29 - Haven
HAVEN
The rink felt wrong.
Not just loud, not just hostile, but totally, weirdly off.
It didn’t help that the place was beat to shit; paint peeling off the walls, lighting straight out of a horror movie. It felt like the ice tilted ever so slightly in one direction. And everything — every bounce, every whistle, every break — kept sliding that way.
Toward them.
“—that’s BULLSHIT!” Dorian shouted from the bench.
No call.
Again.
Midway through the third, we were down by two, 6-4. And it wasn’t because we were playing badly. That was the worst part.
No, we were good tonight. Sharp. Connected. Faster than we’d been a week ago.
The systems were working. The spacing was better, and our entries were clean. Grayson was reading lanes exactly the way I’d mapped them out, and Caleb had finally stopped drifting high on the backcheck.
In short, we were doing everything right.
And it didn’t matter.
“Keep your heads!” Mercer barked, pacing behind the bench like a caged animal. “Don’t let them drag you into it!”
Too late.
Across the ice, Derek Solomon grinned like he owned the place. Which, for a few hundred dollars, it looked like he probably could.
Right wing. Ottawa Ironclads.
And an absolute piece of shit.
He’d been at it all night. Little hooks. Late bumps. A stick that just happened to catch a skate at the worst possible time.
Every single one just subtle enough to slip past the refs.
Or maybe not slip past.
I leaned forward over the boards, my eyes narrowing as another “missed” call went down.
“Unreal,” I muttered.
Beside me, Mercer didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His jaw was tight enough to crack teeth.
Out on the ice, Sebastian reset in the crease.
Something was off about him tonight. I could see it.
Not in his positioning — he was still technically sound — but in the timing, which was always just a fraction of a second late.
Everything he did seemed a half-step behind.
Like he was reacting, instead of anticipating.
Almost like something was pulling him out of sync.
“Seb,” Grayson called, tapping his stick lightly. “You’re good.”
Sebastian nodded. But it didn’t look like he believed it.
The puck dropped again. Chaos followed. Zack took it through the neutral zone, cutting inside—
— and went down, hard.
My stomach dropped. Trip. Clear as day. And yet…
No whistle.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?” I shouted, half-climbing over the boards.
Solomon didn’t even pretend otherwise. He just skated past Zack, who was still trying to get up, and clapped his stick against the ice like he’d just made a highlight reel play.
Seconds later—
Goal.
7-4.
The arena erupted, and the resounding cheers peeled even more paint off the walls. I stood there frozen, staring at the scoreboard, willing it to burst into flames. Then—
Crack.
Ares.
He’d brought his stick down hard against the ice, snapping it clean in half. The sound cut through everything.
It also made Solomon’s smile even wider.
Luckily, Ares didn’t see that. He skated in for a new stick; jaw tight, eyes burning.
“Let me talk to him?” I nudged Mercer.
The coach responded with a grunt and a nod.
I called Ares over. Begrudgingly, he slowed to a halt in front of me.
“Hey,” I said.
He leaned in, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his temple.
“Know how I’m always telling you to keep penalties down,” I said, “and not chase anyone out of your zone?”
He scowled. Spat on the ice.
“Yeah.”
I leaned even further over the boards. Close enough so that only he could hear me.
“Forget all that,” I said, keeping my voice low and sharp. “Go kill that fucking guy.”
For a split second — nothing. Then—
Ares smiled.
It wasn’t a normal smile, either. It was twisted. Sharp. Almost feral.
He didn’t say anything, as he pushed off.
I felt something twist low in my stomach as I watched him go. Something dark. Something I probably shouldn’t have felt.
I also shouldn’t have liked it so much.
The next shift lasted maybe ten seconds. Solomon took the puck along the boards, still riding high from his goal, still jawing, still—
Ares hit him.
It wasn’t a check, it wasn’t a play. It wasn’t even a collision.
It was a whole fucking train wreck.
He drove straight through him, shoulder to chest, lifting him off his skates and slamming him into the boards with a crack that echoed throughout the entire shitty arena.
Solomon crumpled, instantly. The wind left him in a violent rush, his body folding awkwardly as he hit the ice, gasping, clawing for breath.
The crowd went silent. Then—
Everything exploded.
Whistles. Shouting. Gloves flying, as players rushed in from both sides.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
Because Ares—
Ares just stood there. Perfectly calm. He turned his head slowly, looking right at me.
And then he smiled. That same dark, satisfied smile.
My pulse spiked. Goosebumps erupted, spilling down my arms from the back of my neck.
Holy fucking shit, Haven.
The refs swarmed him, grabbing his arms, shoving him back as they already signaled the ejection. Major. Game misconduct. No question.
He didn’t fight it. Didn’t argue. He held my gaze, giving me the smallest nod.
Eventually he let them take him, just as Mercer leaned in.
“You have a hand in that?” the coach muttered.
I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know how to.
“I—” I started.
Mercer grunted, cutting me off.
“Don’t,” he said.
I looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed. It was still hard. Still focused. But there was something underneath that expression, too.
Something much quieter.
“Sometimes,” he added, almost under his breath, “you gotta send a message.”
I blinked. It wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Get your lines ready,” he barked suddenly, louder now. “We’re not done.”
We weren’t. Not even close. The rest of the game was a blur, though. We pushed, hard, and Grayson buried one late.
7-5.
Not enough.
The final horn blared, overly loud, emblazoning our loss on our eardrums. It didn’t feel like one. Not entirely.
The guys came off the ice breathing hard, faces flushed, something different in their eyes. It wasn’t defeat, or even frustration.
It was more like momentum.
“We played them,” Caleb said, shaking his head. “We actually played them.”
“Yeah,” Asher added. “Without the refs, that’s a different game.”
Mercer didn’t argue. I put away my tablet and scanned the ice one last time. On the other side, I found Sebastian.
He stood near the crease, helmet off, staring down at the ice like he was trying to figure something out. Or fix something.
He didn’t look up, and hadn’t celebrated our late goal. Right now, he didn’t say a word.
Something tightened in my chest. Everyone else felt better. Everyone except him.
And I had a feeling…
… that mattered more than the score.