Chapter 39
GRAYSON
The horn sounds. Warm-ups end. We gather at the bench, drink water, adjust helmets, settle into game mode.
Coach Graves leans in, expression severe. “Clean shifts. Smart changes. We don’t get sucked into their bullshit.”
His eyes flick to Kai. “Captain.”
Kai nods once. “Got it.”
Coach looks at me next. “Bennett. You keep your head.”
My jaw tightens. “Yes, Coach.”
Weston murmurs, “He’s looking directly at you, buddy.”
I elbow him lightly. “Shut up.”
Weston grins. “Can’t. It’s genetic.”
We line up for the anthem.
I don’t look up again.
I can still feel her there like heat on the back of my neck.
Today, she’s here for me. Wearing my name, my number. She could’ve worn her brother’s, but she chose me, publicly. She kissed me back in front of everyone, including her brother, with no hesitation.
She’s mine.
As Kai lines up for the puck drop, I see Tyler looking his way, a knowing smirk on his pathetic face. I try not to think about it and stay in control. The last thing I need is to start running through every possible way I could accidentally run him into the boards before the game even starts.
Kai wins a faceoff clean and snaps the puck back. Weston is already flying up the left side, stick on the ice, calling for it.
I drive the right wing, reading the defense, feeling the play build. Pass to Weston. He cuts toward the slot and fires. Their goalie kicks it out.
I’m there.
I bury the rebound before my brain has time to think. The net snaps, and the crowd detonates.
Weston slams into me, helmet to helmet, yelling something in my ear that I can’t understand, but I’m pretty sure is obscene.
Kai is already there, glove in my face, pounding my shoulder like that’s how you say good without saying it.
I don’t look up.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll look for her reaction instead of staying in the moment with my team.
But the second I skate back to the bench, I can’t help it.
I lift my head for one heartbeat. Harlow has both hands pressed to her mouth.
Her eyes are bright. And she’s smiling. A real one.
It hits me like a body check. Something in my chest cracks. Not breaks. Cracks like a seam opening.
I turn back to the bench before I do something stupid like point at her or wave or announce to the entire rink that I’m done for.
Weston drops beside me, breathing hard. “That was hot.”
I glare. “It was a rebound.”
“It was romantic,” he insists.
Kai shoots him a look. “Focus.”
Weston salutes. “Yes, Captain.”
We reset.
The game keeps moving.
First period turns scrappy.
Tyler Rushton is exactly where he always is—floating on the edge of dirty and legal, smiling like he’s the good guy in his own story. He’s their top center, taking draws against Kai, chirping him under his breath.
I don’t hear the words. I don’t need to. I can see it in Kai’s jaw. The way he takes the faceoff a little harder, throws his shoulder a little heavier.
At one point, Tyler skates past our bench and says something to one of our freshmen. The kid bristles. Kai’s voice snaps. “Ignore him.” The kid swallows it.
Good.
We don’t need to feed their game. But as the period winds down, Tyler starts drifting closer to our side more often. A little extra shove. A little extra stick in the ribs after the whistle. He’s baiting us, or at least trying his best.
The first period ends 2–1 us. We head down the tunnel with adrenaline buzzing, bodies colliding, skates clacking on concrete.
In the locker room, Coach talks adjustments, lines, coverage. The guys listen with varying levels of attention.
Kai is silent, retaping his stick like it’s prayer. Weston is bouncing his knee again like he’s about to combust. Asher sits in his stall, mask off, drinking water, eyes distant. Goalie zen.
Coach finishes with a stare. “We keep it clean. They want to turn this into a circus. We don’t give them that.”
Coleson, of course, mutters, “Circus sounds fun.”
Asher’s head turns just slightly. “Not now.”
Coleson rolls his eyes. “Relax, Hale.”
Asher’s voice is calm and lethal. “Stop talking.”
Coleson shuts up. Miracles keep happening today.
Kai stands and claps once, sharp. “Enough. Next period.”
We break.
Second period starts worse. They score early on a broken play. Puck bounces, Asher gets screened, it slips through. Tie game. The crowd tightens—less roar, more tension.
Tyler skates by our bench after the goal and smiles like he’s made of grease.
Weston chirps him. “Nice screen, buddy. Very brave of you to stand near a goalie.”
Tyler laughs. “At least I’m on the ice.”
