Chapter 51 Revan
Revan
The Blackridge University rink smells like new paint, professionally maintained ice, and that crisp chemical scent of a ventilation system that actually works. Everything here is pristine, funded by alumni who donate millions because their names get etched on plaques in the entrance hall.
It’s a far cry from the warehouse where my father died.
But out here on the ice, none of that matters. Out here, it’s just speed and skill and the willingness to draw blood when necessary.
I take the face-off at center ice, stick blade flat against the cold surface, eyes locked on a short guy from the opposing team.
The ref drops the puck and I’m faster sweeping it back to defense.
The play develops exactly how I called it in the locker room, our forwards breaking toward their zone in perfect formation.
This is what I’m good at. Reading the ice. Anticipating. Staying three steps ahead of everyone else.
It’s the same skill set that kept me alive as a kid in Vincent’s world, just applied to a game with rules and referees instead of guns and bodies.
I intercept a clearing attempt at the blue line, drop-pass to Atticus streaking up the wing, and drive hard to the net. Their defense collapses on him—mistake—leaving me open in the slot. Atticus’s pass hits my tape and I one-time it past their goalie before he can react.
The red light flashes. Goal.
“Fucking beautiful,” Atticus says as we bump gloves, skating back to center ice.
I don’t respond. Just get in position for the next face-off, already analyzing their defensive structure, finding the next weakness to exploit.
Coach watches from behind the bench, arms crossed, whistle hanging from his neck. He’s been pushing us harder this week, running drills until guys are puking in trash cans, and I know why.
Pointe University. Next Friday.
Koa.
The name sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold. My stepbrother, the weapon our father made, now our biggest rival. The media’s already hyping it up.
“Again!” Coach barks, and we reset.
The locker room after practice is controlled chaos. Guys stripping out of gear, music blasting, the usual chirping and bullshit that comes with a team of twenty alpha males confined in close quarters.
I sit at my stall, unlacing my skates slowly, methodically. My phone sits on the bench beside me, screen dark but demanding attention anyway.
Three unread messages.
I know who they’re from without looking.
“Heard Koa’s been on a tear,” Eli says from across the room, toweling off his hair. “Peters was at their practice this week, said he’s playing like a completely different player.”
“Yeah?” I keep my voice neutral, disinterested.
“Like he’s got something to prove or some shit.” Eli laughs. “You know him, right? Family thing?”
“Something like that.”
“Must be weird, playing against your brother.”
“Ex-stepbrother.” The correction comes out sharper than intended.
The room goes a little quieter. Guys exchanging glances.
Atticus appears in my peripheral vision, settling into his stall two down from mine. He’s already showered, hair still wet, and when he catches my eye there’s something knowing in his expression that makes my jaw clench.
“You checking your phone or just willing it to spontaneously combust?” he asks, that British accent making everything sound like mockery.
“Neither.”
“Right.” He pulls his own phone out, deliberately holding it where I can see the screen. Lexi’s name at the top of his messages. “Because you’re definitely not thinking about her.”
My hands still on my skate laces. “Shut it, Atticus.”
“Touchy.” He scrolls through his messages, and I can see the conversation—her asking how practice went, him sending back some bullshit flirty response. “She texted me this morning. Asked if we were ready for Friday.”
“I said shut it.”
“You’re not the only one she’s texting, mate.” He looks up, meeting my eyes. “Just so we’re clear.”
Something in me snaps.
I’m across the space between us before rational thought can intervene, grabbing the front of his shirt and slamming him back against his locker. The metal reverberates with the impact, and suddenly the whole room is watching.
“I said shut the fuck up,” I growl, my face inches from his.
Atticus doesn’t look scared. Doesn’t even look surprised. Just grins that infuriating British grin. “There it is. The jealousy you keep trying to hide.”
I shove him. “I’m not jealous.”
“No?” He pushes back, breaking my grip, and suddenly we’re chest to chest. “Because you look pretty fucking jealous to me.”
“Maybe I’m just sick of your mouth.”
“Maybe you’re sick of knowing that Koa is fucking her and you’re not.”
The words hit because he’s right. I’ve never been good at sharing—not toys as a kid, not hockey, not anything that matters. And Lexi matters in a way that makes me want to lock her away where no one else can touch her.
But she’s not mine to lock away.
She’s not anybody’s.
And that reality is eating me alive.
