Chapter 9 Julian #3
I don’t even have time to ask how—because Finn is in the crease now, I realize, dancing in place like a gremlin in pads, goalie stick held high like a sword, waving at the crowd with a grin that says this is fine, nothing’s on fire.
But Rafe—Rafe is here. In front of me. And the second I crash into him, he catches me without flinching, then shoves me behind him like I weigh nothing.
I stumble back, breath ragged, heart in my throat.
The guy chasing me skids to a stop just inches from Rafe’s chest, knife up, expression wild, shoulders heaving.
He doesn’t get a word out. Rafe’s hand moves fast—a blur—and then suddenly the knife is gone.
I don’t even see how. It’s just there in Rafe’s left hand, and in the same motion, his right comes up with a gun—a fucking gun—pressed straight under the guy’s chin, angled up into the soft spot behind his jaw.
The guy freezes.
Everyone does.
The crowd gasps. A collective breath that rips the chaos out of the air and replaces it with razor-wire silence.
Even the players stop. No one’s fighting anymore.
No one has the puck. Luca is off the guy he was riding like a feral koala.
Misha is mid-swing and just holding. The other goalie is hanging off his net like he doesn’t know whether to guard it or fucking pray.
But I can’t look away from Rafe.
Rafe with the gun pressed under the guy’s chin, silent and deadly and still as death itself. He doesn’t speak, and the guy doesn’t either. They just stare at each other across that thin, terrifying distance, like the entire rink has shrunk down to the space between the barrel and the man’s throat.
Rafe’s arm doesn’t shake. It doesn’t twitch. He barely even seems to breathe. It stays perfectly steady, finger resting on the trigger, his mouth set in that same storm-cloud line I saw the first time he looked at me through the cage and decided I was his next fucking project.
And then—without looking—without blinking—Rafe reaches behind him with the hand holding the knife, finds me without needing to see, and presses the handle into my palm.
I take it. Because what the fuck else am I gonna do? The blade’s warm from his hand. Slick with blood that’s not mine. And it fits like it was meant to be there.
My breath’s still coming fast. My eyes are locked on the guy who tried to kill me. But now, standing behind Rafe, I’m not shaking. Because now I have a knife, Rafe has a gun, and no one is going to fucking touch me again.
The guy finally cracks. His fingers unclench, the fight bleeds out of him drop by drop until he finally—finally—lifts both hands in surrender. A quiet, almost respectful gesture. Then he dips his head—barely a bow, more like an admission.
Alright. Message received. Don’t kill the speed demon.
The crowd hums with approval. A ripple of tension easing, but not disappearing. They didn’t come here for fairness. They came here for blood. And Rafe just told them all exactly whose blood they won’t be getting tonight.
Rafe doesn’t lower the gun. He watches the bastard skate backwards, never turning his back, never blinking. It’s like watching a lion decide to let something live. The crowd gives the man space, parting just enough for him to move through without getting trampled.
For half a second, I think that’s the end of it.
Then everything happens at once—a flash, a sharp whistle cutting through the air—and before my brain even catches up, agony explodes through my body.
Something metal slams into my thigh with the force of a hammer.
I don’t feel the cut at first, only the brutal impact, like someone just drove a fucking railroad spike straight into my leg.
Then the fire hits, fast and violent.
I scream as my legs give out and I go down hard, the ice slamming into my shoulder while both hands immediately grab for my thigh.
And that’s when I see it.
A knife.
A fucking throwing knife, buried to the hilt in the meat of my leg.
“What the—FUCK—”
My hand goes straight for the handle on instinct, pain blinding, breath gone, shock turning my blood cold.
“DON’T!” Kai’s voice slices through the air like a blade of its own, sharp enough to stop me mid-grab.
Rafe reacts before anyone can breathe. The gunshot detonates across the rink, echo bouncing off metal and concrete. I don’t even see him move—one second he’s in front of me, the next his arm is extended past my shoulder, sight locked, finger already pulling the trigger.
The man who threw the knife jerks backward like a puppet getting its strings cut. Blood blossoms across his chest and he drops dead before he hits the ice.
Luca shrieks—excited, delighted, fucking thrilled—jumping up and down like a kid at a fireworks show. “HOLY SHIT, DO IT AGAIN!”
The crowd explodes. Some cheering. Some putting money down right then, placing new bets in real time.
But Kai is already skating toward me. “Don’t pull it out,” he snaps, dropping to one knee beside me, eyes scanning the wound with surgical disgust. “Pretty boy, I swear to God, if you rip that out I’m stapling your leg shut without anesthetic.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m not touching it!” I snarl, sweat already breaking across my forehead.
Rafe turns. And when he looks at me this time? He looks unhinged. Not angry. Not annoyed. Something darker. He holsters the gun without looking, grabs me under the arm, and yanks me up so fast the world tilts.
My leg screams. I taste blood on my tongue. My vision flickers, but Rafe doesn’t let go.
He drags me close until his forehead almost touches mine. His breath is hot, furious, coated in the kind of rage that could split the earth. “You play,” he growls, voice deep and vibrating against my bones. “Right the fuck now, you hear me?”
“What—right—now—?” I gasp through clenched teeth, gripping his arm like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“You don’t worry about them anymore.” He jerks his chin toward the dead man on the ice and the others still frozen where they stand. “You score,” he snarls, eyes burning into me like a brand, “and I make them bleed.”
My heart slams hard enough to shake the knife in my leg.
I nod. Because there’s no universe where I say no to that.
No universe where I let him see me fall.
No universe where I don’t fucking skate.
Even if I die doing it. I grit my teeth and push off.
Pain tears up my thigh like someone is dragging razors through my muscle, but I stay upright.
I glide. I breathe. I ignore the fire. And when my blade cuts the ice again, clean and fast—the crowd roars like they’ve just seen a miracle.