Weston gasps. “That’s rude.”
Kai’s stick taps the boards. “Weston.”
Weston zips his mouth with a dramatic motion before hopping back onto the ice.
We settle back in.
Kai drives the next shift hard, pushing the pace, dragging us into motion.
He wins a draw. Feeds it to me. I cut wide, pull a defenseman with me, drop it back to Weston.
Weston fires.
Goal.
3–2.
We celebrate quickly, controlled. No extra words, no antagonizing their bench, but Tyler looks at ours anyway. His gaze finds Kai, and it’s smug. Like he’s not done.
The period grinds.
Hits get heavier. Scrums get louder. The refs start warning both benches.
With three minutes left in the second, Tyler takes a cheap run at one of our defensemen along the boards. Not enough for a penalty, but enough to send a message.
Kai turns toward him like a switch flipping.
I see it.
The captain holds.
The brother cracks.
Kai starts skating toward him. And I step in front of Kai without fully thinking. Not blocking him. Not stopping him. Just…redirecting.
Kai’s eyes cut to mine.
“What,” he snaps.
“Not yet,” I mutter.
Kai’s nostrils flare. He forces himself to turn away, because he’s Kai, and he can do that when it matters. But his jaw is trembling.
The horn ends the second period before anything explodes. We file off the ice, breathing hard, sweat cooling too fast under pads. In the tunnel, Kai walks beside me, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn’t look at me. But his voice is low enough that only I hear.
“He’s just waiting for the right moment.”
I swallow. “I know.”
Kai’s eyes finally flick to mine.
“Don’t let me do something stupid,” he says.
And the fact that he says it at all—that he admits he might lose control—makes my chest tighten.
“I won’t,” I promise.
Then I realize how stupid that promise is, because I can’t control what Tyler says.
I can only control what I do next.
The locker room between periods is a pressure cooker.
Coach talks. Guys nod. Asher sits still like a statue.
Kai is silent again, staring at the floor like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.
Weston leans over to me and whispers, “I think Mercer might actually murder someone.”
I whisper back, “Stop talking.”
Weston’s brows shoot up. “Oh. It’s serious.”
Asher’s voice cuts in from across the room. “It’s always serious.”
Coach finishes with one final glare. “You want to win? Keep your heads.”
His eyes land on Kai. “Captain.”
Kai nods once. “Yes, Coach.”
Coach’s gaze sweeps us. “Bennett. Cooper. You’re my wings. You’re the pace. You keep it clean.”
“Got it,” Weston says.
I just nod, and we head back out.
Third period.
We’re still up by one, but there’s plenty of game left for that to change.
Third period feels like a storm waiting to unleash.
The crowd is louder now, restless. The ice feels smaller. The checks feel heavier. There is an electric energy buzzing too close to the surface.
My legs burn. My lungs scrape. Sweat drips down my back, cooling too fast.
Asher is a wall in our net. Calm. Efficient. Unmoved.
We get a power play with eight minutes left. Tyler trips Weston near center ice, and the ref actually calls it.
Weston pops up, grinning. “Thanks, bestie.”
Tyler smiles back, like he’s thinking about something else.
In the faceoff circle, Kai glances at me, quick. We don’t need words. We move.
Kai wins the draw. I slide into position. Weston on the left side, me on the right, puck cycling. We fire shots. Their goalie blocks. Rebound pops loose. I jab at it once. It goes in.
Goal.
The building detonates. Weston screams. Kai slams into me. The bench explodes.
I don’t look up this time either. I can’t because the feeling in my chest is too big and too bright and too dangerous.
We still have minutes to play. We still have to hold.
We settle.
The final minutes are chaos.
They pull their goalie. Six attackers. Desperation.
We block shots. Clear pucks. Asher makes a glove save so clean it feels insulting.
Tyler is on the ice for their last push. Of course he is. He wins a draw back to their point. Shot through traffic. Deflection.
Asher kicks it out.
Scramble in front. Sticks everywhere. Bodies everywhere.
Kai clears the crease with a shove that’s barely legal.
The puck squirts to the boards.
I get it. I chip it out. The crowd roars like it’s a living thing.
Two minutes left.
Tyler is skating toward our bench on a change, mouth moving, eyes locked on Kai.
