Chapter 12
Nikolai
The locker room was a circus. Asher stood shirtless in front of the mirror, dabbing eye black on like he was painting war stripes, muttering something about “aura defense” and “channeling primal rage.”
Kellen was upside down on the bench, legs hanging over the top, scrolling through his phone like the blood rush to his head was part of his morning routine. “Hey, hey,” he called out. “Who’s got my Sour Patch Kids? Don’t lie. I’ll smell your guilt.”
Weston just leaned against his stall with that slow, lazy grin of his. “You’re all exhausting,” he said, unwrapping tape like it was a cigar. “And yet, this is the highlight of my week.”
“Because you’re a sociopath,” Kellen replied cheerfully.
“Incorrect,” Weston said, eyes glinting. “I’m just more evolved than the three of you feral raccoons.”
Asher turned dramatically, towel around his neck like a scarf, brandishing his stick like a saber. “Speak for yourself, I am a goddamn sea captain of violence.”
“Sea captains don’t skate,” I muttered without looking up, lacing my skates tight. “They sink.”
Asher threw a sock at me. “Blasphemy, Reaper!”
I let it hit me. Didn’t even flinch. My reward was Weston’s low chuckle and Kellen’s golf clap from upside down.
That was the balance. They talked. I smirked. They set fires. I made sure the flames didn’t spread too far.
I sat at my stall, methodical as ever. The locker room swirled around me in chaos—jokes, slams of locker doors, the crinkling of tape being yanked from rolls—but I shut it all out.
Pulled on my base layer, flexed my fingers.
My jersey hung next to me like armor waiting to be claimed.
My routine didn’t change. I didn’t rush, didn’t speak. Just worked.
I grabbed the roll of white cloth tape from my bag and pulled my stick across my lap.
The blade was already clean—I’d scraped the last remnants of the old wrap off the night before.
I began at the toe, wrapping it tight and smooth, overlapping each pass with the precision of a surgeon.
This part always steadied me. Ritual, control, clarity.
The room could burn around me, but I’d still get the toe curve perfect.
Around me, someone cackled—probably Kellen—and Asher launched into some absurd story about a haunted vending machine in a Saskatchewan arena.
I tuned them out. Every tug of tape brought me back to center.
When I was finished, I flipped the stick once in my hands, tested the weight.
Ready. I slid on my jersey, tugged the laces tight at the collar.
This was the part where the switch flipped—where I stopped being the man who made her coffee this morning and became the Reaper again.
Only now, maybe the two weren’t so different.
I leaned forward, tightening the laces on my skates with practiced precision.
Left first, always—double knot at the top, firm but not cutting off circulation.
The boot creaked slightly as I flexed my ankle, checking the tension.
Satisfied, I repeated the process on the right, then leaned back, letting the cold from the floor seep into my bones while I ran a hand through my hair.
The rest of the team still buzzed like hornets around me, but my head was already on the ice.
Stepping through the tunnel onto the rink, I inhaled deep.
The familiar blast of cold hit me first, then the sharper scent of fresh ice—clean, untouched, waiting.
My blades touched down with that familiar crunch, and I pushed off, gliding effortlessly into the wide, open space.
The arena lights shimmered off the surface, casting reflections that danced beneath me.
It was quiet for now, just the echo of steel on ice and the low murmur of early warm-ups.
I picked up speed slowly, testing my edges, weaving between cones like it was instinct.
It was. Each stride stretched out the tension in my legs, my body syncing with the rhythm I knew better than breathing.
A few of the guys joined me, calling out to each other, but I stayed silent, locked into the glide.
The ice didn’t care about what happened outside this rink.
It didn’t ask questions. It gave back exactly what I put in.
And right now, all I wanted was that clean, cutting silence—and maybe a reason to skate a little harder than usual.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement—up in the stands.
I didn’t need to look long to know who it was.
Mina, bundled in one of her cardigans, sleeves too long, fingers barely visible as they curled around a cup that was probably hot chocolate.
Her legs swung slightly where she sat, like she couldn’t sit still even if she tried.
She looked small in the sea of empty seats, but somehow brighter than all of them combined.
