Chapter Thirteen
MASON
The sound of my blade hitting the ice sends a crack through the air that reverberates in my chest.
It’s the first game of the season. The first time in months that I’ve heard the deafening screams of fans, packed to the rafters, chanting our name in unison.
Adrenaline courses through my body, and I do a lap around the ice, waving to the hometown crowd.
The rest of the boys are behind me, pumping up the excitement.
We’re thrilled to be back on the ice—and hungry to win. A teeth-grinding hunger we’ve all been carrying since last year’s playoff exit.
It’s like lightning in my veins, a feeling unlike any other I have ever experienced. Game one of every season is electric. But tonight holds another significance too.
Victoria is here.
Up in the family box—wearing my jersey again and a soft smile I can imagine even from here—she’s another reason my pulse won’t settle. The reason my game feels tighter, my lungs fuller. She’s the reason I’m more focused, more lethal, more me than I’ve ever been.
I want to impress her tonight. I want her to become a fan. An obsessed fan.
Max claps a hand on my shoulder as we start a lap. “You feel that?” he shouts over the noise.
“Hell yeah,” I say back. “It’s gonna be a good night.”
Sidney skates up beside us in his gear, already dialled in. “Let’s get it, boys!”
We’re ready, the three of us. A wall, a cannon, and a cage. The spine of the Nighthawks, ready to play.
I glance up at the family box, squinting to see if I can make her out, but it’s a wall of people. I can’t tell which one is her. I wave anyway, knowing that her eyes are on me.
With one more bump to my glove, Max and I skate to the line, getting ready for the national anthem.
This is the time I get my head in the game. To focus and not worry about Victoria right now. It’s time to show up for my team.
As the anthem finishes, the crowd abruptly bursts out into cheers.
Curious, I look up at the jumbotron. A laugh bursts from my lips when I see Victoria on the big screen.
She looks a little flustered by the attention but waves to the fans.
Then, looking down at the ice, she puts a hand over her heart, then blows me a kiss.
I’ve had her in my bed, in my arms, and in this moment, she burrows deep into my heart. I love her.
Holy fucking shit, I love her.
“Come on, man. Let’s win this game and get to our girls,” Max calls as we ready for the puck drop.
“Yeah, let’s get this mother going!”
The first period is fast and heavy. Montreal comes in aggressive, trying to knock us off our rhythm. Max scores mid-period with a slick backhand that sails right over the goalie’s shoulder. The crowd erupts, and he smirks as he skates by our bench.
“Welcome back, gentlemen,” he shouts.
I laugh but stay locked in. I’m the anchor on the ice. I don’t chase the flash—I read the game, shift the momentum. And then I land a clean open-ice hit that sends one of their centres spinning, and the crowd’s roar feels like a war cry in my chest.
By the second period, Sid’s on fire. Montreal’s getting shots off like their lives depend on it, but Sid’s like a damn wall tonight. Nothing gets past him.
Midway through the third, the score is tied.
2-2.
Tension crackles in the air. Everyone knows the first win of the season sets the tone for everything that follows.
Coach calls for a line change. Max, our second winger, and I are up. I skate into place, body humming with determination.
This is where we break it open.
Montreal tries to pressure us high, but I read it before they fully commit. I intercept the puck, swing wide to the left, and thread a perfect pass to Max as he cuts through the neutral zone.
He’s already moving before the puck hits his tape. One fake, one quick toe drag, and the shot goes off.
Goal!
The buzzer sounds, and the building explodes. I don’t even realize I’ve thrown my arms around Max until we’re slamming into each other, grinning like kids on Christmas.
Sid barrels out of the crease, helmet off, and we crash into a messy three-man hug. The whole team rushes the ice.
We won.
First game of the season. First win.
Even with the scoreboard flashing and my teammates hollering and thumping each other on the back, my eyes go straight to her.
Victoria.
She’s standing at the glass of the family suite, hands waving in the air. I think I also see her hug another woman, but I can’t be sure.
My heart fucking lurches in joy.
I can’t keep this up. I don’t want to. Whatever fake rules we made at the beginning—they don’t fit anymore. Not when I feel like this.
She’s woven into every breath I take.
The future doesn’t look bright unless she’s standing next to me.
I skate off the ice, past reporters and flashing cameras, past fans reaching out to high-five. All I can think about is getting to her and telling her that playtime is over, and from here on out, she’s mine.