Chapter 9 Julian
JULIAN
That kiss should’ve been illegal. No, really.
I’ve done lines off hotel safes and sucked champagne off marble and wrapped myself in silk and sweat and enough dopamine to drown a priest, and nothing—nothing—has ever hit like the way Rafe Scalzi slammed his mouth into mine like he was trying to cauterize the wound from the inside.
Like he could make it all fucking stop. The ghosts, the ache, the loop.
Nathan’s voice. The shaking in my hands.
The part of me that keeps floating just an inch out of phase with my body. That kiss dragged me back in.
It’s still buzzing under my skin now. A slow, low throb. Electric in the base of my spine. Like I’ve been branded and the nerve endings haven’t decided whether they want to scream or come.
The locker room is chaos. Not NHL chaos.
Not the clean, plastic-smiled, camera-friendly, suit-and-tie bullshit I used to live in.
No pregame speeches. No national anthem.
No glossy hydration plans. Just blood and tape and cracked concrete.
Luca’s sitting cross-legged on the bench sharpening the wrong end of his stick, glaring at Finn like he’s considering murder.
Finn’s in just his compression shorts and socks, yelling across the room about some “glorious Viking strategy” while smearing black across his cheekbones like war paint.
Misha’s doing pull-ups on a pipe that’s definitely not weight-rated. Bishop’s setting fire to his laces again. Tank hasn’t said a word. He never does. He just sits there, a fucking monolith in skates, drinking a protein shake like it’s the blood of his enemies.
And Kai’s leaned against the lockers like a goddamn executioner, sharpening his blades with the slow rhythm of someone who knows exactly how deep they want to cut.
Luca throws a jab at him—some half-serious, half-flirtatious hiss about "cold fingers and no bedside manner"—but Kai doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t look up.
Just keeps sharpening. Luca watches him like a cat staring down a snake.
No one's high, but we all look like we are. Everyone’s feral in their own way tonight. Everyone’s wound up, vibrating, brutal. It's the air. The way the bets are placed. The way Leonardo's watching from up top like he's already counting how many stitches we’ll need before this is over.
I take a breath. Close my eyes. And then I make the mistake of looking at my cubby again.
Just for a second. It’s nothing now. Just gear.
Pads. Tape. Same as everyone else’s. But it still says traitor if you look close enough.
Someone scratched it into the wood and then someone else—probably Finn—scribbled dicks and wings and blood halos around it like a mural for a fallen saint.
I remember the first time I opened it. The shake in my hands.
The way my stomach turned inside out like I expected to find more than gear.
Like I thought maybe Nathan would be hiding in there, smiling like a loaded gun.
He wasn’t. He never fucking is.
I shove it down. That looping thought, that acid memory. Then I rip the jersey off its hook and start getting dressed.
Tape first. Right wrist, then left. Blades check.
Shin pads. Socks. Elbows. Laces. I go through it like a ritual, like muscle memory can keep the ghosts out.
But even as I’m lacing up, I can still taste Rafe.
Blood and smoke and fury. The way he grabbed my wrists.
The way he pinned me like he didn’t want to let go.
My cock twitches in my jock and I bite down a grin.
Jesus. No wonder I used to fuck before every game. This? This is better than coke.
It’s fucking terrifying.
I glance across the room. He’s there. Of course he is. Quiet, already dressed, already armored in black like a fucking war god with a cigarette behind his ear and murder in his jawline. He’s not watching me.
The locker room cracks open into the tunnel like a fucking throat—narrow, dark, hot with breath and heat and sweat-slick tension.
My blades clink against the concrete as we walk.
It’s different than before. This isn’t practice.
This isn’t chaos for the sake of chaos. This is showtime.
Every step feels like it echoes in my bones.
I can hear Bishop behind me humming something unholy.
I can hear Kai’s stick tapping against the floor in a slow, steady rhythm like he’s counting down to violence.
Ahead of me, Luca is walking backwards, grinning at me, that bratty glint in his eye like he knows exactly how fucked I am and can’t wait to watch it happen.
“Watch out for the knives, rookie,” he says, too sweet, too slow, like a dare whispered between teeth.
“What knives?” I shoot back, smirking even though my ribs are already tightening.