When she spotted me, her face lit up like I’d just scored a hat trick. She raised her cup in greeting, then gave a little wave with her free hand, eyes crinkling with that sunshine smile that knocked the breath out of me more effectively than a shoulder to the ribs.
My lips twitched, almost a smile, but I didn’t wave back.
Not here.
Not now.
I had a reputation to maintain. But the fact that she was here, watching, was suddenly all I could think about.
I didn’t understand it—how Mikel had spent so long trying to hide her like she was some kind of secret. Something inconvenient.
Embarrassing.
I looked at her again, her nose pink from the cold, her messy bun slipping out of place, and felt something twist low in my gut. He’d had this—her—and still threw it away like it meant nothing.
If it had been me back then… I wouldn’t have hidden her. I’d have made damn sure the whole world saw her standing beside me.
Coach Bennett’s whistle sliced through the chill, sharp and commanding.
Like clockwork, we all broke from warmup skating and coasted over to the bench.
Blades hissed against the ice as we circled in, sticks tapping against shin pads, a few stray laughs still trailing from the last round of chirping.
The second Bennett raised the clipboard, though, silence fell.
He didn’t demand it—we just knew better.
He stood tall in his puffer jacket, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his cap, and looked at each of us like he could see every move we hadn’t made yet.
“We’ve got three days until Toronto,” he started, voice low but firm, with that same gravel-smooth tone that could both motivate and intimidate.
“You’ve got a good record behind you, but that won’t mean shit when they show up with fresh legs and faster hands.
So today, we tighten everything.” He pointed toward the far end of the ice.
“Breakouts, neutral zone movement, aggressive forechecking. You know the drill.”
He flicked his pen toward the whiteboard now clipped to the side of the bench, walking us through the structure for the next hour like he was orchestrating a military operation.
No wasted time.
No wasted breath.
Just clean systems, smart passes, and skating until your legs burned.
Around me, guys nodded, a few exchanged determined looks, but my eyes flicked once more to the stands before I forced myself to focus. Bennett wasn’t one for second chances, and if you weren’t dialed in, he’d let you know fast.
The second Bennett blew the whistle again, I was off.
First drill—breakouts. Simple enough, but not if your mind wandered.
I dropped low, collected the puck clean off the boards, pivoted, and sent a crisp pass up the ice to Weston, who took off down the wing like a freight train.
We moved in synchronized chaos, each piece of the puzzle clicking into place.
I didn’t have to think—my body knew what to do.
But my mind?
That kept wanting to drift up to the stands.
I forced my focus back.
Puck control drills came next.
Tight turns around cones, weaving through pylons like they were defenders on the hunt. I dropped my shoulder, cut sharp, and shifted the puck from forehand to backhand without missing a beat.
The sound of my blade slicing into the ice grounded me, each pass of steel through cold bringing me back to the moment.
These were the drills that demanded perfection—and I didn’t know how to give anything less.
Then came the forecheck systems—two forwards deep, pressure in waves.
I sprinted in on the puck carrier like I meant to rip the stick from his hands. Kellen laughed when I shouldered him off balance, but I didn’t let up.
Puck control was about violence and grace—hit hard, take the puck, move like a ghost. I fed it out to Asher, who whipped it to the point before taking off again. Fast, clean, ruthless. Just how I liked it.
Bennett shouted praise to the group but didn’t name names. He never did. You knew when you’d done it right. You knew by the nod he gave you, the barely-there smile, the lack of criticism. That was the goal—to fly under the radar because you didn’t need correction. I aimed for that every practice.
I couldn’t afford to be sloppy.
Not in front of the team.
Not in front of her.
Next up were neutral zone transitions. Quick regrouping, hard pivots, full-speed stretch passes. It was the kind of drill that punished you for hesitation.
One wrong read and you left your linemate stranded or opened a lane for the other team.
I stayed sharp.
Head up, stick down, always moving.
I wasn’t the fastest guy out there, but I read the ice like it was a second language burned into my bones.
By the time we hit line rushes, sweat slicked my back and my lungs burned in the best way.
We rotated through formations, attacking with speed, cutting through imaginary defense.
Each rush ended with a shot, and mine was always low-glove—accurate, fast, deliberate.
I didn’t celebrate.
I skated back to the line, caught my breath, and locked in for the next round. This was what I did. This was who I was.