Chapter 8
Amara
Hockey games were usually background noise for me.
Growing up with Leo, the rink was just the place where I did my homework, drank lukewarm hot chocolate, and waited for my brother to finish throwing himself in front of vulcanized rubber.
It was a sensory assault of cold air, bad music, and the smell of unwashed polyester.
I watched the games, sure, but I watched them the way one watches a fish tank—mildly interested in the movement, but emotionally detached from the outcome.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, the Blackwood Arena felt less like a sporting venue and more like a colosseum. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of popcorn, beer, and raw, frantic anticipation. The roar of eighteen thousand students was a physical pressure against my eardrums.
I sat in the family section, three rows behind the Kodiaks’ bench. This was enemy territory for a Vane. Usually, I sat on the opposite side, near the goalie net, cheering for Leo. But tonight, I was fulfilling the contract. I was the Consort. I was the public face of the Sterling Alliance.
I was wearing his jersey again. Number 19.
But this time, it wasn't a punishment. It felt like armor.
I smoothed the fabric over my jeans, my palms sweating. I looked down at the ice. It was pristine, a gleaming white sheet waiting to be scarred.
“Nervous?”
I looked to my left. Mads’ girlfriend, a sweet girl named Chloe who smelled like vanilla vape juice, was watching me with sympathetic eyes.
“Me? No,” I lied, flashing my best socialite smile. “I’ve seen a million games. It’s just skating and shoving.”
Chloe laughed. “Right. But this is the Providence game. It’s a bloodbath every year. And with Ezra looking like he’s ready to murder someone…”
She nodded toward the tunnel.
The lights in the arena dropped. The bass began to thump, vibrating in the plastic seat beneath me. A spotlight hit the ice.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… YOUR BLACKWOOD KODIAKS!”
The crowd erupted. It was a primal, terrifying sound.
And then they skated out.
Ezra led them.
He moved differently than the others. While the rest of the team circled the ice with frantic energy, smashing their sticks against the boards, pumping up the crowd, Ezra was a study in lethal efficiency.
He skated with long, powerful strides, eating up the ice.
He looked massive in his pads, his shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the entire university.
He didn't acknowledge the crowd. He didn't smile. His face behind the visor was a mask of pure, cold focus.
He looked up.
For a heartbeat, I thought he was looking at the scoreboard. But then his head turned, scanning the stands. He found the family section. He found me.
Even from fifty feet away, through a sheet of plexiglass and a helmet visor, I felt the impact of his gaze. It was a physical tether snapping into place.
I see you. You are here. I am here.
He didn't wave. He didn't nod. He just held my gaze for three seconds—an eternity in game time—before turning back to center ice.
My breath hitched in my throat.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself, pressing a hand to my racing heart. “Just a game. Just a game.”
But it wasn't just a game. It was a war. And the man leading the charge was the same man who had brushed my hair out of my eyes this morning and made me oatmeal because he noticed I was too anxious to eat.
The first period was violence set to music.
Providence came out hitting. They were bigger, slower, and meaner. Their strategy was obvious: hit Sterling. If you break the Captain, the team crumbles.
Every time Ezra touched the puck, two black jerseys swarmed him. I winced as he was slammed into the boards right in front of me. The crack of bodies colliding was sickeningly loud.
Ezra didn't go down. He absorbed the hit, used the momentum to spin off the defender, and fired a pass to his winger that was so precise it looked laser-guided.
“God, he’s good,” Chloe murmured.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice tight. “He is.”
He was magnificent. It was terrifying to admit, but watching him work was like watching art in motion. He saw the game three seconds faster than anyone else. He was chess; everyone else was playing checkers.
But he was also a target.
With five minutes left in the second period, the score was tied 2-2. The tension in the arena was suffocating.
Ezra took the faceoff in the defensive zone. He won it clean, snapping the puck back to the defenseman. But the Providence center—a guy named Kowalski who looked like he chewed rocks for fun—didn't go for the puck.
He went for Ezra’s knee.
It happened in slow motion. I saw Kowalski drop his shoulder. I saw the stick come up. I saw the angle of Ezra’s leg as he turned to skate up ice.
“Ezra!” I screamed, the sound torn from my throat.
I was too late. No one could hear me over the roar of the crowd anyway.
Kowalski hit him low. Dirty. Illegal.
Ezra’s leg buckled. He went down hard, crashing to the ice in a tangle of limbs and sticks. He slid into the boards with a sickening thud.
