Chapter 17
Mina
I tugged Nikolai’s hoodie tighter around me as I stepped into the arena, immediately hit by a blast of icy air and the wild, electric hum of anticipation.
Okay, deep breath. I could do this. Totally normal to feel like I was walking into a Marvel movie set where the heroes were all skating around with shoulder pads and knives on their feet. Totally fine.
I should be used to this.
I was… kind of.
Rarely did I ever go to Mikel's games at his request, except for the special ones where family and wives were supposed to attend.
I glanced down at myself—messy bun that was also chic (check), jeans (reliable), and a tiny top that I now realized was way too breezy for a hockey rink.
But at least I had his hoodie, swallowing me whole and smelling like clean laundry and pine and him.
My fingers curled into the sleeves, sleeves that hung way past my hands, and I suddenly felt like a little kid dressed in her crush’s jacket… because I kind of was.
I handed my ticket to the usher, my palms a little sweaty even though the air was practically arctic.
The place was massive—buzzing with fans and blaring music and snack smells that almost made me forget my nerves.
Almost. I headed down the steps toward my section, my boots clunking awkwardly, my eyes darting everywhere like I was afraid I’d miss something crucial.
And then—boom. I stepped into the stands and froze. The rink was a glowing sheet of white magic under the lights, surrounded by fans already yelling and cheering and laughing. I found my seat (after definitely checking the number like five times), sat down, and just… stared.
The music thumped through my chest as the players started filing onto the ice. And then I saw him—Nikolai. Number 91. The Russian Reaper himself, cool and deadly in his gear, slicing across the ice like it was made for him. My stomach flipped. My cheeks went warm.
That was my chaos demon in skates. And somehow, I was here. Watching him. Cheering for him. Falling for him a little more with every stride he took.
I nestled deeper into the seat, heart thudding in time with the arena’s pulsing music. The air buzzed with energy—fans shouting, laughing, waving signs like seasoned pros of this chaotic hockey world.
And me?
I was just a girl in an oversized hoodie, clutching a hot cocoa like it was my emotional support animal, trying not to feel like I’d wandered into someone else’s dream.
What was I even doing here? A week ago, I was dodging conversations and tucking myself into the shadows of a relationship where I was more secret than someone worth showing off.
Mikel never brought me to games. Never introduced me to his teammates.
He made me feel like I’d ruin his image just by existing too brightly in public.
But now?
Now I was in an arena of thousands… sitting here for a man who’d told me I was his, plain and simple.
Still, the thought crept in, quiet but sharp—what if I was just a fleeting thing to Nikolai?
A girl he won in a bet. A temporary story he’d one day laugh about.
My chest tightened around that fear, breath catching in my throat.
I stared down at the swirl of whipped cream melting in my cup, searching for reassurance in the cocoa.
And then—like magic—his eyes found mine.
He paused, one gloved hand holding his stick, and just looked. The corners of his mouth curled into that crooked smirk, the one that sent my stomach straight into the stratosphere. It lasted only a second, but I felt it everywhere.
I smiled back, small but certain. This? This felt real. I didn’t know what day thirty would bring, or what we’d be by then, but I knew right now I wasn’t hiding. I was here. In his hoodie. In his world. And he saw me.
There was twenty minutes after warmups where the Zamboni came out and cleaned the ice. I pulled out my phone and looked at the Serpents roster, trying to memorize names and numbers.
Until the lights dimmed, and the announcer’s voice boomed overhead.
The second the players surged onto the ice, the entire arena erupted like it had been struck by lightning.
I jumped—literally jumped—and almost spilled my cocoa all over my jeans.
The crowd roared around me, every voice melting into a single sound that buzzed through my chest like a drumline.
The lights seemed brighter, the rink almost glowing beneath them.
It was chaos and magic and adrenaline all at once.
And then I saw him.
Nikolai glided into view like some broody ice god carved out of marble and swagger.
My breath caught hard in my throat. There was something about the way he moved—sleek, powerful, completely in command—that made it impossible to look anywhere else.
The confidence radiating off him was magnetic.
He wasn’t just playing hockey—he was ruling the ice like it was his kingdom.
I leaned forward in my seat, the cocoa now forgotten and probably burning my palm, but I didn’t care.