“At least I’m honest about it,” Atticus continues, voice dropping lower so the team can’t hear. “I want her. You want her. Koa wants her. But I’m not pretending it’s about anything other than want.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re telling yourself pretty little lies.” He shoves me, hard enough that I stumble back a step. “Acting like you’re above it, like you’re protecting her or some noble shit. But really you just want to own her like Vincent tried to own everything.”
The comparison to my father is the final straw.
I swing.
My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He staggers but doesn’t go down, and when he looks back at me there’s blood on his lip and fire in his eyes.
“There it is,” he says, then launches himself at me.
We crash into the lockers, helmet falling from somewhere and shattering on the concrete floor. My knuckles split open against his cheekbone. His elbow catches my ribs, the same ones that are still healing from the warehouse. Pain explodes through my side, but I don’t stop, can’t stop.
This isn’t about Lexi anymore. It’s about everything—Vincent’s control, Gilbert’s manipulation, Koa’s betrayal, the constant fucking pressure of trying to be better than the violence that made me.
Atticus gets me in a headlock, and we go down, hitting the floor hard. I drive my elbow back into his kidney and he grunts but doesn’t release. Someone’s shouting, but it’s white noise.
“You done?” Atticus pants in my ear.
“Fuck you.”
“Okay.”
The locker room door slams open with enough force to crack the wall. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?”
Coach’s voice cuts through the chaos like a knife.
We freeze—me on the floor with Atticus still holding me, both of us bloody and breathing hard. The rest of the team has backed up, giving us space, and they all look somewhere between entertained and nervous.
“Well?” Coach demands. “Someone want to explain why my top two forwards are trying to kill each other a week before our biggest game?”
Neither of us answer.
Coach looks between us, jaw working. “Revan. Atticus. My office. Now.”
Atticus releases me and we both stand, not looking at each other. My ribs scream in protest and my knuckles are bleeding, but I keep my face neutral as we follow Coach into his office.
He doesn’t sit. Just crosses his arms and stares at us like we’re children caught stealing.
“I don’t care what this is about,” he says finally. “Personal shit, girl problems, whatever. I don’t care. What I care about is that you two are my offensive line, and if you can’t work together, we lose.”
“We can work together,” I say.
Coach’s eyes narrow. “It looks like you’re about five seconds from another brawl.”
Atticus laughs wiping blood from his lip. “We’re fine, Coach. Just needed to get some energy out.”
“Then take it to the ice.” Coach points toward the rink. “Friday night, you save this energy for Pointe. Channel it into playing. You want to hit someone? Hit their forwards. You want to prove something? Prove it on the scoreboard.” He pauses, looking directly at me.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Good. Now get cleaned up and get out of my sight. And if I catch you fighting again outside of a game, you’re both benched.”
We file out silently. The locker room has cleared—the team taking the hint to give us space. It’s just us and the smell of sweat and the broken helmet still lying on the floor.
Atticus heads to his stall, pulling out his phone again. I watch him text something, see the small smile that crosses his face when he gets a response.
“You’re right,” I say finally.
He looks up, surprised.
“I’m not just protecting her. I want her.
” The admission tastes like blood and honesty.
“I want her in a way that makes me understand why Vincent did the shit he did. Why he needed to own everything, control everything. Because the thought of her with you, with Koa, with anyone...” I trail off, unable to finish.
Atticus studies me for a long moment. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” I grab my gear bag, slinging it over my shoulder. “Because she’s not a thing to be won or owned. She’s...” I search for the right word. “She’s the one thing I can’t control. And that’s exactly why I’m pissed.”
“Deep thoughts from Rev.” But there’s no mockery in his voice now. “You know she’s going to be there Friday. At the game. And Koa’s going to play like he’s trying to kill someone.”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s our play?”
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. “We beat them. Embarrass them. Show her that he might have violence, but we have control. We win.” I look back at Atticus. “And we do it together. Because whether you like it or not, we’re on the same team.”
He nods slowly. “On the ice.”
“On the ice,” I confirm.
What happens off the ice is still a war zone with no rules and no referees.
But at least on Friday, we’ll have boundaries.
At least on Friday, the violence will be legal.
I walk out into the cold night air, my phone buzzing in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’s her.
But I look anyway.
Lexi: Friday?
I stare at the message, then type back.
Me: I’ll see you then.
Lexi: Good. Because I’ll be watching.
I pocket the phone and head to my car, ribs aching, knuckles bleeding, and that stone in my chest heavier than ever.
Friday can’t come fast enough.