Chapter 29
Kennedy
The arena loomed ahead, a fortress of noise and hostility.
Every flashing light, every rumble of the crowd felt like it was aimed straight at me.
The tension in the air crackled like a live wire, and my stomach twisted into knots.
Fans crowded the sidewalk outside, their jerseys bright, their voices low and sharp with judgment.
I stepped out of the car, flanked by an escort that offered no real comfort, and squared my shoulders.
This was it. Nick needed me here.
As I walked through the main entryway, the energy shifted—whispers caught like sparks on dry kindling and spread fast. I didn’t look around.
I kept my eyes forward, refusing to acknowledge the stares burning into my skin.
It felt like walking into a firestorm with no armor except the name across my back.
Two fans passed close. Their laughter was too loud to be casual.
“Look at her. Total puck bunny,” one of them sneered.
The insult sliced deeper than I wanted to admit, but I didn’t flinch. I clenched my fists and kept walking, smoothing down the jersey I wore like it was my shield. Nick’s name stretched across the fabric like a dare.
I made my way to my seat near the glass, head held high, heart pounding against my ribs in time with the arena’s heartbeat. The crowd’s roar grew louder, and every step I took felt like walking a tightrope over open flame.
Then came the popcorn.
It hit my shoulder with a dull thud, spilling kernels across my arm and into my lap before scattering onto the floor. I froze for a breath—just one—then turned my head slowly to see where it came from. Laughter echoed nearby. A group of fans in matching jerseys didn’t even try to hide it.
“Homewrecker!” someone shouted from higher up in the stands.
Heat climbed up my neck, but I swallowed it down. No tears. No reaction. That’s what they wanted—cracks in the facade. I wasn’t going to give them that.
I brushed the popcorn away and sat down, every movement deliberate. My hands trembled slightly in my lap, but I forced them to still. This wasn’t about comfort. This wasn’t even about pride.
This was about Nick.
He needed me here—visible, grounded, unshaken. So I lifted my chin and focused on the ice, where he’d be stepping out any minute now. My gaze locked onto the tunnel at the far end, the one he’d emerge from with that fierce glint in his eye, ready to take on anyone who dared cross him.
This crowd didn’t scare me. Not anymore.
This is what he needs me to do, I told myself again. Show up. Stand tall. Be unbreakable.
So I did. I fixed my eyes forward, jaw set, back straight. Whatever storm was coming next—we’d face it. Together.
The puck dropped, and the arena exploded into chaos.
A wall of sound slammed into me from every direction—horns, chants, boots stomping against metal risers.
I could feel it in my bones. My heart kicked up to match the tempo on the ice, and suddenly I was breathless, teetering between terror and exhilaration.
I leaned forward in my seat, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of my chair. The crowd’s energy surged like electricity, hot and manic, threading under my skin. I didn’t belong here. But Nick did. And I was here for him.
He flew onto the ice like a man possessed—shoulders squared, jaw tight, every inch of him coiled for war. The moment his stick touched the puck, the world narrowed to just him. Everything else fell away.
He was beautiful like this—focused, ruthless, fluid. My breath caught watching him weave through traffic like the other players were just pylons. But then—
Crack.
Jake barreled into him with a brutal shoulder hit, knocking Nick sideways with so much force my entire body flinched. Gasps scattered through the section, but the refs didn’t move. Didn’t call it.
“Come on,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
As if that wasn’t enough, another player slashed at Nick’s stick, yanking it clean from his hands. Still no whistle. Still nothing.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to vault over the glass and make the call myself.
“Stay focused,” I whispered instead, like if I said it enough, it would be true—for both of us.
Gary’s team played dirty, and they knew exactly what they were doing. This wasn’t just a game. This was punishment. This was intimidation. And Nick was the target.
But he got back up.
Because that was what he did.
He grabbed a pass without hesitation and surged forward, cutting through the ice like he was built from blades.
The crowd roared around me, but I barely registered it.
My focus was locked on him, on the lines of his body, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the goal like it was a promise he’d made to himself.
“Come on!” I shouted, louder than I meant to, but no one heard me in the din. Or maybe they did. I didn’t care.
Nick dipped around one defender. Then another. My pulse stuttered, hope and fear tangling in my throat.
He wound up and fired.
