Chapter 39
The third period bleeds into itself like bruises blooming under skin. My chest heaves in tandem with the crowd’s roar, breath fogging behind the metal cage of my helmet. The air reeks of sweat, rubber, and blood.
I shift on my skates, knees bent low, thighs burning, eyes locked on the puck.
“Faceoff, Rafe,” Jace says beside me, tapping his stick twice on the ice. His voice is calm. How the hell is he calm right now?
I nod once, but I don’t speak. My heart is already screaming. The opposing center stares me down like he’s itching to take my head off. Good. I hope he tries.
The ref drops the puck andI’m faster.
It hits my stick and I shoot it back to Bryce, who scoops it clean and swings wide left, blade slicing a crisp arc into the ice. Archer’s already moving, covering our flank, reading the rink like scripture.
I cut through the neutral zone, every muscle coiled tight. Noise melts into static. My lungs burn. My legs scream. It doesn’t matter, not when we’re this close. Not when the scoreboard reads 2–2 with less than four minutes on the clock.
A body slams into me, shoulder to ribs. I grunt, absorbing the hit, twisting just enough to keep the puck on my stick. I spin, glide past their winger, and send it back to Jace. He shoots forward like a goddamn missile. We’re in their zone.
Silas shouts from the net, voice distant but sharp as a whip. “They’re loading left, watch your six!”
His voice cuts through the noise like a razor.
“Got it!” Archer bellows, already pivoting.
Bryce smashes into someone at the boards and the guy crumples, dazed. Jace fakes a shot, passes it back to me. I catch it clean, flick it toward the top shelf and their goalie catches it with a snap of leather.
“Reset,” I bark, skating past the bench. Coach is yelling something, but I barely hear it. My mind’s locked in a loop. Archer’s limping slightly on that left ankle. Bryce is starting to gas out. Jace is solid, but breathing heavy. And Silas, Silas looks like war.
He crouches low, stick ready, eyes cutting across the ice, scanning for threats. His jersey’s soaked through. Hair sticking to his forehead. But his expression is carved from stone.
He hasn't let anything past since the second period. He’s been a wall. A wall with rage behind it.
The other team rushes again. I scream a warning and turn on instinct, flying back on defense, trying to intercept. Jace is too far behind. Archer’s closer—he throws himself sideways to break the pass.
It ricochets. Straight toward the net. Silas moves like lightning. The puck hits his pad and rebounds. Cheers explode.
I slam into the opposing center before he can rebound it. We hit the ice hard. My shoulder spikes with pain, but I don’t care. I shove him off and scramble to my feet, the puck loose in the corner.
Bryce gets to it first. It’s chaos. It’s survival. It’s everything I love and hate wrapped into one impossible moment.
Sixty seconds left.
“Push!” I shout, voice hoarse.
Jace’s stick cracks against the ice. Pass. Shot. Blocked.
Another rebound.
This one’s mine. I catch it mid-glide, twist my torso, shoot low. It slides past the goalie’s leg by an inch. Another goal and the arena erupts. The horn blares. Jace tackles me, shouting something I can’t hear. Bryce and Archer pile in, gloves flying.
The scoreboard locks at 3–2. First game. First win. The season couldn’t have opened better, but the disbelief still hits like a punch to the chest. We did it.
Silas skates toward us, slower than the rest, still locked in goalie mode. But when he reaches me, he bumps his helmet against mine and says, “Solid start, Captain.”
I smack his chest pad, grinning. “You kept us alive, Saint.”
His nod is small, but it’s there.
The refs call for handshake lines, and I hate the timing. We’re still vibrating with adrenaline. Still trying to believe this win is real. But we line up anyway.
The other team looks sour. No one likes losing their season opener. They trudge over, muttering half-hearted good games, barely making eye contact.
I almost miss it, but Archer stops skating. He freezes entirely and that’s when I realize something is wrong.
“Hey, St. John,” one of them shouts as he skates past Silas, voice loud and cocky. “Loved that girl on your arm tonight. Think I can have a go at that when you're done with her?”
Another voice laughs. “Hope she’s not waiting in the locker room. Wouldn’t want her warming up with the wrong jersey.”
My blood ices over. Bryce hears it too. He turns his head so fast his helmet nearly whips off.
Archer doesn’t say a word. He grabs the first guy by the collar and slams him into the ice so hard his helmet flies off. The second doesn’t get a warning. Archer’s already on him, fists flying.
The crowd gasps. Coaches yell. Refs blow whistles, but it’s all background noise now. The line explodes into chaos.
I dive in, trying to pull Archer back, but he’s seeing red. Punches landing with precision. This isn’t a brawl. It’s a message.
Bryce grabs the guy Archer isn’t on and yanks him back, shoving him toward the boards. “Say it again,” Bryce growls.
The guy wipes blood from his lip and smirks. “Touchy , touchy. And all for a piece of a—”
He doesn’t get to finish. Silas is suddenly there, out of nowhere, mask off, teeth bared. “You need to shut your mouth before someone else decides to shut it for you.”
Archer’s still breathing hard, fists bloodied, but I shove my arm between him and the other guy.
“Archer,” I snap, chest to his. “He’s not worth it. Game’s over. We won.”
His eyes flick to me, wild and sharp and barely tethered.
“She’s not some game,” he says low, voice raw. “They don’t get to talk about her like that.”
“I know.”
He exhales, then shoves away from the mess and stalks toward the tunnel.
The refs are scrambling to separate what’s left of the fights. Penalties are being shouted across the ice. But no one really cares. The damage is done.