Chapter 6
Chapter six
Penalty Kill - Defending while short-handed after taking a penalty.
Taranis
The lights were too bright, the ice too white, the kind of rink that made everything feel exposed. I settled into the crease and forced myself to breathe.
Behind the bench—behind it, not on it, not in my space—Cinder sat with the rest of the traveling staff.
Team-branded jacket. Clipped badge. Calm, watchful posture that my dragon noticed anyway.
I could feel him there like a low-pressure system at my back, my magic stirring in response whether I wanted it to or not.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the ice.
Puck drop.
The Vancouver Kodiaks came out hard, fast, and loud, feeding off the home crowd. Their first shot came from the blue line, heavy but clean. I dropped, sealed the ice, and caught it against my chest.
The second followed almost immediately—traffic in front, sticks and skates everywhere—but I tracked it through the mess and snatched it out of the air with my glove.
Two shots. Two saves.
Good. Solid. Stay sharp.
Then the puck took a bad bounce.
A wrist shot from the blue line hit their right winger’s skate and jumped sideways. I was already moving, already set for where the shot should have gone. The deflection sent it slipping past my pad and inside the post before I could recover.
Red light.
The crowd roared.
I straightened slowly, jaw tight, heat flashing through my chest before I forced it down. It wasn’t a mistake—just bad luck—but that didn’t matter on the scoreboard.
Their right winger, Brady Collins, glided past my crease with a grin that said he knew exactly that. “Gotta be faster than that,” he said, tapping his stick on the ice. “Or maybe you’re losin’ it.”
I didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer. Because reacting was what he wanted—and because losing control, even for a second, was never an option.
Not here. Not now. Not with Cinder close enough to notice if my temperature slipped or my magic stirred.
I reset my stance, blades digging into the ice, eyes locked forward as the next faceoff lined up.
The next few minutes blurred into bodies and noise.
Shots came from everywhere—low, high, through traffic—and I stayed locked in, tracking the puck, kicking out rebounds, stopping play when I could. The Kodiaks crowded my crease on every rush, hacking at my pads, leaning just close enough to be annoying without drawing a whistle.
Then the puck stayed loose.
It dropped in front of me, buried under skates, and Tyson McCrae dove for it like he’d been taught—head down, all heart, no hesitation. He got his stick on it just as Brady Collins crashed the net.
Too hard.
Collins slammed into Tyson and didn’t stop there. Another player followed, driving his shoulder down, pinning Tyson on his back right in the blue paint. I heard the sound he made—a sharp, breathless noise that punched straight through my chest.
The whistle blew. Tyson tried to twist out from under them, panic flashing across his face, legs tangled, stick pinned uselessly to the ice. Collins leaned down, pressing a knee into his ribs.
Something ice-cold snapped in my chest. I dropped my gloves first, then the blocker, stepping forward out of the crease as the ref shouted my name. Collins looked up just in time to see me coming.
“Get off him,” I said, low and final.
He smirked.
That was the last mistake he made.
I grabbed his jersey and hauled him backward, ripping him off Tyson and shoving him hard enough that he flew backwards.
The other Kodiaks' player came at me immediately, hands up, and suddenly there were bodies everywhere—sticks skittering, gloves flying, the crowd losing its mind. Max and Ash both dived in, but I didn’t throw wild punches. I didn’t need to.
I planted my skates, used my weight, my strength, driving them back from the crease until there was space—clear space—around Tyson. Collins swung, clipped my shoulder, and I barely felt it. All I could see was our rookie scrambling to his knees, gasping, eyes wide. Mine locked onto Collins.
Not today.
Not in my crease.
Not my kid.
The refs finally got between us, arms hooked under mine, dragging me back as I forced myself to stand down, to breathe, to pull the ice back inside where it belonged.
I got a two-minute penalty, but goalie penalties were a little different.
Unless it was a major infraction, we weren’t sent to the penalty box.
Swapping with Adar Levin would be too chaotic for a couple of minutes.
Tyson got sent instead. I met his gaze apologetically, but he just grinned looking like it was an honor.
And the crowd loved it.