The puck flew like a bullet, slipping past the goalie and smashing into the back of the net with a satisfying thunk.
GOAL.
The place exploded.
Cheers, screams, stomping—thunder that shook the seats. I surged to my feet, screaming so loud it scraped my throat raw. “YES! That’s it!” I shouted, not even trying to blend in.
He scored on them. Right in their house. And I was going to celebrate it.
And then—
SPLASH.
Something cold and sticky exploded across my face and chest. I blinked, stunned, as cola dripped down my cheeks and soaked into Nick’s jersey on my body. The entire row behind me erupted into laughter.
A soda.
Someone had thrown a full soda at me.
For a moment, fury pulsed so hot I saw red. My jaw locked. My whole body tensed like it was waiting for a fight. But then—I didn’t give them that satisfaction.
I reached into my purse, grabbed a napkin, and wiped my face slowly. Deliberately. Chin high.
I sat back down with pride swelling in my chest, sweeter than revenge. They could throw whatever they wanted at me.
I was still here.
Still cheering.
And that was enough.
I turned back just in time to see him skate toward our section, fresh off the goal and surrounded by teammates slapping his helmet, tugging at his jersey in triumph.
But even in the chaos of celebration, Nick peeled away—just enough to glance up through the cage of his helmet. His eyes locked on mine.
And in that second, everything else disappeared.
The jeers. The soda. The insults still clinging to the air like smoke. None of it mattered. That look—fierce, raw, and somehow soft just for me—anchored me in place.
He saw me.
He knew.
He knew I was still here, still standing, still refusing to shrink in the face of all of this. And for that brief moment, it felt like the ice, the boards, the miles of glass between us… none of it existed. Just us. Just that look.
Then the announcer’s voice thundered over the loudspeaker, “Goal scored by number 17—Nick Maddox!”
The roar that followed was instant and deafening. His name rang through the rafters, shouted by people who didn’t know him the way I did—didn’t know his demons, his doubts, or how hard he’d fought to claw his way back from everything Gary’s team had tried to strip from him.
But they cheered anyway. And I let that sound sink in.
Because they saw it too—what I saw. That he wasn’t just a player. He was a force. A storm. And he belonged here.
As the puck dropped again and the celebration faded back into the grind of play, I kept my eyes trained on him. Every stride he took pulled attention like gravity. Every shift, every check, every controlled burst of power across the ice… he wasn’t just part of the game.
He was the game.
And as the minutes ticked on and the penalties piled up—cheap shot after cheap shot, tension stretching to the breaking point—I felt something shift deep inside me. Something I hadn’t expected.
Watching him take every hit, stand back up, and push forward anyway—it cracked something open in me. Not just admiration. Not just pride. But something fiercer. Stronger. Like standing by him, through this, was reshaping the steel in my own spine.
I wasn’t just surviving tonight—I was changing.
Because this wasn’t just hockey anymore.
This was war.
This was us against everything that wanted to tear us down.
And if they thought I’d sit here quietly while they tried?
They’d have to get through me first.
That single truth burned through me like wildfire, and I held onto it with both hands.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The ice below had transformed into a battlefield—cold, ruthless, and pulsing with a tension so thick it pressed against my chest like a vice.
From my seat at the glass, it felt like I was breathing the same storm they were skating through.
Nick stood at center ice, poised like a match seconds from being lit, and across from him—Jake and Gary.
Two predators circling.
The air crackled. The energy shifted.
Nick’s posture was deceptively calm, but I saw it—his shoulders coiled tight, fingers clenched white-knuckle around his stick like it was the only thing anchoring him to sanity. His jaw was set. Focused. Dangerous.
And then there was Jake—smirking, cocky, mouth moving nonstop, spitting venom I couldn’t hear but felt in every mocking tilt of his head. Gary lingered just behind him like smoke before a fire—waiting, watching, ready to pounce the second Nick’s guard dropped.
The puck hadn’t even dropped when Jake snapped.
A blur of motion—a fist flying, smashing into Nick’s jaw before the whistle even had a chance to blow.
Gasps erupted around me like fireworks, swallowed almost instantly by a thunderous roar as the ice disintegrated into chaos. Gloves hit the rink. Helmets crashed. Fists blurred into motion. The air exploded with fury.
I shot to my feet.