OPENING NIGHT
The Rose City Arena in Portland was not a building; it was a living, breathing beast, and tonight, it was roaring.
Elara stood near the reinforced glass of the owner’s VIP suite, looking down at the pristine sheet of ice below.
The sheer volume of the arena was a physical weight pressing against her chest.
Twenty thousand fans clad in the Portland Pioneers’ colors—deep forest green, silver, and black—were screaming themselves hoarse, shaking the concrete foundations of the stadium.
She was used to loud crowds. She had played arenas this size. But rock concerts were a unified, melodic kind of loud. This was different. This was chaotic, tribal, and entirely aggressive.
"Step slightly to your left, Elara," Sarah instructed from the shadows of the suite, her voice clipped and professional. "There’s a Getty photographer in section 112 with a telephoto lens focused directly on this box. We want him to have a clear shot of the jersey."
Elara swallowed down the nervous lump in her throat and dutifully shifted her weight to the left.
She was wearing a custom-tailored version of the Portland Pioneers' home jersey.
The heavy, forest-green fabric swallowed her petite frame, falling midway down her thighs like a dress, paired with sheer black tights and knee-high leather boots.
But it wasn’t the fit that was drawing the cameras.
It was the back of the jersey. Emblazoned across her shoulders in massive silver lettering was the word THORNE, right above the captain’s number 19.
It felt incredibly, dangerously intimate to be wearing his name.
"You look great, El," Marcus said, appearing beside her with a bottle of water. He leaned in, lowering his voice so the PR team couldn't hear. "Just breathe. You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. You look like the ultimate supportive girlfriend."
"I look like a billboard," Elara murmured back, though she took the water gratefully. "My hands are freezing."
"That’s just the ambient temperature of the rink. Or the fact that you’re about to watch your fake boyfriend get checked into a wall at twenty miles an hour. Either way, try to look engaged when the puck drops."
Suddenly, the stadium lights plunged into total darkness.
The crowd erupted into a deafening, unified scream.
A heavy, thumping bassline began to vibrate through the floorboards, shaking the glass of the VIP suite.
Green and silver laser lights slashed through the darkness, illuminating the ice in erratic, jagged patterns.
The jumbotron hanging above center ice flashed to life, projecting a high-octane montage of brutal hits, impossible goals, and roaring celebrations.
And then, the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system, vibrating with theatrical hype.
"Portland! Are you ready for your Pioneers?!"
The response was a shockwave of sound. Flames shot up from the goalposts, the heat radiating all the way up to the VIP box.
"And now, leading the charge... your captain... number nineteen... JULIAN! THORNE!"
The roar of the crowd reached an absolute fever pitch, shaking the ice in Elara's water bottle.
Out of the tunnel beneath the stands, a massive figure burst onto the ice, skating with a terrifying, explosive speed.
Julian Thorne was a blur of dark green and silver.
He carved a hard, violent circle around the defensive zone, his skates biting deeply into the ice, kicking up a shower of white frost.
Elara’s breath hitched.
She had only ever seen him in a tailored suit or a leather jacket. She had seen him restrained in a boardroom and quietly protective in the back of a car. But out there, on the ice, Julian was a completely different entity.
He looked like a warlord.
The hockey gear made him look impossibly large, broadening his shoulders to superhuman proportions.
The dark visor attached to his helmet cast a shadow over his face, hiding his eyes, leaving only the grim, unyielding set of his jaw visible.
He carried his stick like a weapon, moving with a predatory, fluid grace that seemed entirely at odds with his massive size.
He didn't look like a safe harbor. He looked dangerous. He looked violent.
And heaven help her, Elara felt a dark, involuntary rush of pure heat flood straight to her core.
The rest of the team skated out behind him, but Julian was the undeniable center of gravity. He led them through the warm-up drills with a sharp, commanding authority. Every time he took a shot, the puck hit the glass with a sound like a rifle crack.
"Look down, Elara," Sarah ordered softly. "He’s looking for you."
Elara blinked, pulling herself out of her trance. She looked down at the ice.
Julian had broken away from the warm-up circle. He was skating slowly along the boards, his head tilted up toward the owner’s suite. Even through the glare of the stadium lights and the dark tint of his visor, Elara felt the exact moment his eyes locked onto hers.
The entire arena seemed to blur away.
