Chapter 30
Nikolai
The locker room thrummed with tension, a coiled wire ready to snap.
I sat on the bench, tightening my skates with methodical precision, my hands moving on muscle memory while my thoughts roared louder than any pregame speech.
This wasn’t just a game. It was the game.
The one where everything either settled—or exploded.
Coach’s voice echoed in the background, rallying the guys, reminding us of what we’d fought for to get here. I barely heard him. My pulse thudded too loud in my ears. None of it mattered as much as what burned behind my ribs.
This wasn’t about the standings.
This was about Mina.
I could still hear her voice from earlier—quiet, but certain. “I trust you.” That stayed with me more than any strategy, more than the tension coiled in my muscles. Mikel had tried to humiliate her. Hurt her. Drag her name through the mud like she was disposable.
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt. I’d been raised not to start fights—but I’d finish this one.
When we filed out toward the tunnel, the din of the crowd hit like a tidal wave. The cold air of the rink hit my face, bracing and sharp, like the slap of reality I’d been waiting for. Lights flared overhead, bright and sterile, slicing through shadows like judgment.
The crowd roared. I barely heard it.
Helmet on. Chin strap locked. Stick gripped like it was an extension of my spine.
Center ice.
I met Mikel’s gaze across the rink. He smirked.
Good. Let him smile. He wouldn’t be for long.
The puck dropped.
I exploded off the line like a shot. My body knew what to do before my brain could think it. Feet pounding across the ice. Opponent in my way—gone. Stick low, puck snapped clean onto the blade. The arena faded to static. It was just me and that frozen black disk—just me and the mission.
Every stride dug deeper than the last. Every check, every shove, every shift—I poured everything into it. Anger, love, pride. Every bruise he’d left on Mina became fuel in my legs, in my fists, in my heart.
Tonight, I wasn’t just playing to win.
I was playing to end this.
The ice pulsed beneath me like a second heartbeat. Every stride cut clean through the surface, sharp and decisive. I could feel the energy from the crowd rippling through my body, but it wasn’t them I was playing for.
It was her.
Always her.
Mina had anchored me through every high and low. She believed in me when I couldn’t even trust myself. That belief? It lit something in my chest I couldn’t shake. I carried it into every zone rush, every check, every shot.
And I was just getting started.
I spotted my winger streaking down the flank and dropped into position, calling for the puck before his stick even twitched. “Now!”
It came sailing toward me—tight, fast, clean. I caught it effortlessly on the blade, instinct flowing smoother than thought. No hesitation. Just movement.
A defender came in hot, eyes locked on me like he was gunning for blood. I could see it before it happened—the hit, the angle, the desperation in his stride. He thought he could stop me cold.
He thought wrong.
I dropped my shoulder and plowed through him, felt the crack of his gear against mine, the give of his weight as he stumbled back like a ragdoll. I didn’t break stride. The rush was electric. Like I’d taken the noise of the world and crushed it under my skates.
Charging the net now, speed peaking, vision narrowing.
One more defender. He lunged low, blade out. I cut inside him, fast and brutal. The goalie squared up, crouched like a predator. But I’d already made the kill.
A flick of the wrist. A whisper of the puck against tape.
And then—net.
The red light flashed. The crowd exploded.
I raised my arms, teammates swarming me. Cheers thundered like an avalanche, but I barely heard any of it.
All I saw in my mind was Mina—smiling, proud, her faith in me burning brighter than the rink lights.
This goal was hers.
But this game?
This war?
That belonged to me.
And I still had a score to settle.
Mikel was next.
The second period kicked off like a shot of lightning. I was still riding the high of that goal, my veins humming with heat, every stride cutting like a blade through the ice. Everything clicked—the rhythm, the rush, the roar of the crowd.
Then Mikel happened.
He came in from the blindside like a damn freight train—no warning, no chance to brace. Just his full weight slamming into me, shoulder to ribs, bone to glass.
The world tilted sideways.
I hit the boards so hard the sound cracked through the rink like thunder. Pain shot through me, violent and blinding. For a second, the ice was spinning under me, everything swallowed in white static and ringing in my ears.
The crowd erupted—shouts, gasps, boos. I could barely hear them. Could barely breathe.
I blinked through the haze, pushing myself up off the ice. My hands stung, my ribs ached, and the taste of blood bloomed copper in my mouth. Through it all, one thing burned hotter than the rest:
Rage.
