Chapter 3
Gio
Closer now, the air turns colder. Concrete gives way to that familiar bite—ice and metal bleeding through the walls, the building itself holding its breath.
Game night.
Outside, the crowd is already a dull roar, vibrating through the structure. It’s different from practice. Repetition belongs to practice. Game night is for blood.
My head stays crowded, circling back to Zoe—her refusal to soften, the way she left without checking behind her, the certainty in how she moves through space. The way she exists on her own terms.
Rylan talked about the coach’s daughter once, and it detonated his whole fucking career. Zoe causes damage without opening her mouth. That’s the problem. Visible. Competent. Exposed inside a system that punishes women for breathing wrong.
Instincts snap fast—toward containment. Toward ownership of the disruption she creates. Toward managing the variable before it destabilizes everything else. That impulse is the dangerous part.
Handling Rylan isn’t the issue. Scouts aren’t the issue. Neither is the Frozen Four or every asshole waiting for me to slip.
What sits heavy in my chest as I step through the controlled doors and into the team side of the world is the unanswered question of how far I’ll go if Rylan decides Zoe is the lever he wants to pull.
Uncertainty spreads like a fault line I haven’t learned how to reinforce. Not yet.
Inside, the locker room smells like a specific kind of aggression—sweat, muscle rub, the metallic tang of sharpened steel. That scent usually grounds me, locks me into place. Today it closes in, tight and restrictive, pressing against my ribs.
My gear bag hits the bench with a heavy thud, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.
Adrian and Declan are already there, stripped down to their undershirts, the easy camaraderie of the team settling around them like a second skin. Both glance up as I enter, conversation hitching for a fraction of a second.
Adrian speaks first, leaning back against his locker, gaze sharp and assessing. “You’re leaking.”
“Give it time,” I mutter, pulling my hoodie over my head.
Declan stays focused on his skates, lacing them with precision that borders on obsessive. His eyes flick past me, tracking my face like he’s scanning for damage. Nothing gets past him.
“That asshole talk to you?” Declan asks quietly.
The strap on my pads tightens under my fingers until the elastic bites into my calf. “He said hi.”
Adrian snorts, jerking his chin toward the door. “That tracks.”
“Usual behavior,” I say evenly. “Running his mouth. Treating consequences like suggestions.”
Declan slows his lacing and looks up properly. “About what?”
“About being a fuckup,” I snap. “Same as always.”
His gaze stays on my face longer than I like, stripping layers, checking seams. “You shut him down?”
“Yes.”
“Clean?” Adrian asks, humor gone.
“Clean,” I say. “Final.”
Declan exhales sharply, relief cutting through. “Good. Because if he—”
“I handled it,” I cut in, words sharp. I don’t want to hear the rest. I don’t want to confront how fast Declan would’ve gone to war for me over something that was never his responsibility.
Silence settles, dense with everything left unsaid.
Adrian lifts both hands, palms out. “Alright. Message received.”
We move again, falling into ritual. This part always works. Motion takes over. Discipline locks in.
Tape wraps my wrists in slow, deliberate pulls. The sticky rip echoes through the room. Arena noise leaks under the door—low, thrumming, expectant. That sound carries weight. Tonight demands impact.
“This’ll burn it off,” Adrian says, rolling his neck. “Whatever’s eating at you.”
“Always does,” I reply. A line repeated often enough to almost believe.
The stick gets taped next. Slow. Precise. Hands steady. Everything aligned exactly where it belongs. My body knows this routine better than my name.
Thoughts drift anyway—to Zoe’s hands. Sketching. Sewing. Cutting fabric with surgical confidence. The contrast between my violence and her precision grinds under my skin, settling low and hot.
“You’re quiet,” Declan says, sliding his helmet on. “That usually means trouble.”
“Fuck off,” I fire back on reflex.
He grins behind the cage. “There he is.”
Focus slides again. Zoe cuts in without warning—straight spine, chin lifted, presence locked in place. Earlier, she walked away like she’d already calculated the cost and paid it in advance. Clean. Decisive. Absolute.
Tape drags harder than necessary. “Shit.”
“What?” Adrian asks.
“Nothing.” The word rings thin.
What sticks is how she moves through hostile spaces and forces them to adapt. How she carries herself as if cover is unnecessary.
She stays with me. In my head. Under my skin.
Declan bumps my shoulder hard enough to rock me. “You sure you’re good?”
I meet his eyes. “I said I am.”
He holds the look, then nods. Lets it go. Trust, or something close to it.
Ice hums under my skates as I step over the boards for warmups. The arena fills fast, stands blurring into color and noise. I push harder, chasing speed like it can outrun thought.
It doesn’t.
Muscle memory kicks in. I can handle Rylan. Pressure. Scouts. Media. Frozen Four bullshit. I live inside that noise. I know how to turn it sharp without letting it draw blood.
That part of me holds.
Zoe doesn’t move safely within orbits. She cuts across trajectories. Exists where she wants, on her terms.
And Rylan—fuck—Rylan understands exactly how systems respond to women like her.
At the blue line, my hands clamp the rail. Declan’s voice drifts across the ice. Adrian laughs at something stupid. Familiar. Contained.
The crowd swells, vibrating through the boards and into my bones. That sound demands hunger.
What unsettles me more than Rylan running his mouth is how fast my instincts turned feral at the thought of her getting pulled into any of this. How possession surfaced before I could cage it.
Control is shifting. Quietly. Subtly.
And the one person capable of unbalancing me doesn’t even know she’s doing it yet.