Chapter 18
Detroit
Aleks
“You don’t come to Brooklyn without understanding the subtext,” Faulker snickers as New York State of Mind rolls low through the speakers.
“Our DJ’s badass.” Sterling chuckles.
The announcer drags out Detroit Redemption, the name echoing just long enough to invite boos. Not wild ones, very measured. Brooklyn’s not wasting energy tonight, they’re saving it for us.
Coach D stands in front of the whiteboard, marker loose in her hand, eyes moving across us like she’s weighing strengths and weak points, who’s here and who’s lying to themselves. They stall on me briefly, and I give her a slight nod.
“Detroit,” she says. “They play disciplined, structured. They wait for mistakes instead of forcing them. They think patience makes them smarter than you.”
A few jaws tighten.
“They will try to slow this game down,” she says, tapping the board once. “Grind you into penalties. Drag you into whistles. That’s how they win on the road.”
She looks up and meets every stare.
“Don’t give them that.”
The marker clicks again. “First shift matters. I want speed. I want pressure. I want them uncomfortable before they figure out what system they’re supposed to be running.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.
“If they want to play clean,” she adds evenly, “out-skate them. If they want to play physical, finish every check and make it count.”
Her eyes land on me. “Make them adjust.” I nod again, and she steps back, voice dropping just enough that we all lean in. “You know who you are. Play like it.”
That’s it, no theatrics. Not from her anyway,
We line up for the tunnel, Faulker bumps my shoulder. “Switch on.”
I touch two fingers to my helmet, then the boards as if to say, engaged.
The whisper comes, like it always does.
Mikhail. Do not stop hitting me. And a new one filters in, not invited, but I really hope it stays there forever. Sofie. Win this game.
Then the lights drop, all of them. The arena plunges into darkness, and the first note hits.
That unmistakable bassline, slow, heavy.
“Seven Nation Army, Detroit band, fucking weaponized against them.” Marshall grins. And not in the usual goofy way, it’s dark and menacing. I like it.
Red lights bloom through the dark, Brooklyn red.
They pulse to the beat, slow and steady, like a heart coming back to life.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The lights rise and fall in time with the music, climbing the walls, cutting through the crowd, crawling under skin.
The noise swells now. Chanting starts before the words do.
The announcer lets it build. Let’s Detroit feel every second of it. Then—
“Now entering the ice…” The tunnel doors slide open. “…the first-place team in the league.” The bass drops harder. The lights flash brighter. “The team that owns the heart of this city.”
I push off with the rest of them, skates biting into ice that belongs to us.
“Your Brooklyn Bears!”
The building detonates, and I swing my eyes to Coach D, in question.
She smirks and shrugs her answer. Total badass still.
She moves aside, and we spill onto the ice in a wave of red and black, the crowd losing its mind, the chant rising around us like a physical force.
I glide forward, low and controlled, heart steady, world narrowing into edges and sound and instinct.
Detroit is watching now.
Good.
I circle once, slow, letting the noise wash over me, letting the music carry through my chest and slow even more as I pass her box and look up.
Sofie taps her chest, nods, and throws me a W.
“Fuck yes!” I laugh and point to her. “Fuck yes!”
She motions, eyes on the ice, points to me, and throws another W.
One firm nod and my focus is nowhere else. But my heart, yeah, I don’t just need to win this game, I need to win the girl.
Coach D’s musical theatrics worked magic; Detroit’s moving fast tonight. Sloppy, aggressive, trying to draw penalties. I welcome it, hell, the whole team does.
We play hard, but we play clean.
Every time I come off for a change, my eyes flick to her, and she avoids eye contact; she thinks she’s going to fuck up my stride.
I’ll tell her the opposite is true, that I’ve never had anyone in the stands rooting for me, and it doesn’t impair me; it makes me rise to a different and more focused level.
We dominate the first, but by the second, they get inside some of my teammates’ heads, and even Moretti seems off. The game tightens. The score stays locked. The building hums with that familiar restless energy, the kind that wants a hero, whether you volunteer or not.
Third period. Tie game.
“You good, Moretti? I ask.
“Yeah. Won’t happen again.” But I see his eyes shift to the box.
“She’s up there with people who love her man. She’s good. Savannah’s good.”
“Fuckers here.” Kyle.
Coach yells out, “Kilovac.” I look at her. “No OT!”
I nod. Helmet down. Everything sharpens, end this.
The memory of that first time on the ice with Mikhail. Him, me, the net, a point to make.
