Chapter 8
Jess
The sound of a hockey arena is a living thing.
It breathes. It screams. It vibrates in the hollow of your chest and rattles your teeth.
It is a cacophony of organ music, drunken shouting, the slap of vulcanized rubber against plexiglass, and the terrifying, bone-deep thud of bodies colliding at twenty miles per hour.
Technically, I was neither. I was a contractual employee with a fake title and a very real anxiety disorder that was currently making me shred a napkin into confetti in my lap.
But to the world, I was Jessica Monroe, girlfriend of Captain Nicklas Vance.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing his jersey. Number 19. It was oversized, the heavy black mesh swallowing my frame, the sleeves rolling down over my hands. On the back, the name VANCE was stitched in white letters that felt like a target.
Wearing it felt like wearing a flag. It was a declaration of allegiance. It was a claim.
"Relax, honey," the girl next to me said. Her name was Brittany, and she was dating the starting goalie. She had perfectly curled blonde hair and nails that looked like talons. "It's just the first period. If you hyperventilate now, you'll pass out by the third."
"I'm not hyperventilating," I lied, my voice tight. "I'm just... cold."
"It's an ice rink," Brittany said, applying lip gloss without looking in a mirror. "It's supposed to be cold. That's why we wear the jerseys. They smell like them, right? It's comforting."
I lifted the collar of the jersey to my nose surreptitiously. She was right. Under the smell of commercial laundry detergent, there was the faint, lingering scent of sandalwood and Nick. It was comforting. It was also maddening.
It reminded me of the wall in the penthouse hallway. The way his body had felt pressed against mine. The way he had stopped just before ruining us both.
I have to protect you. Even from me.
The memory sent a flush of heat through me that had nothing to do with the arena temperature.
"Here they come!" Brittany shrieked, jumping up.
The lights in the arena dropped. The bass of the intro music kicked in—something heavy, aggressive, designed to spike adrenaline. The jumbotron flashed a montage of violent hits and goals.
Then, the tunnel lights flared red.
The Blackwood Sentinels skated out.
They didn't look like students. They looked like gladiators. They were massive in their pads, hulking shapes of black and silver, moving with a speed that defied physics. The sound of their skates cutting into the fresh ice was a collective shhhh-shhhh-shhhh that raised the hair on my arms.
And there, leading them, was Nick.
He didn't skate like the others. He glided. He looked predatory. His helmet visor obscured his eyes, but I knew the expression behind it. The flat, grey stare. The calculation.
He took a lap, his stick handling a puck with lazy, terrifying precision. He circled the defensive zone, banged his stick against the goalie’s pads—a ritual—and then drifted toward the center line.
He stopped right in front of the glass where I was sitting.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the cheerleaders.
He looked right at me.
Through the scratched plexiglass, through the glare of the lights, he locked onto me. He saw the jersey. He saw the shredded napkin in my hand.
He didn't smile. Nick Vance didn't smile on game day.
He tapped his gloved hand against the glass. Once. Right in front of my face.
It was a nod. An acknowledgment. I see you. You're mine.
My heart stopped. The air left my lungs.
Brittany grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. "Oh my god. Did you see that? He literally just claimed you in front of five thousand people. If Carter doesn't wave at me next period, I’m dumping him."
I couldn't speak. I just pressed my hand against the cold glass where his glove had been.
The whistle blew.
The game began.
And I realized, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that I wasn't watching a sport. I was watching a war.
The violence of hockey is different on TV. On a screen, it looks fast, sure. But in person, sitting against the glass? It’s visceral.
It’s the sound of a shoulder checking a chest that sounds like a car crash. It’s the spray of ice that flies up when they stop. It’s the sheer size of the men and the velocity at which they are trying to hurt each other.
Nick was a monster.
I had seen him in the gym. I had seen him in the kitchen. I knew he was strong. But this... this was different.
He dominated the ice. He was everywhere. He won every faceoff, his wrists snapping with a speed I couldn't track. When he had the puck, the other team—The State Bulldogs, wearing ugly crimson jerseys—swarmed him.
They knew who he was. They knew he was the draft pick. They knew he was the threat.
So they hunted him.
Every time Nick touched the puck, a crimson jersey was there, trying to take his head off.
"Watch out!" I gasped as a linebacker-sized defender slammed Nick into the boards right in front of me.
The impact shook the glass. My drink rattled in the holder.
