Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Bryce
“Blackhorn, keep your head up and your ego down!” Coach Hale barks from the bench.
I pretend I don’t hear him.
Mostly because my brain is busy doing something far more dangerous than listening to coaching direction:
It’s staring at her.
Annabelle Reed stands beside the tunnel with her laptop like it’s part weapon, part shield. She’s with some of the staff and is looking very focused and composed.
And she’s wearing those earrings again.
Large gold hoops.
Satan’s jewelry.
Because the second I spot them, logic fractures.
Dex skates by, smacking my shin pad with his stick. “Quit zoning out, Romeo. Warm-up, not daydream hour.”
“Minding your own business is free,” I growl.
He grins. “Yeah, but this is more fun.”
The puck slides toward me. I receive it and shoot. The sharp ping against the post echoes through my bones.
I stretch, roll my shoulders, and breathe, but none of it helps.
The arena hums with restlessness. Fans chant. Kids pound the glass. Flashing lights sweep over the ice.
But I’m aware of one thing.
Her.
She looks away before I fully catch her gaze, but I saw it.
She's watching.
And that stupid acknowledgment hits like a punch to the gut.
Focus, Blackhorn.
Coach whistles. “Alright, boys, the game is about to start. Remember, tight shifts now. Move the puck. Make them chase you.”
The national anthem ends. The crowd erupts.
Puck drop.
Game on.
The moment the play starts, instinct takes over. My skates dig in, cutting into the ice with speed meant to burn off whatever the hell has taken root under my skin.
I steal a puck. Spin past a defender. Pass wide.
Bodies slam. Sticks clash.
“MOVE IT!” someone shouts.
I drive toward the zone. A defenseman clips me hard into the boards.
Pain flashes bright, sharp enough to sting, but when I glance toward the tunnel…
Annabelle flinches just slightly. It’s barely there.
But she felt it.
And something territorial and primal surges up in my chest.
Good.
Let her feel something.
Next shift, I break free again. Rip another shot that's clean, fast, and unforgiving, right into the net.
Goal!
The arena detonates.
My teammates swarm, slapping my helmet and yelling, but I’m already skating toward the glass where she now stands.
I don’t think. I don’t plan. I just move.
Three taps of my glove to the glass.
Directly at her.
Claiming something I have no right to claim.
Luckily the cameras didn't find her, but I did.
Her cheeks are pink. Her mouth tense. Her eyes furious.
I smirk.
Of course she hates it.
Which means she felt it.
But the game isn’t over.
Coach sends the next line out and hollers, “THAT’S THE WAY TO DO IT, BLACKHORN! SHOW ’EM THEY’RE JUST PAYING RENT OUT HERE!” The crowd is still roaring from the goal as the puck drops again.
The other team answers and crashes our zone hard. Their winger fires a shot and it slips past Eli's glove, pinging the post and sliding in. The crowd groans while their bench erupts like they just won the lottery.
Shit.
Back on the ice, Colby breaks past a defender, toe-dragging the puck like he’s performing magic. Dex trails him, hungry for a rebound.
The opposing goalie drops low.
Colby shoots.
Blocked.
The puck ricochets straight to Dex.
Dex doesn’t hesitate.
Wrister.
Back of the net.
The building erupts.
The horn blares. Lights flash. Fans jump to their feet.
The announcer’s voice booms through the arena speakers:
“Another one for the Outlaws! Dex Harper with a beauty on the rebound. Two on the board and this place is alive!”
Dex skates by our bench, tapping his helmet, pointing at the crowd like the showman he is. Colby smacks his back. Mason slaps his gloves.
We’re rolling.
Third period hits and the other team starts getting desperate by throwing cheap shots, chippy hits, and slashes when the refs aren’t looking.
One catches me in the ribs.
Not hard enough to injure.
Just hard enough to piss me off and I retaliate.
The ref blows the whistle.
“Two minutes for cross-checking!”
The crowd boos, then chants.
“OUT-LAWS! OUT-LAWS!”
Power play. I'm in the sin bin.
After what feels like time in slow motion, I take the ice again.
The puck moves clean… Mason to Colby, Colby back to me, one-touch to Shelly, then right back to my tape.
Perfect.
I rip a snapshot.
The goalie never sees it.
Top corner.
Another goal.
The arena explodes into pure chaos.
Announcer laughs into the mic:
“Blackhorn with his second tonight! This man is on fire! The Outlaws take the win with a dominant 4-1 final. What a night in Nashville!”
The horn sounds. Players spill off the bench. Gloves collide. Helmets bump. Fans scream our names like we’re legends.
But all I see is her watching me walk off the ice.
And she’s not furious anymore.
She looks… affected.
Good.
Because I’m coming for her.
And she knows it.
***
The tunnel after the game is wild with helmets clattering, sticks dropping, and voices echoing.
Dex appears first, jabbing a finger into my ribs. “THAT WAS FOR HER. Don’t lie. Half the bench made whale noises when you tapped that glass.”
Colby groans dramatically. “Bro, the glass-tap? Subtle as a bulldozer wearing neon.”
Mason pats my back. “Congratulations. You’ve officially crossed into leading-man energy. Write poetry next.”
I shake them off and head toward the locker room.
Because she’s waiting.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes lit with wildfire.
And the second those eyes lock onto mine, my pulse spikes in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with hockey.
“Explain,” she snaps.
I lift a brow. “Explain what?”
“That,” she gestures sharply toward the arena. “Whatever that display was. Territory? Ego? A mating dance? Because fans are currently arguing whether it was romantic or unhinged.”
