45. Damon
Damon
I never understood the appeal of hockey.
Sure, I knew the basics—big guys with sticks trying to slam a puck into a net while also trying to slam each other into the boards—but I never really got it. The rules never interested me, the chaos of it all just seemed unnecessary, and I had zero patience for the way people treated it like a fucking religion.
But now, sitting here in the stands, watching Roman Bishop step onto the ice, I get it. I fucking get it.
The energy in the arena is electric, the crowd roaring as the teams take their places. Roman skates effortlessly, his posture easy, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the sharp focus in his eyes. He looks locked in, ready to fucking destroy someone if they get in his way.
Next to me, my mom is practically bouncing in her seat, her hands gripping the edge of the railing in front of us. “Oh, he looks so good out there!” she gushes, her voice full of pride, and for a second, I swear she forgets that Roman isn’t actually her kid.
I huff out a quiet laugh, watching as Roman does a fast lap before meeting up with Killian and Thorn at center ice. They exchange a few words, and whatever they say must be fucked up because they all grin like they’ve got a hit list and they’re about to cross some names off.
I’ve never seen Roman like this.
The Roman I know is a cocky little shit with a sharp mouth and no filter, always ready to start something just to see if I’ll finish it. He’s reckless and stubborn, impossible and addictive. But this? This is different.
On the ice, he looks lethal.
The game starts, and from the second the puck drops, my eyes are on him. He moves with a kind of intensity that makes it impossible to look away, weaving through defenders like they aren’t even there. He’s not just playing—he’s fucking commanding the ice, and everyone else is just trying to keep up.
It’s not just skill, it’s domination, pure and fucking simple. He and Killian are like twin devils out there, weaving between players, taking hits like they don’t even feel them, and throwing their weight around like they were made for this.
And Thorn? Jesus Christ. The three of them together are terrifying. It’s controlled chaos, but the control? That’s what makes it deadly. Roman’s fast and unpredictable, his skates carving sharp lines into the ice as he dodges a check so smoothly that the guy almost falls flat on his ass.
I smirk, leaning forward slightly.
My boy is good.
The first goal happens so fast that I almost miss it. Killian sends a perfect pass across the ice, and Roman takes the shot like he already knows exactly where it’s going to land. The puck hits the back of the net with a sharp clang, and the crowd explodes.
I don’t even hear myself yell, but my mom does, because she laughs beside me, nudging my arm. “You’re so gone for him.”
I glare at her, my ears hot. “Shut up.”
She just smirks and turns back to the game.
Roman takes a nasty hit in the second period, slamming into the boards so hard I feel it in my chest. I’m on my feet before I can think, fists clenched, teeth gritted as I watch him shake it off, rolling his shoulders and skating away like nothing happened.
But I saw it. I know the way he clenches his jaw when he’s hurting.
My mom places a hand on my arm, a calming touch. “He’s okay,” she assures me. I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to sit back down, but my knee bounces relentlessly.
Roman plays through the rest of the period like he’s pissed—harder, faster, throwing his weight around like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does.
To them.
To himself.
And I swear to fucking God, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Midway through the second period, some dumbass from the other team makes the mistake of getting too close to Killian, slamming him into the boards a little too hard.
Big fucking mistake.
Roman’s on him in seconds, shoving him back so hard the guy barely has time to react before Thorn is there too, laughing as he squares up like he’s been waiting all game for an excuse.
The refs try to break it up, but not before Roman gets in a solid shove, his mouth moving way too much for him not to be talking shit. I don’t know what he says, but whatever it is, it works—the guy goes red in the face and tries to come at him again before getting dragged away.
Roman just grins, skating backward toward his bench, his eyes flicking up to the stands like he knows I’m watching. I flip him off and his grin widens.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “He really does get off on this shit.”
My mom laughs. “You should’ve seen him when he was in high school. He’s always been like this.”
I tilt my head, glancing at her. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, still smiling as she watches him. “Always too competitive for his own good. But he’s a good kid. He plays hard, but he plays smart.”
I can’t argue with that.
The rest of the game is fast, brutal, and exactly what I expected from Roman’s team. Every time I think someone else might take the spotlight, there he is again—fucking everywhere, setting up plays, talking shit, knocking guys around just for fun.
Third period and the game is tied 3-3.
Tension is thick enough to choke on, and I don’t realize I’m gripping the edge of my seat until my mom pats my hand. “Breathe, sweetheart.”
Right.
Then Roman’s got the puck, and there’s nothing in his way. It happens fast. Too fucking fast. He moves like a ghost, slipping between defenders like they aren’t even there, his stick handling fucking filthy, his edges cutting deep into the ice as he races toward the net.
He lifts his stick—
Shoots—
The red light flashes, and the crowd loses its mind.
I don’t even think, I just grab my mom’s arm, shaking her as I yell, “HOLY FUCK DID YOU SEE THAT?”
She’s laughing, her eyes bright. “Oh, that was beautiful! What a game!”
I turn back to the ice, my heart pounding out of my fucking chest as I watch Roman skate toward the bench, his teammates swarming him, slamming into him, loving him.
I fucking love him. God, I love him. It’s scary as all hell to admit it, but I do.
The clock runs down, and when the buzzer finally sounds, declaring their win, I feel something I’ve never fucking felt before. Pride. I’m so fucking proud of him, and when he looks up toward the stands again, his eyes find mine immediately.
He winks, and fuck, I’m in deep.
After the game, I wait outside the locker room after walking my mom to her car, shifting on my feet, my fingers twitching to touch him. I just need one second with him, just one moment to say—
The door swings open and Roman steps out, damp hair curling at his temples, his jersey swapped for a team hoodie and his bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes flick up, searching, before he sees me.
And fuck, the smile that spreads across his face is everything.
“So,” he drawls, stopping in front of me. “You enjoy the show?”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips. “You were alright.”
He scoffs. “Alright?”
I shrug. “I mean, I’ve seen better.”
His eyes narrow, and before I can react, he grabs the front of my hoodie and yanks me forward, crashing his lips against mine. The kiss is rough, full of leftover adrenaline and victory, and for a second, I forget we’re in a fucking public hallway.
Someone whistles.
“Get a fucking room,” Thorn yells as he walks past.
Roman flips him off without breaking the kiss. When he finally pulls back, he’s grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Cocky bastard.
I just shake my head. “You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”
He grins wider. “Yeah, but I’m your menace.”
And fuck.
Yeah, he is.