Chapter 1
ALOIS
PRESENT DAY
My fist connected before the whistle ever thought about blowing.
Solid.
Bone on bone, knuckles damp with sweat and heat and impact, his head snapping sideways as the crowd detonated around us—fifteen thousand people on their feet, the sound ripping through the Talon Arena like it had teeth.
Petrov came back at me anyway.
What a fucking idiot.
His stick was already gone, gloves hitting the ice a second too late to matter, his balance shot from the cheap hit he’d taken at Zee seconds earlier—the one the refs hadn’t called, the one I hadn’t forgotten.
He swung wide. Sloppy.
I skated in. Closed the space with one smooth glide, driving my shoulder into his chest. Instantly, I felt the air leave him in a sharp, ugly rush as I buried another punch into his ribs—short, controlled.
The boards rattled behind him. The glass shook. The crowd lost whatever was left of its mind.
“Back off our kid,” I sneered, low enough no one else would hear it.
He tried to answer. It came out wet and useless.
His next swing clipped my shoulder—nothing. I absorbed it, reset my footing, and drove my fist up and across, catching him clean along the jaw. His head snapped back this time, body lagging behind it like it had missed the cue.
That was the one.
The fight left him before he hit the ice.
He went down hard, skates slipping out from under him, hands dragging uselessly across the surface as the refs finally surged in—arms between us, voices loud and pointless now that it was already over.
I let them take my weight, let them push me back a stride without resisting, my chest rising slow and steady while everything around me stayed loud.
Inside—nothing.
My hands throbbed, heat trapped, pulse heavy and deep. I flexed once, feeling the tight pull across my knuckles.
Petrov was on his knees now, trainers already on him, blood running from a split above his eyebrow, dripping down onto the ice.
He didn’t look at them. He looked at me. The kind of resentment that came from being handled in front of a full arena—reduced to a moment he couldn’t take back.
I held his gaze just long enough to make the message stick.
Then I turned away to take my punishment.
Worth it.
The crowd was still bustling, a low, satisfied roar that rolled through the arena like distant thunder. They loved it. Always had. Violence dressed up as purpose, easy to cheer from behind glass.
The horn had already gone, but the noise lingered—the entire crowd still on its feet, energy bouncing off the rafters, not ready to let the moment go.
I pushed toward the bench, legs heavy, adrenaline burning off in uneven waves.
Behind me, Petrov was still being helped down the tunnel. In front of me, the boards rattled as someone slammed a stick against them in celebration.
We’d won. Barely. Not the kind of win that built anything. The kind that bought you another night before the cracks showed again.
I leaned into the boards, forearms braced, head dipping for a second as I pulled in a breath that tasted like sweat and rubber and something metallic underneath.
By morning, the league would have opinions. Fines. Calls. Statements drafted by people who had never stepped onto ice with blood in their mouth, explaining to the rest of us how the game was supposed to be played.
I exhaled slowly and straightened.
Didn’t matter.
The game moved on.
So did I.
The Frosthawks logo was stamped at center ice like a promise no one fully believed yet—fire in the cold, the marketing team liked to say, as if slogans ever fixed a rebuild.
As if a tagline could erase three seasons of bad drafts, bad luck, and a locker room that tightened every time a lead got thin.
Tonight’s victory was brittle. One bad bounce away from becoming another collapse.
My shoulder ached where I’d taken a hit late in the third. Not an injury.
A reminder—You’re not twenty-two anymore, Müller.
I stepped off the ice and into the tunnel, and the temperature changed instantly—less freezer, more damp concrete and old sweat baked into paint. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, already halfway to exhausted.
A kid in a black Frosthawks hoodie darted out of the equipment room, nearly colliding with me. One of the interns. Equipment staff, maybe. Hard to tell. Everyone looked wrecked the same way.
He froze, eyes wide, then pivoted so fast he almost tripped over his own sneakers. “Sorry—” The word came out thin. Like he expected to get buried for breathing wrong.
I kept walking. My skates clicked against rubber mats. Each step sounded too loud in my head. Like a countdown.
Behind me, someone whistled low. Ty Burns—Buzz to anyone who’d survived a season with him—fell into step beside me, all sweat and adrenaline and bad instincts.
“That was savage,” he muttered, half-impressed, half-accusing. “You trying to get fined or just bored?”
I didn’t look at him. “Neither.”
“Bullshit.” Ty snorted. “You lined him up like you had a personal vendetta.”
“He took a run at Zee.”
“So you try to take his head off?”
“Correct.”
“Jesus. You’re gonna get us all suspended one of these days.” Ty laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You hear that place?” Ty went on. “They were losing it. Thought they were about to start chanting your name.”
“They’d chant for a house fire if it wore skates.”
“Yeah, but this?” Ty tilted his head at me. “This was vintage Müller. Old-school psycho.”
I finally looked at him. Ty’s grin sharpened. He liked pushing. He liked seeing where the line was.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Don’t what?”
“Test me.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m complimenting you.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Sure it is. Means you still got it.”
Still. The word lodged in my chest like a splinter.
I kept walking.
Ty jogged a step to stay beside me. “Seriously, though. You good?”
The tone shifted. Just a notch. Enough to matter.
