Chapter 50 Koa
Koa
The ice doesn’t lie.
That’s the first thing my old coach taught me when I was fourteen and angry at the world—the ice shows you exactly who you are.
It reveals every hesitation, every weakness, every moment you’re not fully committed.
You can’t fake it out here. Can’t charm your way through a play or talk your way out of a mistake.
Out here, you’re either good enough or you’re not.
And right now, I’m fucking unstoppable.
The whistle blows and I explode forward, stick handling the puck like it’s magnetized to my blade.
Jenkins tries to cut me off at center ice but I’m already past him, using that burst of speed that made scouts interested in me freshman year.
The cold air burns my lungs in the best way, sharp and clarifying.
Two defenders converge on me as I cross the blue line. I fake left, drop my shoulder right, and split them so clean they crash into each other behind me. The goalie—Thompson, senior, solid but not spectacular—squares up in his crease.
I wind up and release.
Top shelf. Glove side. The puck hits the back of the net with that perfect ping of rubber on metal, and I’m already turning away before Thompson can even process what happened.
“Fucking hell, Kane!” Jenkins pants as he skates past.
I don’t respond. Just circle back to center ice for another drill.
Coach stands at the boards, clipboard in hand, whistle hanging from his neck. He’s been watching me like a hawk since I came back four days ago—checking to make sure the “family emergency” that took me out for a week didn’t break something essential.
But I’m not broken.
I’m sharper than I’ve ever been.
“Again!” Coach barks. “Defense, actually try this time!”
The team groans but lines up. We’ve been at this for ninety minutes already, running drills until our legs burn and our lungs scream.
But I could do this for hours. The ice is the only place that makes sense right now, the only place where the rules are clear, and violence is not just acceptable but celebrated.
Out here, I can hit someone and it’s strategy.
Out here, I can draw blood and get a penalty instead of a life sentence.
The whistle blows again and I’m moving, reading the play before it develops. I intercept a pass meant for our second line center, pivot hard enough to spray ice, and take off down the wing. Two guys on me now—good, I want the pressure.
I accelerate, feeling the burn in my quads, the pull in my injured ribs that I’m ignoring because pain is just information and this information doesn’t matter. What matters is the puck, the net, the perfect angle of approach.
I deke right, go left, and bury it five-hole.
“Jesus Christ,” someone mutters.
Coach blows the whistle three times—practice over. “Hit the showers! Koa, my office. Now.”
I skate to the bench, breathing hard but not tired. Could go another hour easy. My teammates are doubled over, gasping, but I feel alive in a way I haven’t since before the warehouse.
Maybe violence is violence, whether it’s sanctioned or not.
Coach’s office smells like Cheetos. He sits behind his desk and gestures for me to sit. I don’t. Just lean against the doorframe, stick still in hand.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks, cutting straight to it.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.” He leans back in his chair. “You’ve been gone a week with some vague family emergency, you come back looking like you went ten rounds with a heavyweight, and now you’re playing like...” He waves his hand, searching for words. “Like you’re trying to prove something.”
“I’m always trying to prove something.”
“Not like this.” His eyes narrow. “You were good before. Now you’re... mean. Faster. Like you’re exorcising ghosts out there.”
The word hits too close. I keep my face neutral. “Just focused.”
“Focused.” He doesn’t believe me. “That what we’re calling it?”
“Is there something you wanted, Coach? Or can I shower?”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Blackridge is coming up next week. Friday night. Home game.”
My blood spikes instantly. The stick in my hand creaks as my grip tightens.
Blackridge.
Revan. Atticus.
“Good,” I hear myself say. “Been waiting for that one.”
Coach’s eyebrows rise. “You know someone on their team?”
“You could say that.”
“Personal?”
“Very.”
He nods slowly, like this explains something. “Keep it clean, Koa. I don’t need you starting fights and sitting in the box all game. Channel whatever this is—” he gestures at me, “—into playing. Use it. Don’t let it use you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get out of here.”
The locker room is chaos—guys stripping out of gear, chirping each other, music blasting from someone’s phone. The smell is ripe with sweat and that specific funk that comes from hockey equipment that never fully dries.
I head to my stall and start peeling off my pads. Everything aches in that good way that means I worked hard. My ribs protest when I lift my arms over my head to pull off my practice jersey, but I grit my teeth and power through.
“Yo, Koa.” Chase appears beside me, already showered and dressed. “You good, man?”
“Fine.”
“You’ve been playing like you’re possessed or some shit.”
I glance at him. “Problem?”
“Nah, just...” He scratches the back of his neck. “You know if you need to talk or whatever—”
“I’m good.” I turn away, making it clear the conversation’s over.
He gets the hint and backs off. The rest of the team gives me space too, reading the energy correctly. They don’t know what’s different about me, only that I’m unrecognizable from the version of myself who existed two weeks ago. Only Oxy remains my orbit, but he doesn’t say much.
I’m halfway through unlacing my skates when I sense her. Look up and there she is in the doorway, hood pulled up, coffee cup in hand, those brown eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room.
Lexi.
She’s been coming to practice this week, sitting in the stands with her coffee and her hoodie, watching me skate. Never says much after, just watches. But I feel her eyes on me every second I’m out there, and it makes me play harder.
Makes me want to show her what I’m capable of when the violence is sanctioned.
