Chapter 39
Gio
The arena is a slaughterhouse of sound. Eighteen thousand people packed into the bowl, screaming, stamping, creating a wall of vibration that hits you in the chest before you even step onto the ice. Air hangs thick with the smell of beer, sweat, and cold.
This is it. The Frozen Four. Win or go home.
I stand at the tunnel entrance, staring out at the bright white surface. Lights blaze overhead, reflecting off the fresh sheet of ice. Energy in the building is frantic, a living, breathing thing that wants to consume us.
My lungs fill with the cold air as I take a deep breath. The static that usually lives in my head is gone. In its place is a strange, terrifying calm.
My eyes scan the crowd behind the bench. It takes me a second to find her, but she’s there. Zoe. Front row, leaning against the glass, her eyes locked on the tunnel. She’s watching. Assessing.
I tap my glove against the glass.
She nods once. Sharp. Precise.
My focus narrows down to a point. I’m playing for the guys on the bench next to me. I’m playing for the girl in the stands who sees me for who I am.
The horn blares, deafening. It’s time.
I step onto the ice, the blades cutting into the surface with a satisfying hiss. The cold air hits my face, waking up every nerve ending. I skate to the blue line, circling slowly, feeling the burn in my legs.
The other team is lined up across from us. Big. Hungry. They want what we have.
I grip my stick tighter, leaning forward on my skates. Calm settles over me, heavy and absolute.
I’m just the weapon. Let them fucking try.
The buzzer sounds for the line change, and I hop over the boards, sucking in air that feels like broken glass. My legs are burning, the lactic acid building up, but the adrenaline is a steady hum under my skin.
I hit the bench, grabbing a water bottle, but I don’t drink.
I look up. The arena is a blur of color and motion, but I find her instantly.
Zoe. Front row, center ice. She’s sitting with Clara and Talia, but she’s not talking to them.
Her body is taut like a bowstring as she leans over the railing, her hands gripping the cold metal.
The roar of the crowd, the clash of sticks, the shouting—it all fades into white noise. It’s just her. She sees me looking.
Her hands cup around her mouth as she leans closer to the glass, amplifying her voice against the soundproofing. I read her lips perfectly.
"If you score that goal, I'll suck your dick so hard you see god!"
A bark of laughter almost tears out of my throat. I choke it back, turning it into a cough, but my grip on my stick tightens until my knuckles turn white. My blood spikes, hot and sharp.
She's sitting there surrounded by thousands of people, looking like she's ready to storm the ice, and she's negotiating a blowjob like a business transaction. It's so fucking Zoe. It's filthy and public and utterly shameless.
I skate to the edge of the bench, getting as close to the glass as I can. I tap the blade of my stick against it, once, hard. She raises an eyebrow, challenging me.
I mouth back, three words.
"Watch me work."
She leans back, crossing her arms, a smirk touching her lips. The message is clear. Prove it.
I turn back to the ice, the calm settling back over me, heavier than before. The game is a contract. And I always collect.
Coach screams my name, and I vault over the boards, my skates biting into the ice with a satisfying crunch. The shift change is chaotic, bodies flying everywhere, but I cut through it like a knife.
I'm wired.
The puck is in the corner, a battle of sticks and shoves. I see Cole strip their defender, fighting through the check. He spins, firing a pass up the boards to me. It wobbles, bouncing off the glass. My glove snatches it out of the air like I'm catching a baseball as I reach back.
The crowd noise swells, a tidal wave of sound, but I don't hear it. I see the ice. I see the geometry. Their defense is collapsing, trying to clog the middle. They expect me to dump it in.
I accelerate, crossing the blue line with speed. A defender steps up to challenge me, a big brute with a beard and a death wish. I drop my shoulder and drive right through him, the impact rattling my teeth, but I hold my ground. My legs churn, burning, driving me forward.
I’m at the top of the circle now. The goalie is square to me, huge in the net, cutting down the angle. I load up my shot, the puck rolling back onto the blade of my stick.
The post is right where I expect it. So is the bar.
I snap my wrists. The puck leaves my stick like a gunshot, a blur of black rubber rising fast. It hits the defenseman’s stick, deflecting slightly, changing trajectory. It catches the inside of the far post and rips into the top corner, a filthy, beautiful snipe that tears the twine out of the net.
The red light flares, siren blasting so loud it vibrates in my chest. The arena explodes.