I rolled my wrists, felt the tight pull in the tendons. “Fine.”
“Mm.” He dragged the sound out. “That’s your favorite lie.”
We passed Oliver St. James coming the other direction, helmet tucked under one arm, face flushed, eyes tired. Oliver always looked tired. Not weak—worn. Like responsibility lived in his bones.
His gaze flicked to my knuckles and then up. Quick. Efficient. Inventory. “Nice work,” he muttered, voice flat enough to pass as sarcasm.
It wasn’t.
Oliver didn’t hand out approval like candy.
I gave him a small nod.
He fell into step on my other side, subtly edging Ty away without touching him. Oliver had twin toddlers at home. He’d mastered crowd control without raising his voice.
Ty sighed. “Oh good. The babysitter’s here.”
Oliver’s mouth twitched. “Someone has to keep you breathing.”
“I’m indestructible.”
Oliver ignored Buzz and looked at me. “Cam’s in a mood.”
“Isn’t he always pissy?” I huffed.
Oliver’s gaze sharpened. “Not like this.”
The locker room noise pressed through the door—voices layered over each other, laughter that didn’t quite fit, the clang of metal, the hiss of showers. Someone’s speaker blasted music too loud, bass thudding like a forced heartbeat.
Ty grabbed the handle and swung the door open with the confidence of a man who’d never met consequences.
The room hit me full force. Hot, damp air washed over me. Sweat. Steam. The sharp bite of menthol muscle rub. Wet leather and stale tape. The smell of hockey never left. It soaked into floorboards. Into skin. Into you.
Cam Dunne stood near the center of it all, half-undressed, tape still wrapped tight around his wrists.
No helmet. No pads.
Just authority.
He was captain for a reason. Not because he was the loudest. Because he was the one everyone looked at when something went wrong. Because he took it personally when we slipped.
Even before the C stitched to his chest, the room bent around him.
His hair was damp, falling into his eyes. His jaw worked slowly, like he was grinding down something bitter he hadn’t swallowed yet.
His gaze snapped to me, locking instantly—judgment dressed up as leadership. He didn’t move. Didn’t step closer. Didn’t raise his voice. He just let the room watch him watch me.
“Nice show,” Cam remarked, tone flat and cold. “We trying to win games, or audition for highlight reels?”
A couple of guys shifted. Someone stopped laughing.
I felt Ty stiffen beside me, energy tightening in his shoulders, ready to spark. I kept my face neutral. The easiest mask in the world. The one people mistook for indifference.
“Both,” I replied mildly. “We won.”
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “We won despite you spending five minutes in the box.”
My pulse kicked. That familiar pressure behind my ribs. The anger I kept contained because it knew how to burn bridges.
“We won because that fucking brute took another cheap shot at Zee,” I countered, my voice staying level even as my jaw tightened. “Because their bench backed off. Because our third line finally had space.”
Cam’s shoulders lifted on a sharp inhale. His hands flexed at his sides, tape creaking faintly as his fingers curled.
“Because you decided to play sheriff,” he snapped.
“I played hockey.”
“You played hero.”
“Sometimes that’s the job.” I met his stare without blinking, chin tipping up a fraction. Not a challenge. A refusal to yield.
Cam’s nostrils flared. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, then dropped it hard to his hip, like he was stopping himself from doing something worse.
“You don’t get to freelance discipline.”
“I reacted to a threat.”
“To your temper.”
My shoulders straightened without me thinking about it. My weight shifted forward, skates scraping lightly against the rubber mat. Close enough now that I could see the pulse jumping at Cam’s throat.
Every eye drifted toward us—teammates pretending not to stare, watching from reflections in mirrors, from the corners of their vision, like men sensing a storm before the first thunder ever cracked.
No one moved. No one spoke. They just felt it building, that low pressure in the air that came before something splintered.
The room seemed to tighten around us. Steam curled from showers. Sweat clung to skin. Heat pressed in from every direction, thick and heavy, as if the ceiling itself were holding its breath.
Two bodies squared off in the center of it all, shoulders set, jaws locked, energy rolling off us in slow, dangerous waves.
Two tempests standing ten feet apart.
Cam took one slow step toward me.
Not aggressive.
Deliberate.
Claiming space.
“You want to talk about threats?” he murmured. “Let’s start with not handing the league another reason to fine us. Or suspend you. Or make Rawlings explain why his ‘veteran leader’ keeps losing his cool.”
Veteran leader.
The phrase landed wrong.
I could’ve walked away.
But my blood was still loud. My nerves still buzzing. And Cam always knew where to press. He hit nerves like he hit the puck. Clean. Precise.
I huffed humorlessly before letting my voice turn to gravel. “Interesting coming from a guy who almost boarded someone last week because he chirped too loud.”
Cam’s jaw tightened. “That was different.”
“It always is when it’s you.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
Cam’s eyes flashed.
For half a second, I saw it. The same thing in him that lived in me. The fear of losing control of the story. The fear of being blamed when things fell apart. The fear of captaining a team no one believe in.
“You’re not the only one who wants this team to matter,” he clipped.
“Then stop acting like I’m dragging it down.”
Cam didn’t hesitate. “You are.”