Chapter 16
Hades
I woke before the sun, the shadows still stretched long across the penthouse like they belonged to me.
The silence was thick—too thick—and it pressed against my chest like a warning.
I didn’t bother turning on the lights. I moved through the dark, familiar with every inch of this space I’d built to be mine. Except now, it wasn’t just mine.
She was in it.
And the space she didn’t fill was louder than her presence.
I stepped into the shower and cranked the handle to cold. Ice hit my skin like punishment. Good. I welcomed the sting. I needed it. Not to wake up—but to stay sharp. Pain had a way of slicing through distraction, and I wasn’t in the mood to carry weakness into the rink.
Afterward, I tossed some toast and a boiled egg on the counter. I didn’t touch them. It wasn’t fuel I needed. It was focus. And the only thing on my mind was the hollow imprint she left behind in my bed.
Where was she this morning? She hadn’t shown her face. No sound. No movement. Not even defiance.
It should’ve pleased me. Instead, it clawed under my ribs like something feral.
By the time I hit the locker room, I was wound tight.
The familiar scent hit first—sweat, liniment, stale adrenaline. Most found it nauseating. For me? It was home. This was the one place I could command without contest.
Gideon was already there, leaning against his stall like he owned the building. “Ready for another round with the ice princess?” he drawled, flashing that smug, too-white smile.
I didn’t bite. I didn’t even look at him. I headed straight for my gear, shedding layers of thought like armor. I needed the numbness of routine.
Jafar sat near the board, adjusting his skates with the same quiet calculation that made him lethal. The younger guys were loud, too loud—hyped by the game, the media, the murmurs.
“Sinclair’s married now?” one of them whispered like I wasn’t in the damn room. “Didn’t peg him for the ‘wife guy.’”
Another laughed. “Yeah, hope she knows she married the villain.”
My grip tightened on the tape. My blade wasn’t even halfway done, but I paused. Just for a second. Let the rage simmer beneath the surface—hot, sharp, ready to be used.
I didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. I just kept winding the tape, tighter and tighter, like I could strangle the commentary out of the air.
They had no idea.
This wasn’t a romance. This wasn’t a tabloid stunt.
She was mine.
And I didn’t take kindly to jokes about what belonged to me.
Let them laugh now.
They wouldn’t when I took someone’s teeth out on the ice tonight.
Especially if she showed up in the stands—wearing my name on her back.
Then?
The whole fucking world would remember exactly who I was.
And what happened when they disrespected what was mine.
The ice bit back that morning.
Perfect.
Every stride, every slash of my blade across the surface felt like control—cold, clean, mine. I went through the drills like a machine, tuned and merciless. No room for thought. No room for her.
But she bled in anyway.
Every pass reminded me of her silence. Every slapshot echoed with the click of the front door she didn’t follow me through.
I should’ve thrived in that space—no leash, no glances, no games.
But instead? My focus twisted, warped by the image of her still in that robe, still tasting like resistance on my mouth.
She hadn’t shown up to say goodbye.
And that told me everything.
When practice ended, I didn’t linger in the locker room. I peeled off my gear in silence, ignoring the low buzz of rookie chatter, the quiet glances, the not-so-subtle speculation about my marriage.
Let them whisper. They wouldn’t when they saw what I’d do tonight.
Gideon was already waiting near the exit, baseball cap backward, ego forward. “You look like you just buried someone.”
I barely glanced at him. “Maybe I did.”
Jafar joined us, sleeves rolled and clipboard gone for once. He always moved like he had a plan no one else was smart enough to understand. Gang Lu followed in silence, eyes sharp and unreadable. Jeremy trailed last, hoodie up, smirk barely concealed—Scar in every way that mattered.
James made his entrance fashionably late, twirling his car keys and sauntering like sin itself. “Are we eating or just brooding like the League’s most dysfunctional boy band?”
I grunted. “Food.”
It was tradition. No matter how brutal the practice, how ugly the press, how tense the locker room—we gorged before every game. Pasta, pancakes, waffles—didn’t matter. We loaded up like it was our last meal before war.
The local diner knew us by name. Knew not to seat anyone within earshot. We took the back booth—same one every time—spread out like kings about to feast.
Jeremy ordered steak and eggs. Lu stuck with black coffee and three plates of noodles.
Gideon went full Gaston mode—three omelets, four sides of bacon, and still stole bites off my plate.
Jafar dissected his pancakes like he was in surgery.