The whistle blew.
The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that sucked the oxygen out of the arena.
Ezra didn't get up.
He lay on the ice, face down, motionless.
My world stopped. The noise faded into a dull buzz. The lights blurred. All I could see was the number 19 on his back, still. Too still.
“Get up,” I whispered, gripping the railing in front of me so hard my knuckles turned white. “Please, Ezra. Get up.”
Leo skated out from his net. He was halfway down the ice before the refs could stop him. He shoved Kowalski hard, sending the Providence player sprawling. A scrum broke out—gloves dropped, punches thrown—but I didn't watch the fight.
I only watched Ezra.
The trainer ran onto the ice.
Ezra moved. Just a twitch of his arm. He rolled over onto his back. He ripped his helmet off, tossing it aside. His face was pale, sweat-slicked hair plastered to his forehead. He grimaced, clutching his knee.
“Is he okay?” I grabbed Chloe’s arm. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice shaky. “Knees are… knees are bad, Amara.”
Ezra tried to stand. His leg collapsed under him. He slammed his fist into the ice in frustration.
The trainer said something to him. Ezra shook his head violently. He grabbed the trainer’s shoulder and hauled himself up. He stood on one leg, refusing to put weight on the left one.
The crowd started to clap. A polite, worried applause.
Ezra skated to the bench on one leg. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the scoreboard.
He looked at me.
His eyes were dark with pain, but they were burning with something else. Rage. Defiance.
I’m not done.
He disappeared down the tunnel.
I sat back down, trembling. My hands were shaking so bad I had to sit on them. I felt sick. Nauseous.
“He’s done for the night,” a guy behind me said. “That looked like an MCL tear. Season over.”
“Shut up,” I snapped, spinning around. The guy blinked, startled by the venom in my voice. “Just shut up.”
I turned back to the empty ice.
Season over.
If his season was over… his father won. His father would say hockey was a liability. He would pull the plug. Ezra would be dragged into the boardroom, broken and defeated.
I couldn't let that happen.
I stood up.
“Where are you going?” Chloe asked.
“To find him,” I said.
“You can’t go down there, Amara. It’s restricted.”
“I’m Amara Vane,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Rules are suggestions.”
I bluffed my way past two ushers and a security guard who looked like he wanted to argue but decided my heels were sharp enough to be considered weapons.
The hallway outside the locker room smelled of rubber mats and anxiety. I could hear the muffled sounds of the game continuing above us, but down here, it was quiet.
I saw the trainer’s room door open.
Ezra walked out.
He wasn't limping. Or at least, he was trying very hard not to. His left knee was wrapped heavily in black tape. He had put his helmet back on.
“Ezra!”
He stopped. He turned.
When he saw me, the mask cracked. Just for a second. Relief washed over his face, softening the hard lines of pain.
“Amara,” he breathed. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the stands.”
I ran to him. I stopped just short of throwing my arms around him, remembering the injury.
“I thought you were dead,” I said, my voice trembling. “I thought your leg was snapped in half. What are you doing? You can’t go back out there.”
“It’s just a sprain,” he lied. I knew it was a lie. I could see the tightness around his eyes. “They taped it up. I took a shot. I can skate.”
“You’re insane,” I whispered. I reached out and touched his chest, feeling the hard plastic of his shoulder pads. “Ezra, don’t do this. It’s one game. If you hurt it worse… if you tear it…”
“If I sit out,” he interrupted, his voice low and fierce, “Providence wins. And my father sees me being carried off the ice. He sees weakness.”
He grabbed my hand, pressing it against the logo on his chest.
“I need to finish this, Amara. I need to show him I can take a hit and keep standing.”
I looked up at him. I saw the desperation. I saw the little boy with the ledger.
He wasn't playing for the team right now. He was playing for his life. For his autonomy.
“Okay,” I said. Tears pricked my eyes. “Okay. But if you fall… I’m coming onto the ice and dragging you off myself.”
He smirked. It was a pained, tight expression, but it was there.
“I believe you.”
He leaned down. His gloved hand cupped the back of my head. He kissed me.
It was hard, fast, and tasted of sweat and Gatorade. It was an adrenaline kiss. A soldier kissing his girl before running back into the fire.
“Watch me,” he whispered against my lips. “Just watch me.”
He pulled away and marched back toward the ice. He was limping slightly, but with every step, he forced his spine straighter.
I watched him go.
“I’m watching,” I whispered.