I stop dead on my skates, snow spraying up around me, and turn toward the glass. I find her instantly. Zoe is on her feet, hands gripping the railing, eyes wide and locked on mine. The noise of eighteen thousand people fades into nothing but background static.
I lift my stick, pointing the blade directly at her. Contract fulfilled.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across her face. She gives a single nod—sharp, decisive.
I skate toward the bench, my teammates swarming me, gloves in my face, helmets knocking against mine. They’re screaming, hauling me into a hug, but my eyes stay on the glass. On her.
I scored the goal. She’s the one who owns the ice.
The final buzzer hits like a physical blow, sharp and absolute. Zero on the clock. We’re going to the Championship.
Ice erupts beneath my skates. Sticks are thrown, gloves go flying, and I’m buried under two hundred pounds of muscle and pads as Dante and Cole tackle me from behind. We hit the surface hard, a tangle of limbs and sweat, the dog pile suffocating and perfect.
The air turns thin, reeking of rubber and exertion, but the noise is deafening—a roar that shakes the rafters. I shove Cole off, gasping for air, and scramble to my knees. My chest is heaving, my legs burning, but I feel light. Unburdened.
My eyes squint against the blinding arena lights as I look up, searching the stands. I find her in the same spot. Zoe stands rigid now, hands gripping the railing so hard her knuckles are white.
Her stare cuts through the chaos like a laser.
I lift a glove, tapping my chest over my heart.
She answers with one nod. Just once.
The media swarm is already gathering at the bench, a pack of vultures with microphones and cameras, hungry for a headline. They’re after the scandal. The fallout. The story of how the disowned heir feels about winning without the name.
I push to my feet, skating toward the bench, but I hop over the boards, ignoring the shouted questions, and head straight for the tunnel.
I have a debt to collect.
The hallway is cramped, the air thick with the smell of sweat and ozone, but I don’t stop until I hit the security barrier.
Zoe is already there, waiting. She’s pushed past the line of fans, bypassing the VIP protocol, standing near the tunnel exit with her coat unbuttoned, looking like she’s ready to tear the place apart.
I step through the gate, and the reporters surge forward, a wall of noise and lenses.
“Gio! Gio! Is it true your father cut you off?”
“How does it feel to win without the family money?”
“Any comment on the lawsuit?”
I walk straight to Zoe. She plants her feet, assessing the threat level of the press pack like she’s calculating a blast radius.
I reach out, grabbing her hand. Her fingers are cold, grip firm.
“You’re done,” she says, her voice cutting cleanly through the shouts.
“Not ye t.”
I turn, pulling her with me, stepping right into the teeth of the swarm. A microphone shoves into my face, the reporter desperate, eyes wide.
“Gio, tell us about the trust fund. Are you broke?”
I stop. I look at the camera, then at the guy holding the mic.
“The truth is out there,” I say, my voice steady, carrying over the noise. “Read it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to celebrate with my girl.”
I pull Zoe in, wrapping my arm around her waist, and kiss her. I claim her mouth right there in front of the flashing lights, tasting her, letting the world see exactly who I belong to.
She stiffens for a fraction of a second, then melts into it, her hand fisting in the front of my jersey, pulling me closer. The shutters click like machine gun fire.
I pull back, resting my forehead against hers.
“Done?” she murmurs.
“Done.”
I lace my fingers through hers, and we walk toward the locker room exit, leaving the chaos behind us. Flashes strobe against the walls, lighting our way into the dark.
Behind us, the heavy steel security door swings shut, cutting off the roar of the arena and the shriek of the reporters. Silence in the back alley is instant and sharp, ringing in my ears.
I don’t let go of her hand. My grip is tight, sweaty, and desperate.
“Car,” I say, spotting the black SUV idling at the curb.
I open the door for her, watching as she slides in. Leather creaks as she settles, and I catch a flash of thigh when she swings her legs inside. She’s wearing those boots—the heavy, heeled ones from the gala. The ones that make her legs look like fucking weaponry.
I get in after her, slamming the door. The driver hits the gas before we even have our seatbelts on.
Adrenaline is still humming in my veins, a high-voltage current that won’t shut off. My heart is hammering against my ribs.
The quiet in the back of the car is heavy. Thick.
I look over at her. Zoe is staring out the window, watching the city lights blur, but I can see the pulse in her neck, hammering just as fast as mine.
“You’re loud,” she says, her voice low.
“What?”
“Your breathing.” She turns her head, eyes cutting through the dark interior, pinning me. “You’re panting, Gio.”