Chapter 22
Nikolai
The flight dragged on like punishment. Cramped seat, stale air, and a rookie—Ashford—talking my ear off about everything from his shot percentage to the breakfast burrito he planned to devour after the trip.
I grunted in response, not because I cared, but because I didn’t want to be a total asshole. Not yet, anyway.
On my other side, some guy had music blasting through cheap earbuds like he wanted the entire plane to suffer with him.
The bass buzzed through the armrest and into my bones.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to focus on anything else—my breathing, the steady hum of the engines, the shape of Mina’s smile.
The landing was jarring. Wheels hit tarmac with a bounce that shot pain up my spine. I stood too fast, impatient to be off the plane, and remembered too late that the next step was worse—a bus ride. Tight aisles, gear bags stacked like Tetris, teammates slouched half-conscious in their seats.
I dropped into a window seat, pressed my forehead to the cool glass, and watched the blur of the city roll past when my phone buzzed. Mina.
She’d sent a picture of a cake. It looked… rough. Like it had fought a battle and barely survived. Lopsided, dark on the edges, smeared frosting trying its best to look like it belonged there. But the text below made my chest tighten in a way I wasn’t ready for.
I snorted, a rare crack of amusement slipping past the fatigue. My fingers hovered over the screen before I responded.
The thought of her waiting for me—flour-streaked and proud, in one of my hoodies—made the hell of travel just a little more bearable.
I paused, thumb hovering over the screen before I typed again. Instead, I scrolled up, letting our messages fill the silence. Her name at the top of the thread felt like an anchor, and every line below it reminded me why I’d let myself get tethered in the first place.
There were jokes—some bad, some worse. Sass.
Memes about dogs in sweaters. But buried between the sarcasm were moments that hit like body checks.
Late-night honesty. That one conversation about boundaries that started with a meme and somehow ended with her admitting things most people wouldn’t say out loud.
She had this way of disarming me without even trying.
I didn’t expect to miss her this much. The ache came out of nowhere—quiet but sharp.
I missed the way her voice shifted when she was about to tease me, how she filled the space around her like it belonged to her.
She had become part of my rhythm, and now I was skating without her in the stands, and it felt… off.
For a few seconds, the cramped bus, Ashford’s endless chirping, the soreness in my shoulders—they all faded. There was just her, waiting somewhere back home with burnt cake and a heart I hadn’t realized I wanted to protect so badly.
I tucked my phone away. The bus hit a pothole hard enough to rattle teeth, but I barely noticed. All I could think about was getting back to her—because somehow, in all this noise and travel and chaos, she had become the only quiet I craved.
The bus rumbled to a stop in front of the hotel, brakes hissing as if exhaling relief after hours on the road.
We filed out, hauling our gear and bags in practiced silence, each of us moving on autopilot.
The hotel lobby was a blur of polished floors, neutral tones, and the faint smell of stale coffee.
I barely noticed. My focus was already shifting to what lay ahead—the game.
I tossed my bag onto the bed in my room without bothering to unpack. We weren’t here to rest.
A couple hours later, we were back on the bus and headed toward the arena.
The mood had shifted. Less chatter. More game faces.
Tension coiled tight in the air, familiar and oddly comforting.
This was the part I lived for—the ritual, the preparation, the way adrenaline started to creep in as soon as the rink came into view.
Inside the locker room, I laced up my skates and taped my stick, the rhythm of it grounding me.
Coaches barked reminders, lines were set, and then we hit the tunnel for warmups.
The arena lights were harsh and bright, casting long shadows across the pristine sheet of ice. I stepped out and let the cold hit my lungs like a wake-up call. Every stride in warmups loosened the stiffness in my legs, every shot calmed the static in my head.
We would head back to the hotel for a few hours of rest… and then, tonight… we'd play.
The visiting arena always hit differently—everything felt tighter, colder, less like home.
The locker room was dim, the benches scratched and worn, the walls bare save for some fading paint and a crooked clock that ticked far too loud.
The scent was all rubber, sweat, and stale Gatorade—nothing like our setup back in Detroit.
