Chapter 2
Nikolai
The locker room was loud. It always was. Too many voices. Too much testosterone and too little purpose.
I sat at my stall, head down, taping my stick with the precision of a surgeon and the patience of a saint. Every wrap had its place. Symmetrical. Perfect. There was something almost holy about it. In a game of chaos, this was order. Ritual.
“Hey, Volkov!” Asher called, towel slapping across the back of Christian’s pale shoulders. “Think you’ll actually show up to this game, or are you too busy chasing your next conquest?”
I didn’t look up at first. Not worth the effort. Then, casually, I lifted my gaze. “If by conquest, you mean wagering a woman like a casino chip, then yes. I am present.”
My tone was even. Cold. Maybe a little amused. Maybe not.
Laughter exploded from the stalls. Ethan clutched his side like he’d been stabbed. “Man’s got a point! At least he’s not out here putting his girlfriend on the table like a pair of dice.”
Asher grinned, unbothered. “Don’t let Petrov's girl hear that.”
Her. Sharp in the air. I didn’t flinch, but I heard it. Felt it. Like the drop of a puck before a fight.
I tore the tape at the end of my blade cleanly. Tight. Uncompromising. Like me.
Mina was not a name for locker room banter. Not a prize. Not a punchline. She was—
I crushed the thought. Useless. Focus.
The noise continued. Jared was retelling the infamous diner story—how we’d gotten lost after that away game and ended up eating waffles with a trucker named Big Mitch.
Laughter again. Too loud. Too bright.
“Best part? We missed curfew!” Jared said with theatrical flourish.
“That was your fault,” I muttered. “Too many milkshakes.”
More laughter. Someone clapped me on the back. I let it happen.
This was the strange thing about North American teams—too many emotions in the air, like cologne in a bad club. But still… there was comfort in the ritual. The same jokes. The same tape. The same war to come.
Jared launched his skate guards at Asher. Asher screamed like a child. My eyebrow twitched.
“Idiots,” I said, mostly to myself.
But these idiots were my brothers. Loud, unrefined, chaotic… and yet, they would bleed for me on the ice. I would do the same. That was enough.
I stood, placing my stick beside my stall, blade down, as it should be. A small pause. The silence beneath the noise.
Soon, the noise would fade. The lights would dim. We would walk out into the cold roar of the arena, where nothing mattered but speed, strength, and resolve.
And I would see him.
Petrov.
I would see her, too.
Freckles.
And no one would laugh then.
I leaned back against my stall, arms crossed, letting the noise wash over me like rain on stone. The locker room buzzed—shouted jokes, slamming lockers, the stink of tape and sweat and overconfidence. American chaos. Loud, messy, and strangely comforting.
A rookie—fresh face, full of questions, too eager for his own good—piped up from across the room. “Hey, Volkov! What’s this Mina bet I keep hearing about? Sounds wild.”
Laughter erupted, predictable and loud, like they had been waiting for someone to open that particular door. It echoed off the walls, bouncing between sweat-drenched jerseys and chipped helmets.
Jared, always the agitator, grinned like the devil himself. “Better start brushing up on your dog-walking skills, Romeo,” he said, pointing a finger at me like he expected me to dance.
I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.
I let the silence stretch for a beat too long, then offered a shrug. A small smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth—half warning, half invitation. “He made the bet,” I said, voice low and calm. “I just intend to collect.”
To them, it was a joke—a locker room tale to be retold over beers and broken teeth. But for me?
It was leverage. Strategy. Opening move.
And maybe something more.
Asher leaned in, slapping his knee like a child at a puppet show. “You serious? You think Petrov’s gonna lose?”
I met his gaze, my tone flat. “Why wouldn’t he? His ego is larger than the square footage of this building.”
That earned a few dramatic oohs, another wave of laughter. But the energy in the room had shifted. Just slightly. Like someone had lit a match too close to a gas leak.
A towel came flying my way. I caught it midair without looking. Eyes still locked on Jared.
He raised an eyebrow, reading the mood like a seasoned gambler. “Just remember what’s at stake if you win.”
My voice was cold. Unyielding. “I know exactly what’s at stake.”
And I did.
Not just thirty days.
Not just a girl.
Mina wasn’t a prize.
But Petrov had made her one.
And now? I would treat this like every other challenge—surgical, clinical, inevitable. That was what I told myself. Over and over.
But my mind kept drifting. Back to that night. The moment Petrov laughed, and she didn’t. The look in her eyes—not fear, not anger. Disbelief.
He had gambled her dignity.
I would not.
