30. Roman
Roman
The locker room is a fucking war zone.
Coach is pacing and barking at us about how we need to “crush those Lakehaven fucks” like our lives depend on it. His voice bounces off the walls, but I’m barely listening.
I already know the speech. It’s the same every year when we play these assholes—beat them at all costs. Win or fucking die.
I drag my jersey over my head, adjusting the shoulder pads underneath, then take a deep breath. The rivalry between Blackthorne and Lakehaven has been around longer than any of us. Even our fucking Frozen Four wins are tied. If we lose this game, we’re giving them the upper hand, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.
The tension is thick, everyone is locked in, focused, and already in battle mode. Except my brain isn’t fucking cooperating. It keeps drifting to Damon—his stupid smirk and the way he looks at me like he’s ready to tear me apart and put me back together in the same breath. I shake the thoughts out of my head, flexing my hands into fists as I try to get back in the right mindset.
This isn’t the time. This isn’t the place.
I glance across the room, locking eyes with Killian, who’s taping his stick with sharp, aggressive pulls. His jaw is clenched, his entire body wound tight, and I already know why.
Zach fucking Kane.
Killian’s personal nemesis, and the guy leading the Falcons this year. Killian and Kane have been at each other’s throats since our high school years. They’re both centers, both cocky as hell, and both hate losing more than anything.
“Kill,” I call over, my voice low, but he hears me.
“What?” he grits out, still focused on his stick.
“You good?”
His blue eyes snap to mine, filled with a familiar fire. “I’ll be good when I take Kane’s fucking head off.”
Thorn snorts from beside me, pulling on his gloves. “You say that every time, but you’ve never actually done it.”
Killian shoots him a glare. “Yeah? Maybe tonight’s the night.”
Coach’s voice cuts through the tension. “I need you all dialed the fuck in! No stupid penalties, no getting baited into bullshit, and for the love of God, don’t let those Lakehaven fuckers get under your skin.”
My jaw tightens at that. Good luck with that one, Coach.
Because then there’s my problem—Taylor motherfucking Easton.
Lakehaven’s winger. Fast as hell, aggressive as fuck, always chirping, always in my space, always trying to push my buttons. I hate that fucker. He’s just as much of a dick as Kane, but in a different way.
Kane’s got that smarmy, holier-than-thou attitude that makes Killian’s blood boil, but Easton? He’s an instigator. He loves getting in my face, running his mouth, pushing every fucking button he can until I snap.
And I do. Every time.
I exhale through my nose, shaking out my shoulders. Not tonight.
“They’ve got nothing on us,” Thorn mutters beside me, rolling his neck. “They lost three of their top scorers to the draft.”
“Yeah, well, they picked up a couple of transfers,” Killian points out. “Fucking desperate, if you ask me.”
“Whatever, man,” Wesley Matthews chimes in. “We’re still the better team. We always have been.”
Coach claps his hands together, snapping us out of our chatter. His face is red, his voice sharp. “This isn’t just any game. This is Lakehaven. Our biggest fucking rivals. They hate us just as much as we hate them, and you better believe they’ve been waiting for this game all season. So don’t give them a fucking thing.”
His gaze flicks to Killian. “King, you know Kane’s gonna come after you. Get in his head. Make him sloppy.”
Killian smirks, the kind that promises violence. “Done.”
Coach’s eyes shift to me. “Bishop.” I straighten. “Easton’s got speed, but you hit harder. If he starts pulling his usual bullshit, shut him down.”
I nod. “Done.”
“Matthews, Grayson—” Coach continues down the line, giving each of us our assignments, reinforcing strategies we already know, but it’s more than that. It’s fuel.
Because this game isn’t just about points or standings. It’s war and Lakehaven is the enemy.
Killian stands first, tapping his stick against the floor. “We’re gonna fucking murder them.”
Coach points at him. “Within the rules, King. Don’t be an idiot.”
Killian grins like the asshole he is. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Coach.”
Thorn laughs as he stands, cracking his neck. “Ready, Bishop?”
“Born ready,” I mutter, yanking my helmet over my head and snapping the chin strap into place.
The locker room door swings open, and the sound of the arena floods in—the roar of the crowd, the music pumping through the speakers, the energy so thick it’s suffocating.
Time to fucking go to war.
The second my skates hit the ice, the energy of the arena slams into me like a fucking bus. The place is packed—standing room only, and it sure as hell isn’t because everyone’s here for some clean, technical hockey. No, they came for the bloodbath.
Blackthorne vs. Lakehaven. The rivalry. The grudge match. The game where fists fly and penalties rack up before the puck even drops.
I skate a lazy circle near center ice, taking in the crowd. The student sections on either side of the rink are going insane, the banners waving, the chants already starting up.
Lakehaven’s side is packed with assholes decked out in green and black, screaming insults and flipping us off. Blackthorne’s side? Just as wild, just as loud, and already hyping us the fuck up.
I roll my shoulders, gripping my stick tighter. I can feel it in the air—tonight’s going to be brutal. I skate up next to Killian, who’s watching the Lakehaven bench like he’s about to commit a felony. “You’re vibrating, man,” I mutter.