Julian skated directly to the glass right below her suite. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He simply stopped, staring up at her. He took his heavy, gloved hand and tapped the captain’s 'C' on his chest twice, and then pointed the end of his stick directly at her.
It was a blatant, highly visible gesture. The jumbotron cameras caught it instantly, projecting the moment to the entire stadium. The fans went absolutely feral, screaming their approval of the captain dedicating his opening night to his new rockstar girlfriend.
Click. Click. Click. The paparazzi lenses in the opposite section went into overdrive.
Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs.
She was supposed to smile. She was supposed to play the part.
But the way he was looking at her—the sheer, possessive weight of his attention—paralyzed her.
Slowly, instinct taking over, she rested her hand flat against the glass of the suite, right over her own heart, returning the gesture.
Beneath the helmet, Julian’s lips finally curved into a devastating, sharp smile. He spun away in a flurry of ice and skated back to the center circle.
"Perfect," Sarah breathed, furiously typing on her phone. "That clip is already going viral on Twitter. We couldn't have scripted that better."
But it didn't feel scripted. It had felt like a promise.
The game began, and for the next two hours, Elara was dragged into a world of brutal speed and calculated violence.
She had never understood hockey, but watching Julian play was a revelation.
He was a master tactician, orchestrating plays with a brilliant, aggressive intelligence.
But he was also fiercely, violently protective of his teammates.
In the middle of the second period, a defenseman from the opposing team—a massive enforcer from Seattle—took a cheap, blindside shot at a rookie Pioneer, sending the kid crashing headfirst into the boards.
The referee blew the whistle, but Julian was already moving.
He crossed the ice with terrifying speed. He didn't hesitate. He dropped his stick, grabbed the Seattle enforcer by the collar of his jersey, and slammed him backward into the plexiglass with a force that rattled the entire section.
The crowd lost its mind.
Elara gasped, stepping back from the window as the two massive men traded brutal, bare-knuckle punches.
Julian was relentless. His helmet was knocked off, revealing his dark hair damp with sweat, his jaw clenched in absolute fury.
He didn't stop until the referees finally managed to drag him off the opposing player, sending both of them to the penalty box.
"Oh my god," Elara whispered, a hand flying to her mouth.
"Don't cover your face, Elara," Sarah barked, entirely unphased by the violence. "Look concerned, but proud. He’s defending his team. It plays perfectly into the 'protector' narrative we’ve built for him."
Elara dropped her hand, but her heart was racing. She watched Julian sit in the penalty box, his chest heaving, a thin line of blood trickling from a cut above his left eyebrow. He looked feral. He looked completely unapproachable.
I am not a safe man, he had warned her in the boardroom.
Seeing him now, bloodied and vibrating with adrenaline, she finally understood exactly what he meant.
But beneath the fear, beneath the shock of the violence, that dangerous thrill spiked in her blood again.
Because she knew that the man currently sitting in the penalty box, looking like he wanted to tear the opposing team apart with his bare hands, was the exact same man who had gently guided her into his car and spoken to her in a low, soothing whisper just three days ago.
The contrast was intoxicating.
The Pioneers won the game 4-2, with Julian scoring the final, game-clinching goal in the third period. The horn blasted, the stadium erupted, and the players swarmed Julian on the ice.
"Alright, let's move," Sarah commanded, grabbing her clipboard.
"Post-game press. Marcus, you’re with me. Elara, security will escort you down to the locker room hallway. You wait outside the double doors. The press pool will be cordoned off behind the velvet ropes. When Julian comes out, you give him a moment. Let him claim you."
"Claim me," Elara repeated dryly, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in her stomach. "Right. The script."
"Exactly," Sarah said, completely missing the sarcasm.
Ten minutes later, Elara was standing in the freezing, concrete-lined hallway deep in the bowels of the stadium.
It smelled like industrial cleaner, sweat, and athletic tape.
True to Sarah’s word, a massive swarm of sports journalists, camera crews, and paparazzi were packed behind a velvet rope just twenty feet away.
They were shouting her name, asking rapid-fire questions about the game, about the fight, about Declan.
Elara ignored them, fixing her gaze firmly on the heavy metal double doors of the Pioneers’ locker room. She wrapped her arms around herself, the oversized jersey offering little warmth against the frigid air of the lower level.
Suddenly, the doors swung open.
The hallway went dead silent for a fraction of a second before the flashbulbs erupted like a lightning storm.