Kai skates away with me on a line change, heading toward our side of the bench, breathing hard, jaw locked.
And that’s when Tyler does it.
He doesn’t shout.
He doesn’t need to.
He says it like a casual observation. Like he’s commenting on the weather.
“Looks like Harlow’s been laying off the salads again,” he calls, voice dripping with that fake-golden-boy tone. “Shame she’s letting herself go.”
Everything inside me goes still.
Like the world paused because it couldn’t believe someone just said that out loud.
Kai jerks like he’s been yanked. His head snaps around, eyes going wild, body already starting to pivot—
He doesn’t get the chance, because I’m already moving. My stick drops to the ice, my gloves following closely behind, and I’m moving. Straight at Tyler.
He sees me coming a second too late. His grin falters, and he lifts his hands like he’s about to pretend it was a joke.
I don’t give him the chance.
I hit him.
Hard.
Clean enough to be hockey. Violent enough to be personal.
Tyler goes down like a collapsing chair, his skates kicking out, his body slamming into the ice.
The sound is loud. The crowd goes insane.
Kai’s shout is distant. “BENNETT—”
Too late. Because Tyler’s already scrambling up, anger flashing, gloves coming off. He swings. I dodge it.
I grab his jersey and drive him back down, my fist slamming into his shoulder—pads, fabric, impact—more about control than damage.
He tries to pull me down with him. Tries to twist. I keep my balance.
Because I’ve spent my whole life learning how to stay upright when someone tries to take you out at the knees.
The linesmen are already there, yelling, grabbing.
Too late again.
Because our bench empties.
Their bench empties.
Bodies flood the ice.
It becomes a pile of jerseys and gloves and fury.
Kai is right behind me. He doesn’t go for Tyler. He goes for the guy trying to pull me off Tyler. He shoves him back like a warning.
Asher stays in the crease. Goalie rule. Goalies don’t leave unless the world is ending, but I see his mask tilt slightly, eyes sharp, tracking. Ready.
Coach is on the bench yelling at refs, yelling at players, yelling at the universe.
The refs blow whistles until they’re red in the face. The crowd is losing their minds.
It takes a full minute for the chaos to untangle.
I’m pinned on my knees, a linesman’s arms around my chest, Tyler held back by another official.
Tyler’s hair is a mess. His mouth is split at the corner—not badly, but enough. His eyes are furious.
He spits something. “Fucking psycho.”
I laugh once, breathless. “Don’t talk about her.”
Tyler sneers. “She’s still—”
“NO,” Kai roars as he surges forward, and the sound of his voice is something I’ve never heard on the ice. It’s not captain sharp. It’s protective older brother feral.
The official holds him back. Kai’s chest is heaving, his eyes completely consumed by rage.
Tyler’s grin tries to come back. “Mercer. Always the hero.”
Kai’s jaw is trembling.
I twist just enough to look directly at Tyler. My voice is low, calm in a way that surprises even me.
“She’s not yours anymore,” I say. “She never was.”
Tyler’s grin dies.
Good.
The refs finally drag us apart.
I’m shoved toward our bench.
Kai is forced toward ours too—officials between him and the other team like human walls.
Weston skates beside me, breathing hard, eyes wide. “You—holy—”
“Shut up,” I bite out.
Weston nods violently. “Yep.”
Coach is in my face the second I reach the bench.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” he snaps.
I don’t flinch. I don’t apologize. I just say, low, “He talked about Harlow.”
Coach’s mouth opens. Then closes. Because Coach knows. Not details, but enough. He exhales hard like he’s swallowing his own anger.
“Sit,” he barks.
I sit.
My hands are shaking. Not from adrenaline. From restraint. From the fact that I didn’t break Tyler’s face because the ice is not the place for full revenge, and Harlow doesn’t need that kind of spectacle.
But God, I wanted to.
The refs assess penalties, which seems to take forever, especially when I already know my fate.
Finally: matching majors, misconducts…
I’m done for the night.
Tyler is too.
Kai is spared—barely—because he didn’t throw punches, just threats.
I head to the locker room, and the game resumes for the final minute with everyone tense and pissed and the crowd still charged like an electric wire.
When the final horn blares, I know we’ve won based on the sound coming from the crowd.
But this victory doesn’t feel like a celebration.
It feels like admitting what I haven’t said out loud.