9. January 24, Monday
Chapter nine
Ilya
Pain was the point. If it didn’t burn, he wasn’t doing it right.
Ilya dug his edges into the ice and drove his legs harder, ignoring the iron taste in his mouth. The arena roared around him—twenty thousand people standing, clapping, and some already booing preemptively because Springfield fans liked to get ahead of a disaster.
Scoreboard: 2–2. Third period. Clock bleeding toward the final minute.
Sure, the game was technically tied, but it already felt lost.
He barely registered the puck rotating high in their zone, the squeak of a stop near the blue line, the dull thud of a body check behind him. Noise blurred. Lights streaked. Every muscle in his thighs screamed.
Good.
He chased the burn on purpose, stayed out a shift and a half longer than he should have, ignoring the wobble when he turned.
His team needed him on the ice.
Unlike Zoey…who would never need him at all.
The thought hit sharp enough to sting.
That was the problem.
Ilya pushed harder. Faster. If he was going to think like that about his friend’s ex, it had to hurt. Had to cost something. Distraction led to traitorous thoughts, and those led to mistakes.
Simple math.
So he needed to focus.
Ilya cut across the slot, angling his body to block the incoming shot without screening Teemu.
The puck rang off the glass, then skittered into the corner.
The crowd’s groan turned into a collective exhale as the puck was shoveled free and carried up-ice by Ty.
“Cap, switch!” Conley barked as he peeled toward the bench.
Ilya grunted and scanned the ice automatically, inventorying the chaos the way he always did: weak side high, stick lanes, their center collapsing too low, Christian drifting too far out… His brain logged all of it.
And still… the distraction crept in.
Zoey’s arms tight around him when they’d greeted each other again, nose tucked beneath his jaw. The faint island scent of her shampoo, threaded with coffee.
The way she’d looked up at him: eyes bright, mouth soft and uncertain, like she didn’t know how he’d take her surprise move to Springfield.
He’d gone home and done pushups until his arms gave out.
He deserved every ounce of fatigue for letting her into his head during a game. During four straight games, if he was counting. Obviously, he was. He’d been counting since loss number one.
You don’t get to be distracted. Not with the C. Not with people counting on you.
A coach barked out a line change. Ilya vaulted the boards and was back on the ice seconds later, tearing down the rink just as a deflected pass kicked the puck into his path.
He settled it, deked around an off-balance defender, and crossed the blue line before the opportunity vanished. Sensing the hit coming, he rimmed the puck hard around the boards for Tommy.
The defender slammed into him, both of them crashing into the glass. Helmets and sticks rattled so loudly it swallowed the crowd for half a second.
As they shoved off the wall, the guy he’d deked puffed out a breathless laugh. “Deking me out? Where’d you hide that fucking magic?”
And because the universe had a sick sense of humor, or he had pissed off Baba Yaga, Ilya’s brain supplied Zoey on the floor at the group home, hands flashing as she “magicked” a coin out of Jayden’s ear.
Focus.
He dug his skates in harder, forcing himself back into the now. Puck. Men. Angles.Not Zoey smiling at him like he was still the kid from the college rink instead of the captain of a team circling the drain.
He pushed harder.
Across the ice, Christian overhandled the puck again, toe-dragging at the blue line like it was preseason and not the last minute of a tied game on home ice. The other team swarmed him. Of course.
“Puck!” Jason barked, slapping his stick, wide open in the slot.
Christian looked. Hesitated. Then shoveled a wobbly pass six inches behind Jason—straight into the path of the opposing forward.
Turnover.
The bench erupted. A chorus of “fuck,” “heads up,” and one primal, wordless shout from Coach Montgomery that made even the players flinch.
Ilya was already pivoting, legs screaming, cutting back to cover the rush.
Pain. Good. More.
He carved a tight arc, body low, gear biting into him—the edge of his shoulder pad pinching skin, the back of his skates sawing into his calves. Cold air burned his lungs. The taste of blood coated his throat.
If he’d been more focused earlier, the second line wouldn’t be as rattled. Christian wouldn’t be strangling his stick. Jason wouldn’t be trying to fight everyone. Tommy wouldn’t be chirping between whistles.
Leadership meant absorbing it all quietly. And shouldering the blame.
This was the bill coming due.
The puck crossed their blue line. Ilya shadowed the carrier, then dropped into position when Conley finally caught up and knocked the guy off the play. For one second, it looked survivable.
Then the winger peeled off the wall, cut high, and used Christian as a screen.
Ilya tracked him, knees bent, stick out.
He was in the right spot. He was always in the right spot.
The winger glanced up, surprised.