I settled into my corner, dragging on my pads with mechanical focus.
The routine helped. What didn’t help was the way my brain kept drifting back to Mina—her laugh, that smug little smirk when she knows she’s right, the way she’d looked in my hoodie.
Asher’s voice cut through the fog. “You’re doing that smile thing again, Reaper. Let me guess—Miss Cake Disaster sent another pic?”
I didn’t answer right away, just gave him a look and kept taping my stick. My mouth betrayed me, though—just a twitch at the corner, but it was enough.
“God, it’s like watching a rom-com with blades,” Weston groaned. He leaned back, arms crossed, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Do you two slow dance in the kitchen too? Want me to knit you matching sweaters?”
“Eat glass,” I muttered, but my tone lacked heat.
Kellen, of course, couldn’t resist chiming in. “Tell her to ditch you in a heartbeat if she wants a guy with worse dental work,” he said, flashing a grin wide enough to show off the gap front and center.
I grunted and pulled the tape tight around the blade. “She’s got standards.”
From the corner, Ryker watched the chaos with that unreadable calm of his. He didn’t say much, but the glint in his eye said it all—he knew. And he was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
“Don’t pretend you’re above this,” I called over without looking.
Ryker shrugged. “I’m here to win games, not write poetry.”
“Uh-huh.” I finished the last wrap of tape and tossed the roll into the bin. The noise, the teasing—it was the same routine we’d run a hundred times. Usually, it irritated the hell out of me. Today? It grounded me.
Weston’s voice softened, just slightly. “So? She the real deal?”
I paused, hand flexing on the stick handle. No jokes now. No walls either.
“She’s just…” I started, then stopped. The words felt clumsy for something that wasn’t.
My mind conjured up all the flashes of Mina—her laugh bubbling out like it didn’t care who was listening, her stubborn glare when she thought I was being too careful, too protective.
She was a storm and a calm sea in one breath, and somehow I kept wanting to step into both.
“She’s just what?” Asher prodded, genuinely curious now, his earlier teasing stripped away.
“She makes things easier,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair like that would keep the rest from falling out. And yeah, the moment it left my mouth, I knew how it sounded—too soft, too honest.
Kellen leaned forward, brows raised. “Easier how? Like, less screamy than your exes, or…?”
“It’s not about quiet,” I said. “It’s just…
she gets it. Me. This. The mess. She doesn’t ask for more than I can give.
Doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not.” I stared down at the blade of my stick, watching the light catch on the fresh tape.
“It’s not complicated. Or maybe it is. But she doesn’t make it feel like a burden. ”
From his corner, Ryker shifted, arms crossed, gaze thoughtful. “And that doesn’t freak you out?”
“No.” I paused, letting the silence stretch a second too long. Then I corrected, dry and honest, “Yes. Obviously.” My voice was rougher than I meant it to be.
They laughed again, not cruel—more like the kind of laughter that said, yeah, we’ve all been there. Or wished we had.
Before I could try to clean it up with sarcasm or shut it down completely, the locker room door cracked open and Coach stepped in, eyes sharp and all business. “Let’s go, gentlemen. Focus up.”
I grabbed my helmet and stood, the sound of skates clacking against tile filling the space as we made our way out. But as I stepped through that tunnel and onto the ice, I knew the truth: this wasn’t just about the game. It hadn’t been for a while.
The puck dropped, and I found myself locked in a stare-down with the opposing center. The arena roared, hostility pulsing like a living thing. I thrived on it—the pressure, the heat of a thousand eyes on me.
I leaned into the faceoff, my gloved hand brushing against the ice as I focused solely on that black disk between us.
When the referee’s whistle pierced the air, I pushed hard, snapping my stick to win possession.
My teammates surged behind me, and just like that, we were off—hockey was my language, and I spoke it fluently.
Skating fast, I kept my head up as we broke into their zone. Every stride brought adrenaline surging through my veins; this was where I felt alive. The other team threw everything they had at me—stick checks and bodies—but I kept moving, weaving through their defense like a needle through fabric.