Stone, Smith, and Giulietti do a damn good job keeping it on the other side of the ice, and Faulker is staying close to Moretti, exactly where he needs to be. I dig deeper.
The puck comes off the boards wrong. Detroit hesitates. They aren’t expecting me. I read it like a book, I don’t play offense when defense runs in my blood. They don’t know things have changed. Hell, I didn’t, not on the ice anyway. But it has.
I cut inside, shoulder burning, legs driving, muscle memory taking over. A lane opens where there shouldn’t be one.
I don’t hear the crowd when the puck leaves my stick. I hear the sound it makes when it hits the net. Goal.
The place erupts.
I don’t celebrate the way they want me to. But the guys are on me anyway, gloves slapping my helmet, shouts in my ear. Faulker bangs his stick like he’s trying to break it. Deacon’s grin is feral; he doesn’t want to be here; he wants to go to her.
We pull ahead. No overtime.
Good.
“Make sure they stay in the suite!” I yell, and he skates off toward the bench.
No one else sees it, of course, they don’t. I look up and see her in the box, jumping around, celebrating. I love it, but want her attention. I need to tell her to stay put.
As I skate back to the bench, I watch as Deacon is talking to security.
Coach D looks at me, “You have a minute, and twenty left in you?”
I look at Deacon and watch his eyes follow Costello up to the box section; they’re good.
“Damn right I do.”
“Good,” She nods to Marshall, “Get out there.”
The last minute and twenty is brutal; they don’t want redemption, they want blood, and tonight, they’re not getting it.
“Well, shit,” Faulker laughs when their center shoves me after the final buzzer, and I don’t react. “I’ve just witnessed a miracle.”
“Dingy’s here,” I sneer as I scan the crowd. I don’t see him, but I see his fiancée. Emma Shaw, and then…
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, following the direction of my eyes.
“That quack Rathburn is here with Emma Shaw, and one of Sofies sisters.” Before he can ask, I shove off the ice and head straight to where Fairfax Media’s crew is set up.
“I need you to get footage of section 106.”
“What?” he asks, confused.
“Now!”
He does as asked.
“Close up of Emma Shaw, LA’s owner, and the crew she’s with.” I hiss. “And the footage goes directly to Sofie Fairfax, you hear me.”
“Done,” comes from beside me, and I turn and see one of the girls, not the redhead; instead, it’s the cute little nerd.
“What’s done?” I ask.
“Sent her a video in text.” She answers
“The fuck?” I growl, and she shudders. “No, you did good. Now, do me a favor?”
“Ummmm.”
“Go tell her to stay put,” she blinks. “Please.”
“Okay, yeah. Okay.” She takes off.
I sling my eyes back to the kid with the camera. “That film is to go to no one but Sofie. No middleman, no fucking producer, and if I hear you have done otherwise, I will fucking break you.”
His eyes grow huge, and the poor fuck freezes.
I force a smile, which clearly doesn’t have the desired effect; he looks even more scared. “Kid, relax. You’re fine as long as you do as I say.”
“Yes sir.”
I push off and head to the tunnel.
In the locker room, Deacon is already stripped down, wearing sweats and throwing on a tee shirt when I tell him, “You see Dingy, because I didn’t.”
“Saw his woman.” He grumbles.
“You see who she was with?” I ask, quickly removing my skates.
He looks at me, “Didn’t need to, that fucker is here.”
“Maybe, but she was with the doc that fucks with players’ heads and fucks them until their heads clear and tell her to piss off, and Sofie’s cunt sister.” I stand up, shove my feet in slides, not even sure they’re mine. “Let’s roll.”
We take the back route, the one meant for staff and media, not the public. It seems like it takes forever for the elevator to reach us, but taking the stairs would slow us down further.
The doors open and we step in. No words are exchanged. The doors open at the box level, and we step out.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I mutter.
Deacon follows my line of sight and swears under his breath.
In the lobby of the hall that leads to the private box, Emma Shaw is leaning against the rail, polished and smug, like she belongs.
Rathburn is beside her, talking with her hands like she’s explaining something important.
The woman is a fucking idiot who uses big words in an attempt to appear smart.
No clue how she holds two PHD’s or what sick fuck let her suck him off for a passing grade.
I mean no proof, but what other explanation is there?
Sofie’s sister is the only one missing from the trio.
“Don’t engage, just get to the girls,” Deacon seethes.
I follow him, and then Rathburn steps forward, “Aleksandr, how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Still having issues with the language barrier, you poor dear,” she pouts out her injected lips.
“I’ve never had an issue with language, I just choose not to communicate with people who like to hear themselves talk.”