Chapter 4
Zoe
Sensory overload hits the moment I step into the arena—sweat, stale beer, metallic ice.
A living roar presses against the glass, vibration humming up through the soles of my boots.
I’m squeezed into the stands, shoulder-to-shoulder with Clara, Talia, Genny, and Maya.
Heat radiates off three thousand bodies, leaving the chill in my chest intact and sharp.
“Drink,” Clara shouts, shoving a plastic cup of lukewarm beer into my hand. Steady as always, she scans the stands like she’s counting exits. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”
“A slaughter,” I correct, taking a sip just to wet my dry throat. “I’m here for the violence over the sport.”
Talia laughs, nerves threading the sound. They all know what tomorrow morning holds. They all know why I’m here, vibrating at a frequency sharp enough to crack the glass around us. Noise helps. Distraction helps. Something loud enough to scream back feels necessary.
“Violence is good,” Maya says, voice cutting through the din. Leaning forward, she locks onto the rink with predatory focus. “But Rossi looks like he’s trying to kill someone tonight.”
“Who pissed in his cereal?” Genny asks, frowning as the players line up. She tracks formations, not bloodlust. Strategy over spectacle.
On the ice, play blurs into speed and impact. Final period. Tied score. A deadlock tight enough to choke. Everyone’s on their feet, restless and hungry.
Number twenty-two jumps out instantly.
Gio Rossi.
Something about him reads wrong tonight.
The calculated, arrogant winger is stripped down to an edge that looks jagged and mean.
His body slams into checks with reckless force, boards rattling under impact.
Across the rink, he hunts, skirts the edge of legality, snarls at the refs when the whistle cuts him off.
A shriek of sound. Bodies peel apart. The Titans reset for the faceoff.
Backward momentum carries him toward the blue line, like stillness irritates him.
He drops into a stretch—knees bending, skates angling out, hips opening into a butterfly with effortless control.
Gloved hands brace on his thighs, head tipped down for half a beat, breath fogging the inside of the cage.
Muscle, violence, bad decisions—he wears all of it easily.
My mouth goes dry.
I bet he fucks good.
The thought lands hot and stupid, shame chasing right behind it. Pressure mutates into pornographic curiosity, stress twisting into something visceral and distracting, shredding focus when I need it most.
“Looks like he’s got a personal vendetta against the laws of physics,” Clara mutters as Gio slams an opposing forward into the plexiglass directly in front of us. The floor shudders. “That was a full-on collision.”
“Who cares?” I snap, eyes locked on him.
Hard breathing lifts his chest under the pads, helmet shoved back just enough to show eyes gone dark and feral. Dangerous. Unhinged. My stomach knots tight, pulse spiking in unwanted sympathy.
That look is familiar. It’s the same one staring back at me in the mirror at 3:00 AM when the portfolio collapses and the future looks like a cliff edge.
He’s fighting for his life.
“Hey, Rossi!” The shout rips out of my throat before I can stop it. “Try hitting the puck instead of the wall!”
Focus stays locked on the rink. No acknowledgment. Then his head snaps toward my voice, a hitch in motion just long enough to register.
He knows I’m here.
Play resumes. Gio steals the puck, movement exploding into raw aggression. A defender gets dodged with violence that makes everyone gasp. He barrels toward the net, flying, completely unchecked.
And then he misses.
The shot should have sealed it—wide-open net, goalie down—but it sails high. Iron screams as the puck cracks off the crossbar, echoing like a gunshot.
One heartbeat of silence.
Then a collective groan.
“Shit!” Frustration boils over as I yell. “My grandmother has better aim, and she’s blind!”
The crease holds him still, stick clattering to the ice. His gaze lifts to the stands, scanning chaos, then locks onto me with terrifying precision. No celebration. No acknowledgment. Just a stare—chest heaving, eyes burning with rage threaded through something sharper.
Pure hunger.
For a suspended second, everything else dissolves. Just him and me, tied together by his miss and my voice.
He turns first, skating back to the bench, head bowed. Tension in my shoulders tightens instead of easing.
Play resets, but the energy shifts. The Titans move as one now, synchronized and brutal. Opponents scramble. Whatever recklessness lived there sharpens into something lethal.
Less than a minute remains. The puck squirts loose in the neutral zone.
Instant reaction—Gio explodes forward, speed smearing the stands into color. Two defenders split by a move so filthy it feels criminal. He drives hard to the net, body committing in one fluid motion, wrist snapping top shelf.
The lamp lights before the goalie even processes the release.
A horn blares. The building detonates. Undefeated again. Sound goes feral, crashing in a physical wave over the glass.
By the crease, he pauses, glove resting on his stick. His eyes lift and find me immediately.
I freeze.
The realization hits with the force of the goal itself. I focused him. I sharpened the blade. I pulled the trigger.
And now he’s coming for me.