“Give us the room,” I say without looking away from her.
The guys exchange glances but don’t argue. They know better. Within two minutes the locker room empties, leaving just us and the smell of sweat and the distant sound of the ice resurfacer.
Lexi steps inside, letting the door close behind her. She takes a slow sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. I’m still in my compression shorts and pads, shirtless, sweat cooling on my skin.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“I can’t help it.”
I set my skate aside and stand, closing the distance between us. She doesn’t back up, doesn’t flinch. Just watches me approach with something that might be amusement in her eyes.
“How’d I do?” I ask, stopping close enough to feel her breath.
“Honestly?” She tilts her head. “You looked like you were trying to kill someone.”
“Maybe I was.”
“Who?”
I take the coffee cup from her hand and set it on the bench behind me. “Does it matter?”
“Not really.” Her eyes drop to my chest, tracking the bruises that are still healing, the tape around my ribs that’s more psychological than functional at this point. “You’re going to hurt yourself playing like that.”
Instead of replying, I kiss her. She tastes like coffee and something sweet underneath, and when she opens her mouth for me I feel that hunger spike—the same one that makes me dangerous on the ice.
Her hands come up to my chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle and the edges of bruises. I hiss when she presses on a particularly sore spot and she pulls back.
“Sorry—”
“Don’t be.” I grab her wrist, guide her hand back to the spot. “I like it.”
She presses harder and I groan, the pain mixing with pleasure in a way that’s fucked up and perfect.
I walk her backward until she hits the lockers with a metallic clang. My hands find the hem of her hoodie and I pull it up, over her head, leaving her in just a tank top. Her skin is cool from being outside, and I press my overheated body against hers, chasing that contrast.
“Someone could come in,” she says, but she’s already pulling at my compression shorts.
“You think I give a fuck if someone watches?”
We’re frantic, desperate, all hands and mouths and need. I get her jeans open and shove them down her hips. She’s already wet when I touch her, and the knowledge makes something possessive roar in my chest.
“Tiger,” I growl against her neck. “I don’t know if you need me to be soft or if I can just––”
“You made me like it rough.” Her nails dig into my shoulders. “Don’t be nice.”
I don’t have a condom. I should stop, should be responsible, but fuck—I need this too much. Need to feel her, claim her, remind both of us that we’re alive.
“Are you—”
“The pill,” she gasps. “Now fuck me.”
That’s all I need. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, and push inside her in one smooth thrust. We both groan at the sensation—no barrier, nothing between us, just skin and heat and desperation.
I set a brutal pace, each thrust driving her back against the lockers. The metal rattles with the force but I can’t bring myself to care. All that exists is her wrapped around me, the sound of her gasping my name, the perfect friction that’s building toward something explosive.
“Fuck,” she moans, her head falling back. “Koa—”
“Look at me.” I grab her jaw, forcing her eyes to mine. “I want to see you.”
She does, and the vulnerability in her gaze does something to me. Makes this more than just sex, more than just release.
Makes it mean something.
I adjust the angle, and she cries out, clenching around me. “There—right there—”
I hit that spot again and again, watching her fall apart in my arms. When she comes it’s with a scream she tries to muffle against my shoulder, her whole body shaking.
The sensation of her tightening around me sends me over the edge. I bury myself deep and come with a groan that’s more growl than human, everything in me emptying into her.
We stay like that for a moment, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Her legs are still wrapped around my waist, my hands supporting her ass, and I never want to move.
“We should probably—” she starts.
“Not yet.”
I press into her, staying locked together. Her pussy’s beautiful, tight, and satisfying.
Eventually I lower her carefully, helping her stand on shaky legs. We dress in silence, stealing glances at each other, and there’s something different in the air now. Something settled.
We move to the bench, and she curls into my side, her head on my shoulder. My arm goes around her automatically, holding her close.
“Why don’t you want to share me?” she asks suddenly, voice quiet. “It could be fun.”
I stare at the top of her head. “No. No fucking way. You’re mine.”
She pulls back to look at me, eyebrow raised. “I’m not only yours.”
The words make my jaw clench. “You are when you’re with me.”
“Koa—”
“I know what they are to you. I know what happened at the hotel.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “But when you’re here, with me, you’re mine. Just mine.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I don’t give a fuck about fair.” I grab her chin, gentle but firm. “You want them? Fine. But you don’t get to tell me about it. You don’t get to make me share when I can see you.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“When I’m with you, I’m yours. When I’m with them, I’m theirs. We don’t talk about it.”
It’s not perfect. It’s not even close to what I want. But it’s something I can live with.
“We’re playing the Ravens next week,” I say, changing the subject.
Her expression shifts. “Ravens?”
I nod. “The Blackridge hockey team.”
Understanding crossing her face. “Revan and Atticus.”
I think about seeing them on the ice, about the puck between us and the boards and the rules that make violence legal. About being able to hit them and call it hockey.
“I’ll see them on the ice,” I say.
Lexi smiles, and there’s something in it that’s proud and worried and turned on all at once. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Can’t promise that.”
She laughs, and the sound echoes in the empty locker room.
Outside, I hear the Zamboni finish its final pass. The team will be coming back soon for their post-practice recovery.
But for now, it’s just us.
Just this.
And the promise of violence on ice next Friday night.