He stood over me, that smug bastard, chin high, chest puffed, like he’d just scored a damn goal instead of cheap-shotting me in front of the whole world.
No. Hell no.
I dropped my gloves before I even had time to think. The crowd felt a mile away. All I saw was him.
He threw the first punch—sloppy, wide, full of ego.
I ducked it and came back with precision, a hook that cracked against his cheek. My fists weren’t just fists anymore—they were fury incarnate. Every insult he ever hurled at Mina. Every lie. Every bruise he left that no one could see.
I made him feel them all.
Each punch I landed screamed you don’t get to win.
He tried to come back at me, but his rage made him sloppy. Mine made me sharp. Controlled. I could hear Mina’s voice echoing through the fog in my head—I trust you. That was all I needed.
Another punch—square in his jaw.
Another—this one to the ribs.
He staggered, breathless.
I stared into his eyes and saw it—that flash of doubt, of fear.
Then I gave him one final shot, all my weight behind it, and watched him crash to the ice like a toppled statue.
The refs swarmed in, pulling me back, dragging Mikel away like the wreckage he was. My lip bled, my knuckles throbbed, but I didn’t care.
He wasn’t just down on the scoreboard anymore.
He was done.
And I wasn’t finished yet.
The crowd erupted—a surge of noise crashing over me as I stood above Mikel’s crumpled form. I let it stretch for a breath, maybe two. Long enough for him to feel it—that I had bested him in front of the whole damn world.
Then I skated off, slow and deliberate. My teammates met me with grins, shouts, gloves pounding against my back in a chorus of approval.
But I barely heard it. My ears rang from the hit, from the fury.
My ribs screamed, my knuckles burned, and warm blood slid down the side of my face from the cut above my brow.
And I didn’t care.
The fight hadn’t broken me. It focused me.
By the time I sat on the bench, my breath was shallow, chest tight—but I was steady. Eyes locked on the clock. One period left. One shot to finish this.
And I would finish it.
The third period dropped like a hammer. I hit the ice, heart pounding in rhythm with the roaring crowd. Pain stabbed at every movement—hips bruised, shoulders stiff—but I used it. Turned it into drive. Into speed. Into hunger.
We were tied. It was all or nothing.
Every stride I took carved into the ice like it owed me something.
I played like my life depended on it—because part of it did.
Mina’s face lingered behind my eyes, sharper than any pain, brighter than the blinding arena lights.
This wasn’t just about revenge. This was about protecting her, proving her faith in me wasn’t misplaced.
We crashed the zone with under a minute to go. Weston cut left, dragging defenders with him. I ghosted to the crease, eyes on the puck, heartbeat a war drum.
One shot fired from the point—loud, wild. I tracked it instantly.
The rebound snapped to me.
I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.
Snap.
My stick kissed the puck and sent it flying top shelf—just under the crossbar, clean and final.
The red light flared behind the net. The buzzer followed.
Goal.
The arena exploded around me—screams, sirens, the thunder of a thousand feet on concrete. Teammates mobbed me, and I let them—for a second.
But all I could think about… was her.
Mina.
This was for her. Always had been.
And now, the whole damn world knew it.
The second that final buzzer blared through the arena, I knew we’d won more than a game.
But I also knew the real storm was just beginning.
The crowd roared, a tidal wave of cheers crashing against the boards as my skates carved a slow path toward the bench. My jersey clung to my body, soaked in sweat. Blood still trickled from the cut above my eye, stinging like hell—but I didn’t care.
My chest heaved with effort, adrenaline still burning through my veins, but my thoughts were already spiraling far from the ice.
Reporters lined up near the tunnel, a swarm of vultures with cameras instead of claws. I caught a few of their shouts through the noise:
“Volkov! Did Mikel’s hit go too far?”
“Do you regret the fight?”
“Was this personal?”
I could’ve walked past. I should’ve walked past. But as I reached the edge of the swarm, I stopped.
I saw her.
Not physically—Mina wasn’t here—but I saw her in my mind: the way she’d looked at me this morning, defiant and trusting despite the garbage the world threw her way. She had stood tall when she could’ve folded. She believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.
And now… it was my turn.
I turned to the crowd of reporters, yanked off my helmet, and let their flashes hit me like lightning. My voice cut clean through the chaos.
“This one,” I said, locking eyes with the closest camera lens, “was for Mina.”
The noise dropped.