James flirted with the waitress and stole the syrup bottle.
I sat there with my jaw tight, my appetite mechanical, my mind burning with one thought:
Would she show up tonight?
Would she wear that jersey? That choker?
Would she sit in the box, front and center, and make this real?
Or would she spit on everything I’d built?
Every time someone asked how I got her, I wanted to answer; I didn’t get her. I took her.
But the truth was worse.
Because now? She had me.
And if she didn’t show?
Someone was going to bleed.
After we’d stuffed our faces like medieval warlords, Gideon slapped the check down like he owned the place and tossed me his keys.
“You’re driving,” he muttered, already stretching his arms behind his head like some overfed lion ready to nap.
I didn’t argue. The post-practice, post-pancake crash was hitting me hard too.
His condo was barely ten minutes away—some ridiculous penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a fridge stocked entirely by the team’s nutritionist and Gideon’s latest fling.
I didn’t care. I beelined for the leather couch and kicked my shoes off.
Gideon dropped onto the matching chair, sprawling like a man who’d never known a consequence.
“Gonna sleep like the dead,” he mumbled, throwing one arm over his face.
I closed my eyes too.
Silence stretched.
But Gideon? He never let silence breathe too long.
“You ever think you’d be the married one first?” he asked, voice drowsy but laced with interest. “Like, what the hell happened there, man?”
I cracked one eye open. “She happened.”
He chuckled. “You always had a God complex, Hades, but this? Whole new level.”
“She’s mine. That’s it.”
His smirk curved just enough for me to see it from the couch. “Yeah, yeah. Possessive. Caveman. Alpha bullshit. But let me make one thing clear…”
He paused dramatically. I didn’t bite.
“…I will never get roped into that. Not unless the woman is Belle Reiss in lace and begging.”
I huffed. “You’re halfway to obsessed with that girl.”
“Please.” He scoffed. “Belle’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I’d ruin entire bloodlines for a night with her. But commitment? Nah. She’s too soft for someone like me.”
I turned my head, eyes narrowing. “That soft would bury you, and you’d like it.”
He gave a lazy grin. “Maybe. But only if she’s crying my name and swearing I’m the only sin she wants to keep committing.”
I rolled my eyes, but something about the way he said her name—Belle—didn’t sound casual. It sounded like a dare. Like a secret he hadn’t told even himself yet.
“She’d slit your throat in your sleep if you broke her heart.”
“And I’d die smiling.”
I didn’t say it, but I knew.
He was already hers.
Even if he hadn’t realized it yet.
We napped for an hour before the alarms buzzed.
The suit clung to me like armor.
Black on black. Tailored within an inch of its life. No tie. No need. Just me—controlled, cold, collected.
Gideon buttoned his jacket beside me, hair slicked back, sunglasses still on even though the sun was long gone.
“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” he said without looking at me.
I smirked. “Maybe I am.”
By the time we hit the garage, night had fallen. The city lights were harsh and wild, the kind of chaos I craved before a game. Gideon slammed the trunk shut with his duffel over his shoulder, swagger in every step. I walked beside him, slower, quieter.
Focused.
The rink was waiting.
And maybe… she was too.
We stepped out of the car to a wall of flashing lights.
Photographers lined the walkway like vultures waiting for a fresh corpse.
Questions flung like bullets. “Sinclair! Is she here?” — “What’s the deal with the marriage?” — “You think a wife’s gonna slow you down tonight?”
Gideon raised a middle finger behind his back without turning. I knew because he always did. “Parasites,” he muttered.
Inside, the roar faded. Concrete halls swallowed the noise. The air was cooler here, sharper, electric. I rolled my shoulders as we headed for the locker room—our sanctuary and war zone wrapped into one.
The boys were already gathering. Jafar leaned against his stall, tapping a stick against his thigh like he was waiting for permission to unleash something violent.
Jeremy—Scar—sat hunched over, lacing his skates like he was stringing a weapon.
Gang Lu was dead silent, calm as a sniper.
James twirled his blade on one finger like a pirate counting down to mutiny.
I pulled off my jacket and started changing, slipping into my gear like a second skin. The weight of it felt good—familiar. Heavy with intent.
Then came the footsteps.
Measured. Sharp.
Coach Frollo entered like a judge walking into a courtroom.
He wore a black suit, a blacker tie, and a gaze that could make grown men forget how to breathe.
He didn’t shout. He never needed to.
He just looked at us—all of us—and spoke like he was delivering a sentence, not a speech.