I faked right, then cut left into the corner. With an aggressive pivot, I threw a heavy check against their defenseman—a clean hit that sent him crashing into the boards with a satisfying thud. The crowd let out a collective gasp followed by cheers from our fans drowning out their jeers.
But not everything went according to plan. Moments later, as I received a pass at the blue line and took aim for a wrist shot, it soared high over the net.
“Damn it,” I cursed under my breath as the puck clattered off the glass behind their goalie.
The first period flew by in bursts of intensity—my line generated chances but couldn’t find pay dirt yet. Shots rang off pads; pucks slid just wide of the posts. Each near miss sharpened my focus; I wouldn’t let this chance slip away.
As we skated back to our bench for a quick breather, Coach’s voice sliced through the chaos. “Stay sharp! Keep pressuring them!”
The second period began with us still searching for that elusive goal when disaster struck. A greasy rebound off our goalie’s pads slipped right to an opposing forward who buried it in our net before we could react.
“Great,” I muttered as we skated back to center ice after they celebrated like they’d just won the lottery.
Coach’s glare shot daggers from behind his bench—a storm brewing in those eyes told me he expected more from us. It was time to dig deep and turn this around.
I focused on winning every puck battle possible; frustration simmered under my skin like boiling water waiting to overflow. We pushed hard against their defense again until finally—finally—I found myself tangled up in the corner with two opposing players vying for possession of the puck.
With all my strength, I fought them off and emerged victorious, sliding it back to Weston stationed at the point with one slick no-look backhand pass. He didn’t hesitate; his shot thundered past their goalie before he could react—the net rippling behind him signaled our tie game.
The crowd erupted with mixed emotions—some cheering for us while others were clearly infuriated by what had just unfolded.
We entered the third period tied but feeling like warriors ready to seize victory at any cost. Tensions flared immediately; scrums erupted after every whistle like firecrackers going off all around me. This was hockey at its finest—the chaos felt familiar, invigorating.
Then came that moment: Ryker took a cheap shot from one of their forwards while skating near our bench. Fury ignited inside me faster than anything else ever could—it clouded judgment but fueled instinctive aggression.
“Not today,” I growled under my breath as adrenaline surged through my body like gasoline igniting in an engine.
Without thinking about consequences or penalties looming over me, I charged across the ice toward Ryker’s attacker and leveled him with an open-ice hit that sent him sprawling onto his back.
Cheers erupted from our side while boos rained down from theirs as I turned away—momentarily feeling invincible despite knowing I'd likely end up in the penalty box for roughing any second now.
Sure enough, moments later found me sitting alone in that box watching our team battle on without me—a mix of regret and exhilaration swirling inside until we got another chance on offense just moments later when they scored again.
Back on ice once more after what felt like an eternity trapped within those four walls (just long enough for Coach to give me ‘that look’), determination pulsed within me anew—I needed to finish this game strong.
A pass slid across to me near center ice; instinct kicked in as anticipation tingled along my spine—I made a clean deke through traffic toward goal with only seconds remaining before snapping that puck bar down past their unsuspecting goalie!
The arena exploded around us—our teammates mobbed me while their fans booed viciously; but nothing compared to Coach’s approving nod—a silent acknowledgment of dominance without fluff or empty words—something that spoke louder than any victory bell ever could.
As I skated back to the bench, adrenaline still coursing through my veins, the roar of the crowd faded into a dull thrum.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that settled in my chest. I wanted to turn and find her in the stands, to see her face light up when I scored.
Mina should’ve been here, cheering with that infectious enthusiasm of hers.
The memory of her laugh echoed in my mind—a sweet sound that wrapped around me like a warm blanket after a long game.
I imagined her wearing one of my hoodies, her hair falling messily over her shoulders as she bounced on her toes, waiting for the next play.
It was absurd how much I craved that image, how much I craved her.
“Nice shot!” Weston’s voice broke through my thoughts as he slapped me on the back.
“Thanks,” I muttered, but it felt hollow. The guys celebrated around me—high-fives and laughter—but all I could think about was how different it would’ve been with Mina by my side.
A part of me felt restless, ready to finish this game and race back to where she belonged: with me.