“Both,” Dex calls from somewhere behind us.
Annabelle ignores him.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Why are you mad? Because I scored? Or because I looked at you after?”
Her breath stutters, softer than a whisper, like she did not expect wanting me to hit this hard.
That tiny reaction is gasoline.
I move closer, not fast, slow and intentional, giving her every second to stop me. She does not.
My hand settles at her waist, fingers sliding beneath the edge of her blazer like I have been waiting to touch her again since that first damn kiss.
Her back meets the wall with the smallest exhale, like she secretly wanted nowhere else to go.
We collide.
Not soft. Not gentle. Not careful.
Teeth, lips, heat, breath, weeks of denial snapping like tension wire. My tongue finds hers, slow at first, testing. Then deeper. Confident. Claiming.
Devastating.
“Stop me….or don’t,” I whisper in her ear.
She doesn’t.
I kiss her again like I play, intensely focused, like losing is not an option.
I’m already hard and one breath away from losing every ounce of restraint I pretend I have. Her fingers hook into the front of my jersey and pull me closer, her body molding against mine like she’s been denying this as long as I have.
I pull back first, just enough to breathe, my forehead resting against hers.
"If I don’t stop now," I say quietly, "I am not going to. And neither are you."
She is breathing fast. No comeback. No snark. Just that wide eyed look that makes me want to ruin every rule she lives by.
"HEY, ROMEO! STOP LICKING PEOPLE IN THE HALLWAY!" Dex yells from farther down the corridor.
Annabelle jerks back like she has been caught stealing.
Color floods her cheeks. Her hair is messed up and her lips are swollen. She glares at Dex, then at me, like this is all my fault.
Then she turns and walks away. Fast. Shoulders straight. Like nothing happened.
But her hands tremble once at her sides.
I watch her walk away, pulse thrumming like I’m wired for a fight I haven’t won yet.
By the time I hit the locker room, the adrenaline hasn’t faded. It’s crawling beneath my skin like electricity with nowhere to go.
Steam fills the room from the showers. Jerseys hit the floor. Tape rips. Someone’s blasting music too loud, and Dex is yelling about chicken wings again.
Normal post-game chaos.
Except nothing about me feels normal.
Colby tosses a towel at my chest. “Two goals and a public love confession. Big night.”
“It wasn’t a love confession.” I peel off my gear.
“It was glass-tapping intimate,” Eli says, grinning like he’s been waiting to use that phrase.
Gabriel Shelly, usually quiet, smirks while untying his skates. “You know that move only works if the girl actually wants you back.”
I toss him a look. “She does.”
Eli laughs. “Oh, he’s confident tonight. Somebody bottle this energy.”
I shower fast, but even under the scalding water, I still feel her. The way she gasped into my mouth, the way her hands tightened in my jersey like she didn’t want to let go.
By the time I dress and head toward the exit, my pulse is still a mess.
The arena lobby is half-cleared out, lights dimmed for shutdown.
And that’s when I see her standing near one of the pillars. Arms crossed. Body stiff. Not alone.
A guy stands in front of her. Older than me by a couple years maybe. Designer jacket. Expensive watch. Perfectly styled hair.
Smug.
She isn’t smiling.
My pace changes. Slows. Sharpens.
She senses movement before she sees me, because her shoulders go rigid.
The guy turns. His eyes land on me. Recognition sparks.
“No way.” He laughs like this is fate playing a joke. “Bryce Blackhorn?”
I stare, digging through years I don’t bother remembering.
He waits, expecting the connection.
Then it hits.
“Lakeview summer baseball camp,” he says, giving my shoulder a friendly tap like we’re old buddies.
I don’t move.
Annabelle blinks at both of us. “You two know each other?”
“Oh yeah,” he says casually. “Back when Bryce here thought sliding into bases face-first made him look hardcore.”
“It worked,” I would normally say, but I don't.
I don’t give him the satisfaction.
He looks me over again, smirk returning.
“Guess some things never change. Still trying to impress people with reckless moves.”
"Careful, Cummings."
My jaw flexes, but I stay nothing more. Quiet hits harder.
Annabelle steps in like she wants this over. “We’re done talking. Goodnight.”
His expression tightens for the first time. Not defeated. Just annoyed he didn’t get the last word.
“Sure,” he says, voice smooth. “But we’re not finished.”
He walks past me, brushing my shoulder like he’s testing boundaries.
Wrong move.
I turn just enough for him to hear me.
“Walk away.”
He does. But slowly.
Annabelle releases a breath like she’s been holding it forever. She turns to leave. I stop her with one low question. "How do you know him?"
She freezes, shoulders tight. "Mark is my ex-fiancé. We broke up right before I came here."
I speak before she gets two steps.
“If he keeps showing up, I’m not staying quiet.”
She stops. Spins. Eyes sharp and furious.
“You don’t get to mark territory.”
I step closer. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just enough to make her feel it.
“I’m not marking.” My voice is low, steady, unavoidable.
“I’m protecting.”
Silence wraps around us. Heavy. Hot. Undeniable.
Her breathing shifts. Barely. But I catch it.
“Tell me," I murmur. "Tell me that kiss meant nothing.”
Her lips part. No sound comes out.
She hates that. Hates giving anything away.
Which tells me everything.
"Good night, Bryce. And good game."
But her hands tremble. Just once. Just enough.
And as she disappears down the hallway, one truth settles in my chest like a warning:
She’s running.
Which means I’m already under her skin.
And that is going to be a problem neither of us can ignore.