Chapter 16 #2
He lunged. I sidestepped just enough to redirect his weight, then shoved him into the boards so hard the plexi shook. The crack of his body hitting glass snapped through the arena like a gunshot. Gasps followed—momentary silence, that beat of collective shock.
I didn’t flinch.
I turned back into the play just as Luke streaked up the wing. Scourge scrambled to recover, but they were already too late. I read the pass coming, jumped the lane, and intercepted it before it could land on their forward’s stick.
“Luke!” I barked, snapping the puck toward him with pinpoint aim.
He caught it, weaved through two defenders like a ghost, and I chased—breath even, blade to ice, ready. Luke curved around their last man and fed the puck back to me, clean and fast, right at the top of the crease.
No thinking. No doubt.
I ripped it.
Top shelf. Glove side. The net rippled as the horn screamed.
The bench exploded. My team surrounded me, fists pounding my back, war cries echoing around the rink—but all I saw was the flash of movement above. Her.
Kennedy.
Hands clasped over her mouth, eyes shining. Lit up like I’d given her the whole damn world.
And maybe I had. Or maybe she was the world now.
Either way, I wasn’t stopping.
Not for the Scourge. Not for the refs. Not until she wore that jersey home again—and I got to tear it off with my teeth.
As the puck dropped again, everything inside me snapped into razor-sharp focus. Every stride I took had purpose. Every hit I landed came with precision. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just clean, brutal hockey.
Because this wasn’t just about points on the board anymore. This was personal.
Her belief in me—her being here—it bled into my game, sharpening every edge until I was skating like a man possessed. Every shift, every collision, I left pieces of myself on that ice. Not for the crowd. Not for the highlight reel. For her.
Every time I rounded that side of the rink and caught a glimpse of her? It hit like a jolt of pure electricity. I saw it in her face—that awe, that wonder, like I was something more than I’d ever been told I could be. And hell if I wasn’t going to live up to that.
So when Riggs came at me again—shoulders hunched, mouth twisted with the kind of fury that came from being humiliated—I didn’t flinch. He was telegraphing every movement like a rookie, driven by bruised pride instead of strategy.
I waited. Timed it down to the second.
Then stepped out of his path at the last second and gave him a hard shove—just enough to redirect his rage straight into Dominic, who’d been lurking like a lion near the boards. The impact was bone-rattling. Riggs and Dominic went flying into the bench, chaos exploding around them.
I skated off calm and controlled while our bench roared, and the puck stayed with us.
The air in the arena thrummed like it had a pulse, every beat synced with the pounding in my chest. Tie game.
Final minutes. The kind of pressure that either broke you or forged you into something unforgettable.
My lungs burned, legs on fire, but adrenaline didn’t let me feel a thing. I wasn’t tired. I was wired.
When the whistle blew for a timeout, I coasted over to the glass where I knew she’d be. Kennedy. Eyes locked on me like I was the only thing anchoring her to the moment. I tipped my helmet back just enough to take a swig from my water bottle, then turned and met her gaze full on.
One look. That was all it took.
I gave her a grin and a glance that said later. Later, when we weren’t wrapped in blood and ice and rivalry. Later, when I could make good on every promise simmering beneath my skin.
Her cheeks flushed instantly—bright, red, and fuck-me beautiful. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, but it lit something in me. Set me on fire in a way the game never could.
Grayson flew past me toward the bench, snorting. “You two are disgusting,” he tossed over his shoulder with a laugh that sounded half bitter, half amused.
I didn’t answer. My answer was the way I slammed my visor back down and pushed off, rejoining the boys on the ice.
The crowd roared. The whole damn building shook with it.
This was it—the final stretch. We were back on the ice, the puck dropping like a grenade between us and the Scourge. They came in hot, throwing hits and shoulders like they wanted blood.
Every stride I took was calculated. Every check, every pivot, every pass—surgical precision mixed with pure instinct. My stick was an extension of my will, and my will was fucking relentless.
Five minutes left.
I spotted Riggs lurking, head down, charging like a man who still thought he had something to prove. I wasn’t going to just beat him—I was going to bury him in regret.
Luke sent the puck slicing through defenders and straight toward me. It kissed the ice, skimming low and fast. I caught it clean, my blade hugging it like a secret.
Everything else disappeared.
Crowd, noise, weight of the moment—it all faded.
It was just me. Me and the net. Me and the silence before the storm.
I weaved left—bait. Swerved right—slip past. Cut across the crease. The goalie braced, low and wide, glove twitching.
I snapped the shot off my stick.
And time restarted.
The puck rocketed through the air, kissed the top corner of the net, and hit twine with a crack like thunder splitting the sky.
GOAL.
The crowd detonated.
My teammates swarmed me, fists pumping, voices raised in shouts that shook the rafters. I was dragged down into a pile of jerseys and unhinged celebration—sweat and laughs and fists slamming against helmets.
And through it all, I looked up—past the chaos, past the blur of fans—and found her. Hands over her mouth. Eyes shining. Completely wrecked by it.
Dominic let out a roar from the bench, the sound of pride and fire and something that felt damn close to family. Luke vaulted the boards like it was his name on the goal sheet, slamming into me with a grin that said this win belonged to all of us.
But even with the team crashing in, even with Axyl howling beside me like a wolf drunk on victory, I only looked for one thing—her.
My eyes found her like gravity, like instinct. She was already on her feet, arms raised high above her head, mouth open in a cheer that punched straight through the noise. Her eyes sparkled like victory itself, and I felt the breath leave my lungs in one sharp, reverent pull.
The smile that broke across my face wasn’t for the goal. It wasn’t for the win.
It was for her.
Because in that moment, everything else disappeared—the ache in my shoulders, the sting of hits, the chaos still raging around me. All I could see was her. Lit up with joy. Lit up for me.
And that? That made every slash, every bruise, every ounce of sweat on this ice worth it.
She saw me.
And I’d go through hell again if it meant seeing that look on her face one more time—like I was more than just a jersey, more than just a player.
Like I was hers.
And yeah, I planned to keep scoring—on the ice, sure. But off it? I wanted more than goals.
I wanted a life where she was always waiting for me in the stands… and in my bed after.