He smirks, but it’s sharp and mean. “Kane’s gonna eat the fucking ice tonight.”
My eyes flick toward the Lakehaven bench, and sure enough, Zach Kane is staring right back at us, his helmet already off, smirking like he knows something we don’t. Killian and Kane have always hated each other, but this year, it feels personal.
On the other side of the ice, Easton skates along the boards, jawing off to one of the refs, probably bitching about something that hasn’t even happened yet. I already know he’ll be a pain in my ass tonight.
Coach is barking something from the bench, but I’m not listening. I don’t need to. We all know what we have to do.
Win. And destroy Lakehaven while we’re at it.
Lakehaven plays like they’ve got something to prove, hitting hard, pushing every boundary, and making it clear they’re here to fuck us up just as much as they’re here to win.
Fine. Let’s fucking go.
I take the first shift with Killian and Thorn, and the second I step onto the ice, I lock eyes with Easton. He’s grinning like the cocky bastard he is, his brown hair damp with sweat, green eyes burning with the kind of challenge I’ve come to expect from him.
“Missed me, Bishop?” he calls out as we skate into position.
“Not even a little,” I deadpan.
“Bullshit.” He taps his stick against the ice, eyes gleaming. “Let’s have some fun.”
The ref blows the whistle, and the game fucking starts.
The first few minutes are brutal. Every pass, every play, every movement is a fight. The crowd is insane, chanting, screaming, hyped as hell to watch us and Lakehaven rip each other apart. The atmosphere is electric, thick with tension as if the whole arena is waiting for us to snap.
And we will. We always do.
The first real hit comes when Kane slams Killian into the boards so fucking hard the glass rattles. Killian bounces off like a goddamn psycho and shoves him back, but the play’s already moved on. The refs are watching, waiting for an excuse to pull someone.
Thorn rips the puck from one of their defensemen, skating up ice like a bat out of hell before sending it my way. I take off, cutting through their zone, my eyes locked on the goalie.
And then bam—
A body crashes into mine, knocking me sideways with enough force to send my helmet damn near into my eyes. I don’t need to look to know who it is.
Fucking Easton.
I shove off him, keeping my balance as I regain control of the puck, but he’s right on my ass, pushing, jabbing, talking.
“You’re off your game, Bishop,” he taunts. “Thought you’d put up more of a fight.”
I ignore him, cutting left to shake him, but he stays glued to me.
“What’s wrong?” he presses. “Got something on your mind?” His voice drops into something mocking. “Or someone?”
My grip tightens on my stick.
Fucker.
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I dig in, pushing forward and keeping my focus on the net. Easton tries to cut me off, but I feel the play before it happens, shifting my weight at the last second and twisting around him.
He doesn’t have time to react before I snap the puck straight to Killian, who rifles it into the back of the net.
Goal.
The crowd erupts, Blackthorne fans losing their fucking minds as Killian throws his arms up in victory. I smirk, skating past Easton. “What were you saying?”
He glares, his jaw tight. “This isn’t over.”
It never fucking is, you piece of shit.
The rest of the game is a warzone. Hits get harder, penalties rack up, and the chirps get nastier. At one point, Kane and Killian are close to dropping gloves, but the refs step in before things escalate.
Lakehaven manages to tie it up in the second period, and for a while, it’s a bloodbath—both teams fighting for the edge, for the win.
It’s fucking exhausting, but this is what we live for. This is Blackthorne vs. Lakehaven.
With five minutes left in the third, we’re up by one, but the game is still anyone’s. Lakehaven’s throwing everything they have at us, desperate to even the score. Their goalie’s been solid as hell, blocking every near miss, but so has ours.
Then, with barely two minutes left, Easton gets a breakaway.
I see it happening, watching as he snags the puck, speed fucking inhuman as he shoots up the ice. He cuts through our defense like they aren’t even there, dodging every attempt to take him out.
I push hard, skating after him, closing the gap. If he scores, we’re going to overtime, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.
He winds up for a shot and I lunge, stick out, knocking the puck right off his blade. He stumbles but stays on his feet, whirling on me, pissed. “Cheap fucking move, Bishop.”
I grin, flicking the puck up the boards and out of their zone. “Cry about it.”
He shoves me, but the refs don’t call it. The final seconds are chaos—Lakehaven pulling their goalie for an extra skater and throwing everything they have at us, but they don’t score.
The buzzer blares.
Game over.
We fucking win.
The arena explodes, Blackthorne fans on their feet, screaming, chanting, losing their goddamn minds. My teammates swarm me, shoving me, hyped as hell. I can barely fucking breathe, the adrenaline pumping so hard it makes my skin buzz.
Across the ice, the Falcons look wrecked.
Kane’s expression is pure fucking fury, while Easton glares at me like he’s seconds away from starting a brawl. I shoot him a smirk, tapping my stick on the ice. “Better luck next time, asshole.”
He flips me off, but I just grin.
Blackthorne fucking wins, baby.