Not unless she gave it willingly.
The room carried on around me. Boys pretending to be men. Warriors pretending they were friends. I stared down at my gloves, then slipped them on slowly, each finger a quiet reminder.
We go to war tonight.
And this time, the target isn’t the net.
The moment my skates touched the ice, the world narrowed.
The crowd roared—pointless noise. Background static. My focus cut through it like a scalpel. Breath in. Cold. Clean. Sterile. I exhaled once and moved forward.
Each stride was precise. Not rushed. Not showy. Calculated.
Predator, not performer.
The puck found my blade. I guided it—not with force, but understanding. It wanted to obey. I feinted left. The defenseman bit. I sliced right. Fluid. Surgical.
Someone lunged. I did not flinch. I moved.
Passed to Jared—always ready, always loud. He fired.
Goal.
They screamed.
I did not.
Noise didn’t matter. Goals were expected. Glory was not the reward. Dominance was.
Another shift. Another opponent charging in my direction. Tall. Heavy. Too much chest, not enough brain.
He thought collision would frighten me.
It did not.
I dropped my shoulder and met him squarely. The crunch of impact reverberated through my bones, a language I understood. He fell. I didn't.
I didn’t look back. He did not matter anymore.
My eyes scanned the boards. Then—there. High in the stands. Her.
Mina.
Petrov’s jersey on her like a bad joke. Draped over her like loyalty. Like she belonged to someone too foolish to keep her.
Her hair framed her face, soft. She watched the ice too carefully. Eyes fixed, not blinking. Like if she stared hard enough, she could turn this into something romantic. A love story.
It wasn’t.
This was war.
And she was the prize he gambled. Not me.
I skated past the bench slowly, letting my blade hiss over the ice. A chuckle rumbled in my chest—not joyful. Not amused.
I didn’t smile. I rarely smile.
But tonight, I let it happen.
A face-off neared. I slid into position like a blade slipping into flesh. Opponent across from me. Nervous. Twitchy. He would lose. He already had.
As I waited for the puck drop, I let my mind wander—briefly. To Mina. In my colors. Not borrowed loyalty, but chosen. Not a bet. A declaration.
I would not ask.
I would make her see.
The puck dropped.
Small. Insignificant. Yet it carried weight. Power. Everything that mattered in this moment sat between us like a live grenade waiting for the first hand to claim it.
Petrov crouched low across from me, too cocky. Too eager. He always was. Shoulders tight with pride. Mouth twitching like he had something to prove.
I leaned forward. Quiet. Measured. Our eyes locked.
“Hope you’re ready to lose her,” I said, low. Precise. A scalpel, not a hammer. “She’ll make a fine trophy.”
His jaw tightened. There it was. Rage. Fast and stupid, like everything about him. He blinked. That was all I needed.
I struck first.
The puck snapped under my blade like it had never belonged to anyone else. I moved before he could think. Before he could feel. That was the problem with men like Petrov—they felt too much, too fast.
I cut past him cleanly. No noise. No celebration. Just ice and speed.
The defenders came like ghosts, big bodies, louder footsteps. I did not stop.
Left. Right. Blades whispering across the ice like razors.
The net opened ahead of me—a quiet promise in a loud arena. I felt the weight of thousands of eyes on my shoulders and shrugged it off like snow. I didn’t play for the crowd. I didn’t play for applause.
I played to win.
A voice behind me shouted something desperate—“Not today!”—but I didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch.
They never learn. Not until it’s over.
I reached the crease.
The puck left my stick in a flick—nothing fancy. Just efficient. Just inevitable.
Thwack.
The sound rang out, clean and final. A gunshot in an opera house.
Goal.
The crowd erupted—screams, cheers, outrage. Chicago fans howled like they’d been betrayed by the gods themselves.
I didn’t react.
No raised arms. No smirk. No joy.
Just the quiet satisfaction of inevitability fulfilled.
Slowly, I turned.
Mikel stood near the net, frozen. Still trying to process what had happened. His eyes found mine—and that’s where I held him.
No smile. No mockery. Just truth.
I warned you.
His fury broke through the disbelief like a crack in glass. But it was too late. The damage was done. Not just the score.
The message.
Tonight wasn’t about goals or glory. It wasn’t about fans or stats.
It was about dominion.
I had taken what mattered. On the ice. And soon, off it.
I skated away, leaving him in the wreckage of his own pride.
This was not the end.
Only the beginning.
The whistle blew.
I heard it, but I did not feel it. My pulse drowned everything else. I skated toward the bench, lungs burning, hands still flexing from the last shift.