The third period was the longest twenty minutes of my life.
Ezra was back on the ice. The crowd went insane when he skated out. Even the Providence players looked rattled. It’s hard to intimidate a guy who just rose from the dead.
He was slower. He couldn't pivot as fast on his left leg. But what he lost in speed, he made up for in sheer, brutal determination.
He played angry. He checked Kowalski so hard into the glass that I thought the pane might shatter. He won every faceoff. He was everywhere.
Tie game. One minute left.
Blackwood had the puck. Ezra carried it into the zone. He was swarmed. Two defenders. He should have passed. Any other player would have passed.
Ezra didn't pass.
He dropped his shoulder, faking left, putting all his weight on the bad knee. I saw him wince, saw his leg tremble, but he held the edge. He spun right, leaving the defender in the dust.
He had a clear lane to the net.
He wound up for a slap shot.
The goalie sprawled.
CRACK.
The sound of the stick hitting the puck echoed like a gunshot.
The red light flashed.
GOAL.
The arena exploded. The noise was deafening. Beer rained down from the balcony. People were screaming, hugging strangers.
Ezra didn't celebrate. He didn't raise his arms. He simply coasted to the boards, leaned his forehead against the glass right in front of where I was standing, and closed his eyes.
He was exhausted. He was in agony.
But he had won.
I stood there, tears streaming down my face, pressing my hand against the glass on the other side.
“You idiot,” I sobbed, laughing. “You magnificent idiot.”
He opened his eyes. He saw my hand. He placed his gloved hand against the glass, mirroring mine.
For a moment, amidst the chaos of eighteen thousand screaming fans, we were the only two people in the world.
And then his teammates swarmed him, burying him in a pile of black and gold.
The adrenaline crash hit about an hour later.
I waited for him in the players' parking lot. The crowd had dispersed, leaving only the scattered debris of victory—solo cups, confetti, the echo of cheers.
It was snowing again. Light, fluffy flakes that coated the windshield of his Aston Martin.
The door to the arena opened.
Ezra walked out.
He was moving slowly. He had showered and changed into his suit, but he was leaning heavily on a cane. A cane.
My heart broke a little.
He saw me leaning against his car. He stopped.
“You waited,” he said.
“I told you I was watching,” I said. I pushed off the car and walked toward him. “Give me the keys. You can’t drive. Your leg is shot.”
He hesitated, his pride warring with his pain. Then, he sighed and tossed me the keys.
“Don’t scratch the rims,” he muttered.
“Get in the car, Sterling.”
I helped him into the passenger seat. He groaned as he settled the bad leg, his face going grey with pain.
“Did you take anything?” I asked, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Trainer gave me ibuprofen,” he grunted. “It’s like throwing a pebble at a tank.”
I started the engine. The heater roared to life.
“We’re going home,” I said. “I’m icing that knee. And you are going to eat something that isn't protein powder.”
He looked at me. His eyes were heavy, lidded. The adrenaline was gone, leaving him stripped raw.
“Amara?”
“Yeah?”
“My father called.”
My hands tightened on the wheel. “When?”
“Right after the game. While I was in the ice bath.”
“What did he say? Did he see the goal?”
Ezra turned his head to look out the window.
“He said I looked slow in the third period. He asked if the injury would impact my ability to walk into the boardroom on Monday.”
Silence filled the car.
I felt a surge of rage so pure it almost blinded me. He had played on a torn ligament. He had won the game. And his father criticized his speed?
“He’s a monster,” I whispered.
“He’s consistent,” Ezra said tiredly. “But he’s still coming to dinner tomorrow. And now… now he smells blood in the water. He knows I’m hurt. He’s going to push.”
He reached out and placed his hand on my thigh. His fingers were cold.
“I need you, Amara. Tomorrow. I really need you.”
I covered his hand with mine.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re a team, remember? Us against the ledger.”
He closed his eyes.
“Us against the ledger,” he murmured.
He was asleep before we pulled out of the parking lot.
I drove through the silent, snowy streets of Blackwood, glancing over at him every few seconds. He looked peaceful when he slept. Younger.
I realized then that Jules was right. I was in trouble.
Because I wasn't just faking it anymore. I wasn't just attracted to him.
I would do anything for him. I would fight his father. I would lie to my brother. I would bankrupt myself again just to keep that look of pain off his face.
I was in love with Ezra Sterling.
And tomorrow night, at dinner with the devil, I had a feeling that love was going to be the only weapon we had left.