I watched him handle the puck with the kind of focus that made my insides fizz.
Shot after shot, perfect aim, no hesitation.
Each one felt like a punctuation mark: bam, bam, bam—exclamation points made of ice and fury.
Every time the puck hit the back of the net, a cheer followed, but I barely registered the sound. My eyes were locked on him.
This guy. This chaos tornado of intensity and dry sarcasm and stupidly good hands—he’d kissed me in the kitchen, teased me like it was breathing, and now here he was: larger than life and twice as dangerous. And somehow, somehow, I was part of this.
When he skated by near the boards, just close enough to spot me in the stands, his head turned. Our eyes met for a second—and he winked.
Dead. I was dead. Melted right there in my seat, hoodie and all.
I covered my face with one hand and tried to suppress the very uncool squeal clawing its way up my throat. This was real. I was here. I was his—whatever that meant—and for the first time in a long time; I didn’t feel invisible. I felt electric.
My heart was straight-up sprinting in my chest when Nikolai skated past me during warm-ups.
One second, he was focused—eyes locked on the puck, shoulders tense with that trademark intensity—and the next, he looked up and found me.
It was like a lightning bolt straight to my spine.
His gaze landed on mine and didn’t waver.
And then… the smirk. That subtle, stupidly sexy tug at the corner of his mouth that said, I see you, baby.
I think I momentarily forgot how lungs worked.
Because wow. Blushing? Understatement. I was probably glowing like a human space heater.
I tugged the hoodie tighter around me like it could hide the full-body tomato transformation I was undergoing.
Behind me, the girls in Row Drama immediately lit up like a gossip bonfire.
“Oh my god, did you see that?” one of them whisper-screeched. “He winked at her. He’s totally into her!”
Another scoffed, clearly scandalized. “Are you serious? He could literally have a model. Like… any model.”
Okay. Ouch. But also? I couldn’t even be mad.
Because they weren’t wrong—he could have anyone.
And yet, there he was on the ice, glancing up at me like I was the only thing in this whole arena worth noticing.
My insides did this chaotic flip-flop thing and I couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my lips.
I sipped my cocoa to disguise the fact that I was basically floating out of my body.
And then, in true heartthrob fashion, Nikolai turned and flicked a puck toward a little boy in the front row.
The kid’s eyes went huge, like someone had just handed him a key to the city.
He beamed, hugging the puck like it was priceless, and I swear, my entire soul melted into a puddle of heart-shaped goo.
Yeah. That’s my guy.
Ruthless on the ice, soft with kids, and apparently capable of reducing me to a pile of dreamy sighs just by looking at me. What kind of sorcery was this? Whatever it was, I was in deep—and judging by the way he kept stealing glances back at me, he might be too.
The second that puck hit the ice, everything snapped into focus—and I mean everything. The crowd surged to its feet, the rumble of shouting fans vibrating beneath me like the world itself had come alive.
But all I saw was him.
Nikolai.
Number 91.
No smile now.
No wink.
Just steel behind his eyes and fire in his veins.
It was like watching a storm break open across the ice. One moment he was skating with quiet control, the next he was gone—racing down the rink like a missile with a purpose.
I leaned so far forward I nearly spilled my hot chocolate, eyes wide as I watched him weave through defenders like they were traffic cones. Holy crap, he was fast.
Ferocious.
His passes were slick, clean.
Calculated violence wrapped in grace.
And then—bam. A hit. A huge one.
I gasped—like full-on hand-to-mouth gasped—as he leveled some poor soul against the boards with a force that rattled me. The crowd roared. Someone behind me yelled, “That’s the Reaper!” and my spine did this weird mix of prideful shiver and oh my gosh who even IS this man?
Gone was the grumpy, hoodie-sharing Nikolai who kissed my neck in the kitchen. This was something entirely different. This was war.
But even as adrenaline screamed through me and my heart pounded like a snare drum, I couldn’t look away.
My fingers gripped the edge of my seat and I whispered a ridiculous little “Be careful” to the glass in front of me, even though I knew—he wouldn’t be.
He didn’t do careful on the ice. He did dominance. He did destruction.