Then the air cracked behind me.
Shouts. Snarls. Chaos.
I turned just as Petrov lunged at Jared—sloppy, reckless. Predictable.
Fists flew. Players crashed together like metal striking metal. A brawl. Not new. Not surprising. But it escalated too quickly. Too loud. Too many fists for too few officials.
“Watch your back!” someone shouted.
I didn’t have time to register it.
Crack.
Pain split across my jaw—sharp and immediate. Petrov’s fist. His anger. His mistake.
I stumbled back, vision jolting, but not falling.
I tasted blood. Copper. Warm.
“Bastard,” I muttered, voice low and Russian and final.
The gloves dropped.
Mine. His. Everyone else faded.
Only him now.
The crowd roared as we faced each other—two men, no masks, no puck. Just rage.
He charged first, wild and emotional. Always emotional.
I ducked his punch. Slid under it like water. My fist slammed into his ribs—clean, deep. He gasped.
Good.
I hit him again—cheek, sharp and cracking. My knuckle split, but I didn’t register the sting.
He struck back, a left hook. Solid. My head snapped to the side.
Pain bloomed. Brief. Contained.
It only sharpened me.
The refs were late. Lost in the mess of other scuffles. No one came for us.
This was war now. Personal. Real.
“You’re not touching her!” he spat, eyes wild.
I met his fury with something colder. “She is not yours to give.”
Then I hit him again. Harder.
He reeled back, off balance. I pressed forward—no anger in my limbs, only precision. A final uppercut caught him clean under the chin.
He dropped.
Flat on the ice.
The crowd exploded.
I stood over him, chest heaving, blood on my lip, on my glove. My vision blurred at the edges from pain and adrenaline, but I remained upright. Present. Dominant.
A glance at the glass showed my eye swelling. My cheekbone darkened already.
I did not care.
Pain was momentary.
Victory lingered.
I didn’t raise my arms. Didn’t yell.
I simply turned and skated off, leaving him on the ice—his pride broken, his bet lost.
And somewhere in the stands, she saw.
Good.
Let her see the cost of gambling what you never truly owned.
I stepped into the locker room, blood trailing from my lip. It stung, yes—but not as much as silence would have. Pain was useful. Pain was proof.
The noise hit first.
Laughter. Shouts. The thick scent of sweat, rubber, and adrenaline soaked into every corner. The air was warm, heavy with victory. With release.
Home.
Jared’s voice cut through the chaos. “Look who decided to show up!” He grinned, waving a towel like a flag of foolishness. “Thought we lost you out there, Reaper.”
I rolled my shoulder—muscle still taut, pulse still hot. “Didn’t lose,” I said quietly. “Just put him down.”
That was enough. The boys gathered around like moths to a fire. Rough slaps on my back. Grins. Bloodlust.
Ethan winced, looking over my face. “You look like hell.”
I didn’t respond.
Asher jumped in. “You saw him drop, right? Petrov folded like a lawn chair.”
I let out a short breath—maybe a chuckle. Hard to say.
Their noise swirled around me like smoke, but I was somewhere else—checking my bruises. Running my tongue over the split in my lip. Calculating damage.
Then I said it, flat and calm. “So when do I get the girl?”
The room shifted.
The laughter changed. Softer. Stiffer. Eyes darted.
Jared cleared his throat. “I mean… Petrov did lose the bet…”
Ethan hesitated. “Yeah, but… she’s not a prize, man.”
They meant well. Good hearts. Weak stomachs for the truth.
I tilted my head, unscrewed my water bottle, and took a slow drink. Let the silence stretch. Let the discomfort grow legs.
“Exactly,” I said. My voice stayed even. Empty. “Not a prize.” I let them breathe. “Just something worth claiming.”
That shut them up.
For a moment, the air crackled. Something unspoken crawled up their spines. They laughed again—but this time it didn’t fill the room. It bounced off the walls, then faded.
I leaned back against my stall, letting the tension settle. Let them feel it. Let them understand what I’d done tonight was not about a scoreboard.
It was about lineage. Territory. Making the first mark on a battlefield no one else even saw yet.
Jared broke the silence. “And if she doesn’t want you?”
I looked at him.
Steady. Still. My voice didn’t rise, didn’t tremble.
“She will.”
They didn’t respond. Not really. Not with words.
Their laughter returned again—forced, unsure. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t need their approval.
I had what I came for.
The blood on my knuckles. The silence in Petrov’s eyes. And the way Mina watched me from the stands—unblinking.
This was only round one.
And I didn't lose.