I wasn’t sure I wanted to see their smug grins or hear their loud laughter echoing in this echo chamber of brutality.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Rob nudged me with his elbow, his excitement infectious despite my reservations.

“Fun?” I shook my head. “You call watching those guys beat each other senseless fun?”

“It's not about that.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s about being part of something big! The energy! The camaraderie! You’ll see.”

I glanced around at the throng of fans pouring out of the arena, faces flushed with excitement or shock—some wore expressions like they’d just seen a horror movie. I shifted from foot to foot, feeling out of place in my oversized hoodie I put on after the game was over and the adrenaline wore off while everyone else seemed dressed for battle.

“They’re just people,” I said quietly, wishing to quell his enthusiasm without sounding like a wet blanket.

Rob scoffed. “Just people? Nah! They’re gladiators! Warriors!”

I bit my lip and surveyed the scene again. Blood-streaked uniforms crumpled on the ground where players had fallen. The aftermath hung heavy in the air like an unwelcome fog.

Rob practically bounced on his toes as we waited for the elevator. The doors slid open, and a uniformed attendant ushered us inside, flanked by other season ticket holders who wore matching jerseys and wide grins.

“This is it,” he whispered, eyes gleaming.

I swallowed hard as the elevator descended, the soft hum of machinery drowning out the distant roars of fans above us. The atmosphere shifted; excitement hung thick in the air like smoke.

The doors opened with a soft ding, revealing a dimly lit corridor lined with glossy photos of players in action. A faint echo of laughter and chatter reached us as we walked toward the locker room.

“Right this way!” a cheerful voice called from up ahead. A man in a polo shirt gestured us forward. “Welcome! I’m Dave, your guide for tonight.” He flashed a broad smile that reminded me of a toothpaste commercial.

Rob elbowed me again, this time harder. “See? It’s gonna be awesome!”

“Let’s hope so,” I muttered, half-heartedly smiling back at Dave.

We stepped into the locker room, and I was immediately struck by the overwhelming scent of sweat and leather mingling with a hint of something else—maybe liniment or fresh paint. The space opened up before us, revealing rows of dark wood lockers lined against one wall. Jerseys hung from hooks like banners waiting for their champions.

A massive whiteboard covered in scribbles and diagrams dominated one end, and scattered around were plush leather chairs that looked like they had seen better days. Posters of past glories plastered every surface—a shrine to victories carved out of blood and grit.

“Take your time! The players will be here shortly,” Dave announced while gesturing for us to settle in.

I glanced at Rob; his eyes sparkled with anticipation as he practically bounced from one foot to the other.

“Are they really coming?” I asked quietly.

“Of course! You didn’t think we’d just sit here and watch paint dry, did you?” His laugh echoed off the walls.

Just then, another group entered behind us—a couple of older fans who carried foam fingers emblazoned with slogans that made my skin crawl.

“Did you see that last hit?” one shouted excitedly, waving his hands animatedly as he leaned against a locker.

I took a deep breath and tried to shake off my nerves. Here I was, about to meet these athletes who seemed larger than life just hours ago. What if I said something stupid?

What if he was there?

I shifted nervously in my chair, the leather cool against my skin. The buzz of conversation surrounded me, laughter mixing with the thud of footsteps. My heart raced as a group of players filed in, their presence electric, transforming the locker room into something almost sacred.

“Gemma! Over here!” Rob’s voice cut through the chatter as he waved me over. I reluctantly pushed myself up and followed him, my palms clammy.

“Guys, this is Gemma,” Rob introduced me to a couple of towering figures with broad shoulders and confident grins.

“Hey!” One player slapped his palm against mine, his grip firm. “You’re in for a treat tonight.”

I managed a smile while Rob chattered away about the game, throwing in jokes that fell flat for me but earned laughs from everyone else.

Then it happened. Rob spotted someone across the room and his eyes lit up like a kid who’d just found his favorite toy.

“There he is! Matt Sokolov!” He nudged me forward before I could process what was happening.

Matthew Sokolov.

The player from before.

Matthew stood tall, his hair tousled just enough to look effortless. His jawline was sharp, and his lips were pressed into a hard line. The red of his jersey contrasted sharply with the coldness in his blue eyes that seemed to draw me in.

Rob pushed me closer as if giving him a nudge was all it took to initiate an introduction.

“Sokolov! This is Gemma!”

He turned to me with that icy stare, and again, there was that pulsing, that awareness.

“Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, extending his hand toward mine. The moment our palms met sent a jolt through me—a thrum of electricity that caught me off guard.

I felt my cheeks heat as I shook his hand, trying not to dwell on how warm and strong it felt against mine.

“You survived the game,” he said with a heavy Russian accent. “That’s impressive.”

“I’m still not sure if I’m traumatized or exhilarated,” I replied, managing to keep my voice steady despite my racing heart.

“Exhilarated is definitely the right choice.” He leaned slightly closer as he spoke, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It gets better from here, I promise you."

His gaze held mine longer than necessary—an unspoken connection sparking between us.

Was I being crazy?

Did he feel it too?

The moment hung in the air like a secret, and I couldn’t help but feel that everything else faded into the background. Rob’s voice became a distant murmur as I locked eyes with Matt. His gaze felt like a brand, searing itself into my memory—an imprint I doubted I’d ever shake off.

“Gemma!” Rob interrupted, waving his hands animatedly. “Did you see that last play? It was insane! I mean, Sokolov here was like a freight train! Just plowed right through them!”

I nodded mechanically, still caught in the web of Matt’s stare.

Matt's expression remained steady, his lips slightly curved at the corners as if he found something amusing in our banter. The crowd buzzed around us—other players, fans laughing, the echoes of conversations swirling—but it felt as if we were encapsulated in our own little bubble.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter than intended. “You really had a game tonight.”

Rob continued to ramble on about statistics and highlights, his enthusiasm infectious yet strangely irrelevant in that moment. All I could focus on was Matt's intensity—how it seemed to draw me in deeper.

“I don’t think anyone expected you to pull that off so effortlessly,” Rob prattled on, oblivious to the tension coiling between Matt and me. “I mean, look at the size of these guys! You just... smashed through them!”

Matt didn’t break eye contact with me; his blue eyes sparkled with mischief and something else I couldn't quite place.

“Yeah, well,” he finally replied. “Sometimes you have to take risks.”

His words resonated deep within me. It wasn’t just about the game; it felt personal, like he was saying more than what lay on the surface.

“Right?” Rob chimed in enthusiastically. “That’s what makes you a legend! You’re fearless out there!”

Still locked in that gaze, I hardly registered Rob's excitement until he nudged my shoulder gently.

“Gemma? You okay?”

I blinked and turned toward him for a brief moment before glancing back at Matt. His expression hadn’t changed—still focused, still unwavering—and something stirred within me that made my heart race.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m good.”

Rob kept talking; I barely heard him now. My world had narrowed down to this single moment with Matt—a tattoo inked deep into my thoughts as if it would linger long after this night faded into memory.