Still, when he caught my eye again after another wicked check—helmet low, chest heaving—I swear to God I forgot how to breathe. There was no warmth in that gaze, just heat.
Challenge.
And yet somehow, I knew that fire was mine.
He was out there breaking bones with a smirk on his face, but he was still thinking of me.
And I? Was a goner.
I clutched the railing like it might keep me tethered to reality, my fingers wrapped so tight around the cold metal I was surprised it didn’t leave grooves in my palms. The world had narrowed down to one singular focus: Nikolai.
Everything else—the roaring crowd, the announcer’s voice, the sharp scent of ice and popcorn—blurred into meaningless noise as I tracked his every movement.
Then it happened.
A crash echoed so loud it felt like a gunshot.
Nikolai collided with another player at full speed, and the impact rattled the glass right in front of me.
The sound of bodies slamming against the boards sent a jolt through my spine.
I gasped, heart flying into my throat as I watched them tumble in a twisted mess of limbs and skates.
Time stopped.
The other guy got up first, already skating off, shaking his head.
But Nikolai didn’t. He lay there for a beat too long—flat on his back, one arm curled in, helmet slightly askew—and suddenly the air was gone.
Like poof, oxygen? Never heard of her. I leaned over the railing, eyes scanning every inch of him in panic.
Move, please move. Say something sarcastic. Flex. Breathe.
And then—he did. Slowly, like nothing was wrong, he pushed himself up and gave his jersey a casual brush-off.
A shrug.
I nearly screamed.
Seriously?
Was I the only one whose soul had just left their body?! Around me, the crowd went wild, none the wiser that I had just mentally drafted his eulogy.
He skated off like the prince of destruction, already ready for the next shift, and had the nerve to glance back up at me. And not just look. Smirk. Like, “Did you miss me?” Sir, I need you to stop playing chicken with my cardiovascular health.
But I didn’t yell. I didn’t wave. I just stood there, frozen, heart rattling inside my ribcage while he disappeared back into the chaos of the game. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to run down and kiss him stupid and also maybe tackle him for terrifying me.
Instead, I stood there in silence, gripping the railing like a girl who’d just realized what it meant to care about someone who had no problem throwing himself into danger with a smile on his face.
And I think… that was when I knew.
The buzzer sounded—an earth-shaking blast that sent the crowd into an absolute frenzy.
It was like an explosion of cheers, screaming fans jumping from their seats, arms flailing, drinks sloshing, and me?
I just stood there, hands frozen around my now lukewarm cocoa, heart jackhammering in my chest. Did they win?
I think they did? I was too busy having a cardiac episode over Nikolai body-checking people like a mythological beast to really keep score.
On the ice, chaos unfolded in slow motion. Sticks raised, helmets bumped, gloves were tossed in the air like confetti. I felt like I was floating in someone else’s body—dazed, lightheaded, not sure whether to cry or scream or bolt straight into his arms.
And then a voice pierced the fog.
“Hey!” I turned to find Paige—cheerful, glossy-lipped Paige—waving at me from the aisle. “Come on! They’re heading to the locker room. You should totally go!”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Totally,” I stammered, blinking like I’d just been dropped from orbit. She flashed a thumbs up and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me to figure out what to do with my cocoa, my anxiety, and my suddenly jellified legs.
I started walking, weaving through bodies buzzing with post-game high.
Every step toward the locker room hallway made my nerves hum louder, like someone had turned the volume up on my internal monologue.
What if he’s still in game mode? What if he doesn’t look at me like he did before the puck dropped?
What if I say something awkward and ruin the whole “cool girlfriend” illusion?
By the time I reached the back hallway, the energy changed—less glitzy crowd chaos, more gritty victory hum.
The air was thicker here, heavy with the scent of sweat, ice, and testosterone.
The echo of skates being unbuckled and celebratory chirps bounced off the concrete walls.
I hesitated, fingers curled nervously around the hem of Nikolai’s hoodie.
Was I really about to step into his world like this?
Then I remembered the way he looked at me before warm-ups, how he winked at me like I was his secret. How even after slamming into the boards, he got up and smirked like I was the only one watching.
And just like that, I knew: I wasn’t some background character in his life.
I was walking straight into it.