Chapter 13
Magnus
The arena feels colder than usual.
It’s not the kind of cold that sharpens you, but the kind that seeps under your skin and starts rotting something important.
The Wolves’ anthem’s still ringing when we line up at center ice. The crowd’s a blur of colors, the boards flashing ads I don’t bother reading. The only thing that’s clear is the burn in my chest and the name looping in my head like a curse.
I don’t say it out loud, but it echoes anyway.
The puck drops.
I explode off the line, too fast. My body remembers the rhythm, but my mind’s a half-step behind, filled with gray eyes and words I can’t forget. Every shift, every hit, every breath, he’s there.
He’s supposed to be in Silver City tonight, smiling for the cameras with Thorn. Pretending I don’t exist. Pretending we didn’t spend an entire night losing control and calling it nothing.
The thought is gasoline.
I chase the puck like it’s running from me. My blade clips ice wrong; I overcorrect and nearly clip our defenseman.
“Jesus, Magnus!” Phoenix shouts from the bench.
I wave him off, skating harder, faster. The players are quick, but I can outrun them. What I can’t outrun is obsession.
The first shift is all noise — the slap of sticks, the grind of skates, my pulse hammering in my ears. The puck hits my stick, clean pass from Jax. I should shoot. Instead, I overhandle it, trying to out-dance two defenders.
They collapse on me. One poke-check, and it’s gone.
Turnover.
By the time I pivot back, they’re breaking down our zone.
Goal. The horn blares. Pirates 1, Wolves 0.
Phoenix slams the boards. I skate to the bench, breathing through clenched teeth.
“What the hell was that?” he snaps.
“I’ve got it next time,” I mutter.
He glares. “You better.”
Next time. That’s the lie I keep feeding myself. Second shift, I hit the ice like I’ve got something to prove. The puck finds me again, and I force it toward the net. Two defenders close in. I barrel through them instead of passing. The shot clangs off the post.
The rebound’s theirs. Another rush. Another goal. Pirates 2, Wolves 0.
I punch the plastic barrier, scaring some teenager behind the glass.
My teammates’ body language shifts—that collective exhale of frustration. They don’t say it, but I feel it: Flint’s off his game. They’re not wrong. By the end of the period, I’ve racked up one assist and three penalties.
Between periods, the locker room feels like a pressure cooker. The air reeks of sweat, frustration, and disbelief.
Phoenix’s voice cuts through the noise. “Magnus. You’re done freelancing out there. You blow another assignment, you sit.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy staring at the white tape wrapped around my stick—scuffed, cracked, unraveling.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Loud and clear.”
When the second period starts, I hit the ice like a bomb. Every shift’s a gamble; I hit too late, chase too wide, pick fights that don’t need fighting. I’m skating angry, not smart, and everyone knows it.
Halfway through, Leander feeds me a perfect cross-ice pass. I see the net wide open, the goalie off balance. It should be easy.
Then something flashes in my head: Alaric’s smirk, the way he’d whispered show me fire before pulling me under him. I flinch. The shot sails high.
The Pirates scoop it, break away. Their winger beats our D-man clean, goes top shelf. 3–0.
Phoenix’s whistle pierces the air. “Flint! Bench!”
I skate over, vision tunneling. He meets me halfway down the boards, fury barely contained.
“You’re tanking this game!”
“I’m fine,” I bite out.
“Bullshit! You’re not fine, you’re a liability!”
Something inside me snaps. “You think I don’t know that?”
He steps in closer, voice low. “I don’t care what’s eating you. You’re not taking the rest of us down with you. Sit. Down.”
I slam onto the bench so hard the boards shake. My gloves creak from how hard I’m gripping my stick. I stare out at the ice, watching the Wolves scramble to save my mess.
When my next shift comes, I shouldn’t take it. I know I shouldn’t. But when Phoenix’s back turns, I hop the boards.
If I can score one, maybe it’ll quiet the noise. Maybe it’ll fix something.
The puck comes loose near the blue line. I dive for it, desperate. I manage to knock it loose, scramble to my feet, and shove it toward the slot. My teammate’s there wide open. All I have to do is pass.
Instead, I shoot.
The puck slams into the goalie’s pads. Easy save.
Their defenseman shoves me after the whistle. “Nice job, hero.”
I shove back. Hard.
Gloves hit the ice. He swings first. I don’t hesitate. My fist connects with his jaw—once, twice—before the refs pile on top of us.