He winks. “All of them.”
Fucking great.
We reach the gate. No music. No announcer. No lights flashing across the ice. No roar of a stadium crowd. Just the creak of the steel door being cranked open and the sound of hundreds of eyes turning at once.
And there is the rink. Not NHL ice. Not even junior league ice.
This is a different beast. Open white space ringed in faded red, like a ritual circle painted in blood.
No benches either—just crates and low steel boxes dragged to the side.
The goal cages look like they’ve been repaired with wire and willpower.
The surface isn’t smooth. It’s hard-packed and pitted, stained in places.
I swear there’s a brown mark near center ice that looks like a dried-out body outline someone never bothered to clean.
And then there’s the crowd. It takes me a second to understand what I’m looking at.
No fans. No signs. No jerseys. Just mobsters.
Packed along the edge, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, no barrier between them and the game.
Syndicate bosses in black coats and leather gloves.
Men with face tattoos and girls with glass heels and pistols on their thighs.
I spot fur, silk, gold chains thick enough to leash lions.
And all of them—every single one of them—staring at the ice like they already know who’s going to die on it.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
Finn cackles behind me. “Nah. He doesn’t come here anymore.”
I step out onto the ice and I swear, for a second, I forget how to skate. The sound of the blades hitting it? It’s different. No fake roar to cover the noise. No arena feedback. Just the scrape. Just the breath. Just the gamble humming in the air around us.
Because that’s what this is.
Not a game.
A transaction.
Every pass, every hit, every goal—it’s all money. It’s debt and blood and punishment with laces.
They’re not betting on who wins. They’re betting on who bleeds and I’m the fucking wildcard.
I glide forward. My heart thumps once—hard enough I feel it in my ears. I suck in a breath that tastes like old bleach and cigarette ash and sweat. My hands shake for just a second, and I shove it down.
I’ve skated in sold-out stadiums. I’ve signed pucks for kids with broken English and no teeth. I’ve been on posters. On screens. I used to be a god.
But this? This is the first time I’ve played for the devil. And he’s sitting somewhere above the ice, watching me sweat.
The other team steps onto the ice like it belongs to them.
There’s no announcement, no spotlight, no anthem—just the sudden shift in the air when they appear.
I don’t recognize the jerseys, because there aren’t any.
No logos, no names, no numbers. Just black.
A different shade than ours. Not matte like La Fiamma Nera’s gear, but glossy, slick, like they were dipped in oil and pulled out of hell.
Their captain’s got a busted nose and a scar across his cheek that looks surgical.
One of their defensemen’s already bleeding from the knuckles.
These aren’t players. They’re fucking assassins on skates.
Cartel-linked. Drug syndicate out of Mexico, Rafe told me.
Not NHL, not ex-pros. Worse. Guys who were never good enough for the league and decided they’d rather kill than be average.
One of them spits something on the ice as they skate past. Another one locks eyes with Bishop and laughs.
Luca’s still next to me, twirling his stick like a baton, the blade wrapped in tape so dark it looks like leather. He glances at the other team, then back at me, and his grin spreads slow, like blood across white fabric.
I think back to earlier—Finn pulling his pads on over his shorts, that moment when I caught a glint under his sleeve.
Not metal on accident. It was deliberate.
It was sharp. Something small and shaped to be hidden in a glove.
I’m sure of it now. And Kai—fuck, Kai definitely has something on him.
His stick’s heavier than it should be. The way he wraps his wrists?
It’s surgical. For damage, not protection.
Speaking of Kai.
He skates up behind me like a shadow that grew a spine.
Taller than I remember. Not as wide as Rafe, but somehow heavier.
It’s the way he moves—like he can see your pulse and is calculating how to stop it mid-beat.
His blade ticks the ice once, twice, then he leans in.
Close enough that I feel his breath on the back of my neck.
It’s cold. Smells like antiseptic and mint and death.
“Need a fix before?” he murmurs, voice too soft for anyone else to hear. “Can’t afford you disappearing mid-game tonight, pretty boy.”
I don’t turn to face him. I just let the words sit, cold and sleek down my spine. I could answer. I could mouth off. But my eyes find Rafe instead.