Nick didn't even stumble. He absorbed the hit, used the momentum to spin off the defender, and fired a pass to Jax, who was streaking down the wing.
Jax scored. The red light flashed. The horn blasted. The crowd went insane.
But I wasn't watching the goal. I was watching Nick.
He was bent over slightly, his hands on his knees. Just for a second. Then he straightened up, shook his head, and skated to the bench.
He was limping.
It was subtle. To anyone else, it just looked like a swagger. But I knew his gait. I knew the specific mechanics of his left hip flexor. He was favoring it.
"He's hurt," I whispered.
"Who? Vance?" Brittany asked, clapping. "Nah, he's a machine. He's made of titanium and daddy issues. He's fine."
"He's not fine."
I watched him on the bench. He wasn't sitting. He was pacing behind the coaches, keeping the leg moving. I saw him reach down and rub his hip, a quick, sharp motion.
He looked up at the VIP box. The glass-fronted suite high above the ice.
I followed his gaze.
Standing there, holding a drink, was an older man. He had silver hair and wore a suit that probably cost more than the arena. He wasn't cheering. He was just watching.
Nick's father.
I felt a surge of irrational anger. Get down here, I thought furiously. Get down here and ask him if he's okay instead of grading him like a racehorse.
The game dragged on. The score was close, 2-1 Blackwood. The tension in the arena was ratcheting up. The hits were getting later. dirtier.
In the third period, with five minutes left, disaster struck.
Nick had the puck in the neutral zone. He was flying, cutting through the defense with that effortless grace that made everyone else look like they were skating in mud. He crossed the blue line, deked around one defender, and wound up for a slap shot.
He was exposed. His arms were up, his body extended.
A State defenseman—number 55, a giant with a neck tattoo and a reputation for headhunting—didn't play the puck. He lined Nick up.
He came from the blind side.
"Nick!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat.
It was too late.
Number 55 launched himself. His shoulder drove directly into Nick’s left side. Into the bad hip.
The sound was sickening. A crack. A thud.
Nick went down.
He didn't slide. He crumpled. He hit the ice hard and didn't move.
The whistle blew. A fight broke out immediately. Jax dropped his gloves and started pummeling Number 55. The crowd was roaring for blood.
But the world went silent for me.
My vision narrowed to a tunnel. All I could see was Nick, lying face down on the ice, black jersey stark against the white.
"Get up," I whispered, gripping the railing until my knuckles hurt. "Please, Nick. Get up."
He didn't move.
The trainer ran out onto the ice.
I stood up. I didn't mean to. My legs just moved. I needed to get to him. I needed to jump over the glass. I needed to put my hands on him and check the muscle, check the bone.
"Jess, sit down," Brittany pulled at my jersey. "You can't go out there."
"He's not moving, Brittany!"
"He's just winded. Give him a second."
A second felt like an hour.
Then, slowly, Nick moved. He rolled onto his back. He ripped his helmet off, throwing it onto the ice in frustration. His hair was matted with sweat. His face was contorted in a grimace of pure agony.
He grabbed the trainer's arm. He tried to stand.
His left leg buckled.
He went down to one knee.
A hush fell over the crowd. The invincible Nick Vance had fallen.
I felt like I was going to throw up. My stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot.
He tried again. This time, Jax and Miller were there. They hooked their arms under his shoulders, lifting him up.
Nick shook them off.
He stood on his own. He swayed, his face pale, but he stood. He glared at the ref. He shouted something—probably an obscenity.
Then, refusing help, he skated to the bench.
He didn't glide this time. He dragged the leg. Every stride looked like torture.
He got to the bench and didn't sit. He leaned heavily against the boards. The trainer tried to talk to him. Nick shoved him away. He pointed at the clock.
Four minutes left.
"He's not going back in," I said, horrified. "He can't go back in."
"It's a one-goal game, babe," a guy behind me said. "If he can stand, he plays. That's hockey."
"That's stupid!" I snapped, turning around. "It's a game! He's going to ruin his leg!"
The guy just shrugged. "He wants the W."
I looked back at Nick. He was taking a water bottle, squirting it over his head, washing the sweat and the pain away. He slammed his helmet back on.
He looked up at the VIP box again. His father hadn't moved.
Then he looked at me.
His eyes were shadowed by the visor, but I felt the weight of his gaze. It was heavy. Apologetic. Defiant.
Watch me, it said.
The ref dropped the puck.
Nick jumped over the boards.