The penalty box door slams behind me. The crowd’s half cheering, half booing, all noise. Blood runs down my knuckles. Two minutes for roughing. Game misconduct for unsportsmanlike.
I can see Phoenix’s expression from across the rink—disbelief curdling into rage.
He doesn’t even yell when I skate past him after the ejection. He just says, “You’re done.”
Not for the night, for the week, maybe the season if I don’t get my shit together.
I strip off my gloves, my helmet, my pride.
From the tunnel, I watch the rest of the game unravel. The Wolves pull one back in the third, but it’s too little, too late. The Pirates seal it with an empty netter. 4–2.
Final buzzer. Loss.
Because of me.
The locker room after the game is dead quiet. Even the showers sound muted. I keep my head down, pretending to re-tape my stick while the others pack up.
No one says it out loud, but I can feel it—the distance growing. A few sideways glances. A muttered “unreal” from somewhere near the benches.
Eric passes behind me, muttering under his breath, “We had that game, man.”
I don’t respond.
When the last of them filters out, Phoenix steps into the doorway. His shadow hits the floor before his voice does. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
I don’t look up. “Bad night.”
“Try bad month.” His tone hardens. “You’ve been a grenade waiting to go off. Now you have. And we’re all paying for it.”
I toss the stick into my bag, the sound sharp. “You finished?”
“No.” His voice drops. “You’re better than this, Flint. You’ve fought your way up from nothing. You used to skate like you had purpose. Now you skate like you’re trying to disappear.”
That hits harder than it should.
He steps closer, tone almost pitying now. “You’re chasing ghosts, whatever they are. Fix it before it kills your game.”
When he leaves, the silence feels heavier than his words.
I sit there long after the lights dim, the only sound the hum of the air vents. My hands ache from the fight. My ribs ache from the hit I took before the penalty. But the worst ache is in my chest, the hollow, bruised space where the emptiness lives
I should text him.
I should scream.
I should quit.
Instead, I just stare at the floor.
When I finally drag myself out to the parking lot, the sky’s the same dull gray it’s been all week. My reflection in the car window looks feral. My eyes are too bright, skin too pale.
I almost laugh.
This is what he’s done to me. He didn’t even have to try.
The quiet is worse than the noise.
The crowd’s roar used to linger in my ears after games, a living thing that followed me home. But tonight, after another loss I carved with my own hands, there’s nothing. No cheering, no booing. Just silence. It feels like it’s pressing on my skin, trying to find a way in.
My apartment smells like stale coffee and old whiskey. The lights are still off; I didn’t bother flipping them when I came in. I drop my duffel by the couch and stand there, helmet still dangling from my fingers. I can’t move.
Maybe if I don’t undress, the night won’t be real. Maybe if I just stand here long enough, I’ll blink and find myself back on the ice before everything went to hell.
The first bottle’s already open. I don’t remember opening it. I just remember the sound—the small pop—and the way it feels like permission.
The whiskey’s cheap, but it does the job.
The first swallow burns, the second numbs.
By the third, my body’s remembering what it’s like to stop shaking.
My throat is raw, my lips salt-bitten. My knuckles ache.
I can still see the look on the coach’s face when he benched me in the third period.
That disappointed mix of fury and pity. Like he already knew I’d self-destruct eventually.
Everyone did. The “Flint Fire,” they called me. Burned hot, burned fast, burned out.
I sink onto the couch and let my body go slack. The leather sticks to the sweat on my neck. I take another drink to quiet the sound of my own pulse. It doesn’t work.
The game replays in my head. Every wrong stride, every reckless hit, every stupid, desperate swing that cost us the win.
I can still hear the thud when I slammed into the boards trying to check a guy twice my size.
The crack of my stick when it snapped across the ice.
The look Phoenix gave me after the third penalty, like he didn’t recognize me anymore.
And maybe he’s right not to.
I close my eyes, but Alaric’s face is there instead—that cold, beautiful mask he wears when the cameras are on him, when the crowd screams his name like he’s some kind of saint. Ice Prince.
Untouchable. I hate that I know what he looks like underneath that armor. I hate that I love it.
Another drink. It doesn’t even sting anymore. That’s how I know I’ve gone too far, when the burn turns to warmth, when the warmth turns to nothing.
I try to convince myself I don’t care. About the loss.
About the team. About him. But my mind keeps circling back like it’s tethered to the same center.
Him. Always him. It’s not fair that I remember every moment.
It’s not fair that I can’t stop replaying it.
That he gets to walk away untouched while I’m still bleeding from something no one can see.