Ilya’s brain chose that moment to flicker. To overlay that look with Zoey’s startled stare from days ago in the hallway.
One heartbeat. Not even that. A skipped frame.
It was enough.
His stick dipped an inch. The shot slipped past the toe of his blade, clipped Christian’s skate, and redirected six brutal inches inside the post, glove-side.
Teemu swearing. Red light flashing. The crowd raging.
For half a second, his mind went white.
Then it all came crashing back… the boos, the dogpile in the corner, the low, wounded groan rolling through the arena. A stick cracked against the ice.
He straightened slowly, lungs on fire, every cell screaming for oxygen and a do-over.
No one looked at him. That was almost worse.
Eight seconds left on the clock.
Snarling, he assumed his normal spot for a faceoff and shifted as the dropped puck got shoveled back to Conley.
The horn wailed. And it was over.
FINAL flashed across the jumbotron…as if anyone needed the reminder.
Fourth straight loss.
As the captain, it was on him. Again.
Pissed as hell, Teemu skated out of the crease, head down, like he was scanning the ice for fishing holes as he peeled off.
Ilya swallowed the metallic taste of adrenaline and humiliation and forced his legs to move.
He didn’t get to stand there and stare. Didn’t get to replay the goal in hyper-focused slow motion the way his brain wanted to.
Later. That was for later. Alone.
Right now, he had a job.
He cut a tight loop toward his teammates. “Heads up,” he said quietly as they passed: Christian, eyes wild, Jason, coiled like he might decapitate the next person who breathed too loud, then Tommy, jaw locked, stick clenched like it owed him money.
Down by the benches, Thea had already redirected her camera crew to Bobby, their alternate captain. Wise. Bobby pulled off a glove to tuck a stray curl behind her ear; she swatted his hand away and launched straight into stats.
Ilya skated toward the bench with tired, even strides, ignoring the boos chasing them. An empty cup fluttered onto the ice in front of Jason. When Jason lifted his stick to swat it, Ilya’s hand shot out, stopping the motion mid-swing.
Jason’s glare was dark and furious.
“Don’t,” Ilya said, low, sharp.
For a beat, it held. Jason’s anger. His own. Four losses pressing down on them.
Then Jason exhaled hard and let the stick drop. Good.
At the bench, Ilya scowled at the guys lingering. “Off,” he snapped, jerking his head toward the tunnel. “Now.”
Stepping into the tunnel first, he set the pace. Head up. Expression neutral. Sweat slipping down his temples.
He gathered the stragglers as he went. One palm between Christian’s shoulder blades, a sharp shake of his head when Ian started muttering something dark and self-destructive.
Someone from PR tried to shove a branded “Cyclones Shake” into his hands for a photo op.
After a loss? Unbelievable.
“Not now,” he said without slowing. His voice was so flat the staffer recoiled like he’d been burned.
By the time Ilya hit the locker room door, the mask was locked in place. No cracks. No weakness. Not where his guys could see.
The room felt like a morgue. No music. No chatter. Just the wet slap of gloves being ripped off, helmets thunking into cubbies, the faint crackle of tape as guys cut out of their gear with more force than necessary.
Ilya set his helmet carefully on the shelf above his stall. Deliberate. Controlled. The opposite of what he wanted to do, which was hurl it at the brick wall until it shattered.
He sat. The cushion squeaked under his weight. His heart was still pounding. Sweat ran down his spine. His hands shook. He curled his fingers into fists and released them again.
Coach Montgomery hadn’t come in yet. The coaches’ door stayed shut, a thin strip of light glowing beneath it.
The room moved around him in a miserable blur. Tommy tore at the Velcro on his pads. Jason yanked his jersey off and slammed a fist into a metal support beam with a vicious curse.
The echo rang.
“Hands,” Duke muttered, not looking up. “Use your head, Miller.”
Jason flexed his knuckles. “Head didn’t cause that fucking turnover.”
“No,” Tommy shot back. “That was Christian.”
Christian flinched two stalls down.
“Enough,” Ilya said quietly.
The word didn’t carry volume. It didn’t need to. The room stilled. Christian’s shoulders hunched. Tommy shut his mouth.
Ilya dropped his gaze to his socks and began peeling the tape from his shin, slow and methodical.
The coaches’ door opened. The air compressed.
Coach Montgomery stepped in, expression carved from stone. He didn’t pace. He didn’t yell. Worse. “Four,” he said.
The word hit like another puck drop.
“Four in a row. That’s not who we are. That’s not who this crest is.” He gestured toward the cyclone painted on the floor. “Tonight? Soft at the blue line. Casual in the neutral zone. And in the last minute…distracted.”
The word snapped tight across Ilya’s spine.
Coach let it hang.