Cinder
I watched with my heart in my mouth, expecting to be needed—already mentally cataloging what I'd grab first from the medical kit, already calculating response times if someone went down hard. But then the line came to sit down, as Marchand, Varga, and Bissette jumped the boards.
All of them—Max, Keegan, and Cole dropped onto the seats near me, still buzzing with adrenaline, talking over each other like they couldn't get the words out fast enough.
"Did you see Taz?" Max was grinning so wide I thought his face might split. "Fucking finally. I've been waiting all season for him to lose it on someone."
"He didn't lose it," Ash leaned over, calm as ever. "He was controlled. Just... emphatic."
Cole laughed, the sound bright and surprised. "Emphatic. That's one word for it. He threw Collins like he weighed nothing."
"Because Collins is a dick," Max added. "And Tyson's what, twenty-two? Of course Taz went nuclear."
I sat there, frozen, listening to them talk about Taranis like what he'd done was normal. Expected, even. Like stepping out of the crease to physically remove two full-grown men from his rookie player was just another Tuesday.
"He's so calm usually," I heard myself say, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Max turned to me, eyes bright. "Oh, he is. That's what makes it terrifying when he's not." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Taz doesn't fight often. But when he does? It's because someone crossed a line they shouldn't have."
"Like hurting one of ours," Ash said quietly.
"Especially the kids," Cole added. "Tyson's barely been with us four months. Taz has been looking out for him since day one."
I looked back at the ice, where Taranis had returned to his crease, resetting his stance like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't just terrified an entire opposing team into backing the hell off.
His movements were precise, controlled, every inch the veteran goaltender who'd seen it all and handled it with ruthless efficiency.
But I'd seen something else in those few seconds before the refs pulled him back.
I'd seen rage.
Not the hot, explosive kind that burned out fast. The cold kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and ancient and absolutely certain of its purpose.
Protect.
My chest tightened.
"He's okay?" I asked, trying to sound professional. Clinical. Like I was asking about any player who'd just been in an altercation.
Max glanced at me, something knowing flickering across his face. "He's fine. Better than fine, probably. Taz gets weird when he holds things in too long."
"Weird how?"
"Just... tense. Quiet." Max shrugged. "Fighting's good for him sometimes. Lets the pressure out."
I wanted to ask what kind of pressure. Wanted to ask if this was normal for him, if he did this often, if there was something I should be watching for medically. But the questions stuck in my throat because asking them would reveal too much.
Would reveal that I'd been watching Taranis more carefully than I had any right to. That I'd noticed the way he moved differently after stress. That I'd cataloged the cold that had crept into his skin at the game and filed it away as something that didn't make sense but mattered anyway.
On the ice, play resumed.
Taranis dropped into his stance, eyes locked forward, and I watched him track the puck with the same lethal focus he'd turned on Brady Collins. The crowd was still buzzing, still replaying what had happened, but Taranis looked utterly unbothered.
A shot came at him hard. He caught it cleanly, held it, forced the whistle.
Another rush. Another save. Routine. Controlled.
Like he hadn't just terrified me and half the arena with how easily he'd shifted from calm to dangerous and back again.
"You really think he's okay?" I asked quietly, not looking at Max.
There was a pause. Then Max's voice, gentler than before. "Yeah, Cinder. He's okay. But it's nice that you're worried."
I didn't respond.
Couldn't.
Because worried didn't begin to cover what I was feeling as I watched Taranis move in his crease, all that contained power coiled tight under his skin, and wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that kind of passion.
Wondered what it would cost him to offer it. What it had cost him.
I was already on my feet when the horn sounded.
Second period ended in noise and shoving and adrenaline still spreading through the bench, but all I could see was Taranis—helmet half off, chest heaving, knuckles scraped raw from dropping his gloves for a kid who was his to protect.
“Sit,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “I need to check you.”
He grinned, all heat and victory. “I’m fine, Cin—”
I didn’t wait for permission. I never did. I stepped in close and put my hand against the side of his neck.
Ice.
Not cold from sweat evaporating. Not rink chill. My fingers jerked back on instinct, heart slamming so hard it stole my breath.
“No,” I said. “No, no—Taz, you’re freezing.”
