Chapter 8
Angela
The Sterling University Arena—affectionately known as "The Freezer"—was not a place for humans. It was a place for beasts.
I was wearing it.
The jersey.
It was black, heavy mesh, with silver stripes on the sleeves.
On the back, in bold white letters, it read VANCE, and below it, the number 19.
It was massive on me, swallowing my torso and hanging down to my thighs, but I had tucked the front into my skinny jeans in a desperate attempt to look like I belonged.
"Nervous?"
I turned. Sitting next to me was Chloe, who I had dragged along for moral support. She was wearing a borrowed beanie and looking at the ice with morbid curiosity.
"I’m not nervous," I lied. My stomach was currently doing pirouettes that would have impressed Madame LeClair. "I’m just... cold."
"You’re lying," Chloe said, stealing a sip of my wine. "You’re staring at the tunnel like you’re waiting for Jesus to walk out. Or, you know, a six-foot-four billionaire with anger issues."
"He doesn't have anger issues," I defended automatically. "He has control issues. There’s a difference."
"Keep telling yourself that when he checks someone into the afterlife."
The arena lights suddenly died.
The crowd—fifteen thousand students, alumni, and locals—erupted. The sound was a physical force, a wall of noise that vibrated in my teeth. A spotlight slashed across the ice, illuminating the Sterling logo at center ice.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” the announcer’s voice boomed, rattling the glass of the VIP box. “GET ON YOUR FEET FOR YOUR STERLING SILVERBACKS!”
Music exploded from the speakers—heavy, distorted rock with a bass line that thumped in my chest. The players shot out of the tunnel like bullets.
They were huge.
Up close, in the penthouse, Elijah was just a man. A large man, yes, but a man who drank coffee and had bruises and sometimes looked sad. Down there? Encased in black armor, his face hidden behind a visor, moving with terrifying speed?
He was a monster.
I searched the blur of black and silver, looking for the C on the chest.
I found him.
Elijah was the last one out. He skated with a predator’s grace, his strides long and powerful, carving deep gouges into the pristine ice. He did a lap, his stick handling the puck with casual arrogance, before stopping at the blue line.
He stood perfectly still while his teammates slammed into the boards and hyped up the crowd. He was an island of calm in a sea of chaos.
Then, as the national anthem began, he looked up.
There were thousands of people in the stands. The VIP box was tinted glass. He couldn't possibly see me.
But he looked right at Section 101. He stared at the glass for a long beat, then tapped his stick against his shin pads twice.
I see you.
My breath hitched. The invisible tether between us pulled tight, snapping into place.
"Did he just wave at you?" Chloe whispered, wide-eyed.
"No," I whispered back, clutching the railing. "He checked in."
The puck dropped.
And the violence began.
Hockey is not a sport. It is a brawl interrupted by occasional moments of geometry.
The opposing team, the Minnesota State Maulers, were massive.
They played a heavy, grinding game, focused on hitting anything that moved.
Within the first five minutes, I watched a Sterling winger get flattened against the glass right in front of us.
The sound—the crack of polycarbonate and bone—made me nauseous.
But Elijah... Elijah was a surgeon in a butcher shop.
He didn't run around hitting people. He moved through the gaps. He anticipated the play before it happened. He controlled the flow of the game, slowing it down when he had the puck, speeding it up when he passed.
But I could see what the crowd couldn't.
I saw the way he favored his right hand.
Every time he took a face-off, he grimaced. It was microscopic—a tightening of his jaw, a flare of his nostrils—but I saw it. He was shifting his grip, taking more of the torque in his left wrist to protect the bone bruise on his right.
"He’s hurting," I murmured, pressing my hand against the cold glass.
"Who?" Chloe asked, eating nachos.
"Elijah. His hand."
"He looks fine to me," Chloe said. "He just assisted on that goal."
He had. He had threaded a pass through three defenders to set up Jax for an easy tap-in. The crowd was chanting Vance! Vance! Vance!
But on the bench, I saw him shake his hand out. I saw the trainer lean over, asking him something. Elijah shook his head sharply, waving the man away.
Stubborn idiot, I thought, fear curling in my gut like smoke. Don't be a hero. Just be safe.
The game ground on. Second period. 2-1 Sterling. The intensity ratcheted up. Minnesota realized they couldn't out-skate Elijah, so they decided to break him.
Every time Elijah touched the puck, two red jerseys swarmed him. They slashed at his ankles. They cross-checked him in the lower back.
"They’re targeting him," I said, my voice rising. "Why aren't the refs calling that?"