He laughed, breath fogging. “It’s an ice rink.”
“This isn’t that.” I pressed my palm to his forearm this time, then his wrist, searching for warmth that wasn’t there. His skin was pale, almost waxy under the lights. “I need warming protocols. Now. Blankets. Heated fluids. I want his core temp checked.”
The noise around us dimmed, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.
“Taz,” the coach said, distracted, already half-turned toward a defenseman. “You good?”
“I’m good,” Taranis said easily. “I just got in a fight. Happens.”
My mouth went dry. “Coach, he’s hypothermic.”
That got a look. Uncomfortable. Skeptical. The look I hated most.
“He’s been moving for forty minutes,” the coach said. “He’s sweating.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “This isn’t exposure.”
Taranis frowned now, finally catching the edge in my voice. “Cinder—”
“I need you to listen to me.” My hands were shaking, and I curled them into fists so no one would see. “If he stops shivering—”
“I’m not shivering,” Taranis said.
Exactly.
I turned back to the coach. “I’m pulling him.”
“No,” the coach said flatly. “We’re down one. He’s starting the third.”
The words landed like a slap.
Taranis reached for me. “Hey. I’m okay.”
I stepped back before he could touch me. Before I could feel how cold he was again.
“No,” I whispered. “You think you are.”
The coach waved a hand. “Take a breather, Cinder.”
A breather. Like this was nerves. Like this was about me. I felt my vision tunneling, pulse too loud in my ears. The bench, the lights, the noise.
I grabbed my jacket and walked. Past the bench. Past security. Past the looks.
No one stopped me.
Outside the arena, the air hit my face, and I sucked it in like I’d been drowning. I braced my hands on the concrete wall and bowed my head, chest heaving, the past and present tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, and refused to think about being ignored.
I was already back inside before the third period and watched him like a hawk.
The game ended in noise, but all I could see was Taz.
The second he was still I grabbed his wrist, pressing my fingers to the pulse point. Slow. Too slow. "Your core temperature is dropping."
"Cinder." Coach Kincaid's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and impatient. "He just won us the game. Let the man breathe."
"He's hypothermic," I said, and I hated how my voice cracked on the word. "This isn't normal post-game fatigue. His skin is—"
"Cold," the coach interrupted. "Because he's been on ice for sixty minutes. In an arena. Playing hockey." He said it slowly, like I was a child who needed basic concepts explained. "He's fine."
"He's not fine." I turned to the team doctor—Dr. Reeves, gray-haired, experienced, someone who should know better. "His pulse is bradycardic. His skin temperature is dangerously low. This isn't exposure, this is—"
"Adrenaline crash," Dr. Reeves said dismissively, barely glancing up from his tablet. "Goalies run cold after high-stress games. It's documented."
"Not like this." My hands were shaking now, and I couldn't make them stop. "I've seen this before. At the first game. His temperature dropped to eighty-nine degrees. That should have killed him."
The silence that followed wasn't the concerned kind. It was the uncomfortable kind. The kind that preceded someone being escorted out of a room.
"Eighty-nine," Coach repeated flatly. "And he's standing here talking to us."
"Yes, because something is—" I stopped myself before I could say wrong with him. Before I could admit I didn't understand what was happening, only that it terrified me. "Please. Just let me check his vitals properly. Five minutes."
Taranis reached for my arm, his touch so cold it burned through my sleeve. "Cinder, I appreciate it, but I really am okay. This happens sometimes."
This happens sometimes.
He knew. He knew this wasn't normal, and he was covering for it. Playing it off like it was nothing while his body did things that defied every medical textbook I'd ever read.
"Taz—"
"The team needs to celebrate," Coach said, already turning away. "Reeves, make sure he hydrates. Cinder, take a walk. Cool down."
Cool down. Like I was the problem. Like I was the one being irrational.
I looked around the locker room—at Max, who wouldn't meet my eyes; at Cole, who looked uncomfortable; at the rest of the staff, who were suddenly very interested in their equipment bags. No one was going to back me up. No one was going to listen.
The familiar helplessness crashed over me like a tsunami, and I turned to get to the bus. Fuck them. Fuck them all.