"It’s playoff hockey, baby," a man in a suit next to me said. He was holding a scotch and looking bored. "Let them play."
"Let them play?" I snapped, turning on him. "That guy just tried to take his head off with an elbow! That’s not playing, that’s assault!"
The man blinked at me, surprised by the venom in my voice. Chloe kicked me under the table.
"Easy, tiger," she whispered. "Don't get kicked out of the box."
I turned back to the ice, my heart hammering. I felt a surge of irrational, blinding rage. I wanted to go down there. I wanted to climb over the glass and scream at the refs. I wanted to wrap Elijah in bubble wrap and take him home.
Then, it happened.
It was late in the third period. Tie game. Elijah carried the puck across the neutral zone. He had a step on the defense. He was going to break away.
A Minnesota defenseman—a giant of a man named Kronsky—didn't play the puck. He lined Elijah up.
Elijah saw it coming. He tried to pivot, to spin off the hit.
But Kronsky went low. He drove his shoulder into Elijah’s midsection while simultaneously bringing his stick down hard—deliberately hard—on Elijah’s right hand.
The sound of the stick connecting with Elijah’s glove cracked through the arena like a gunshot.
Elijah dropped.
He didn't just fall; he crumpled. He hit the ice and slid into the boards, curling into a ball, clutching his hand to his chest.
The crowd went silent. Fifteen thousand people, hushed in an instant.
My heart stopped. The world narrowed down to that black heap on the white ice.
"Get up," I whispered, my nails digging into the velvet railing of the box. "Please, Elijah. Get up."
He didn't move.
The trainer scrambled onto the ice. Jax was there, shoving Kronsky, starting a scrum that the refs tried to break up. But I didn't watch the fight. I watched Elijah.
I saw him roll onto his back. I saw him rip his helmet off with his left hand. His face was pale, contorted in agony. He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving.
"Oh my god," Chloe whispered. "Is it broken?"
"It was already hurt," I choked out. tears pricking my eyes. "He was playing hurt."
I stood up. I couldn't stay in the box. I couldn't watch from behind glass like a spectator.
"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.
"Down there," I said.
"You can't! Security won't let you—"
"I’m his girlfriend," I said, the lie tasting like truth, sharp and metallic. "Watch me."
I ran out of the box. I sprinted down the carpeted hallway, ignoring the confused looks of the donors. I found the elevator and slammed the button for the ground level.
The ride down took an eternity. My mind was spiraling. What if it’s shattered? What if his season is over? What if his career is over? His father will destroy him. The team will crumble.
But beneath the panic for his future, there was a deeper, more primal fear. I couldn't bear the thought of him in pain. The man who held me when I cried about my mom. The man who bought me emerald dresses and taped his own broken hand so he wouldn't look weak.
The elevator opened into the concrete bowels of the stadium. It smelled of diesel, rubber, and stale beer.
I ran toward the locker room tunnel. A security guard—a massive guy with a headset—stepped in front of me.
"Restricted area, Miss. No fans."
"I’m not a fan," I gasped, breathless. "I’m Angela Moretti. Elijah Vance is... I need to see him."
The guard looked at me. He looked at the frantic fear in my eyes. Then he looked at the jersey I was wearing—Elijah’s number.
"Wait here," he grunted.
Just then, a roar went up from the tunnel.
The doors swung open. The team was coming off the ice. The game must be over. I didn't even know who won.
Players streamed past, clacking on the rubber mats, smelling of sweat and aggression. They were loud, shouting, cursing.
And then I saw him.
Elijah was walking slowly. He was flanked by the trainer and Coach Miller. He was holding his right arm against his chest, cradled in his left. He was still in his skates, towering over the trainer.
His face was a mask of granite. No emotion. No pain. Just the terrifying blankness of the Ice Man.
"Elijah!"
I screamed his name before I could stop myself.
He stopped. His head snapped up. His eyes found me instantly.
The mask cracked. Just a fraction.
He said something to the Coach, then pulled away from the trainer. He walked toward me. He looked dangerous. His jersey was torn at the collar. There was a smear of blood—not his—on his cheekbone.
"Angela," he rasped. "What are you doing down here?"
"You got hit," I said, my hands hovering over him, terrified to touch him. "I saw it. Kronsky... he hit your hand."
"I’m fine," he said automatically.
"Don't you dare," I snapped, tears finally spilling over. "Don't you dare lie to me right now. I saw you stay down. You never stay down."
He looked at my tears. His expression softened, shifting from warrior to something more human.
"Hey," he murmured. "Don't cry. I’m okay. We won."