PENALTY BOX #2
"Oh my god," Sarah breathed in the VIP suite, her hands pressed to her temples. "That’s it. That’s the narrative. He’s completely unhinged. The media is going to have a field day with this."
Elara didn't hear a word Sarah said. She walked all the way up to the edge of the reinforced glass of the suite, staring down at the penalty box.
Julian sat heavily on the wooden bench. He was supposed to be serving his time, cooling down, looking at the coach or the ice.
Instead, Julian reached up and unbuckled the chinstrap of his helmet. He pulled the heavy piece of equipment off his head, revealing his sweat-soaked dark hair and the fierce, pulsing vein in his neck.
He turned his head and looked straight up at the VIP suite.
The stadium cameras caught the movement instantly. The jumbotron hanging above center ice flashed from the replay of the fight to a live, tight shot of Julian’s face in the penalty box.
The arena went completely quiet.
Julian didn't look away. He stared directly at Elara through the glass.
His chest was heaving with adrenaline, his knuckles were bruised and raw, but his eyes were a storm of absolute, unwavering devotion.
It was a fiercely protective, entirely possessive look.
He was telling her, silently and in front of twenty thousand people, exactly why he had thrown that punch.
No one disrespects you. No one.
Elara’s heart hammered a frantic, desperate rhythm. The absolute intensity of his gaze stripped away the entire stadium. It was just the two of them. She pressed her hand flat against the glass of the suite, her whiskey eyes entirely locked on his.
Julian saw the movement. A slow, dark, beautiful smirk curved his lips. He lifted his bruised hand and tapped the glass of the penalty box, right over his own heart.
The jumbotron captured the entire, unscripted, searing exchange.
The crowd went absolutely nuclear. The screaming was so loud it vibrated the floorboards beneath Elara’s feet.
It wasn't just a PR stunt anymore. The chemistry, the raw, violent protectiveness, and the blatant devotion were entirely undeniable.
No contract could fake the way Julian Thorne looked at her from inside that box.
"Well," Marcus murmured, stepping up beside Elara, a wide grin on his face. "I think that just solved our PR problem. You can't argue with that kind of crazy."
Sarah dropped her tablet on the chair, completely defeated. "I give up. I entirely give up. They aren't following the playbook, they aren't following the rules. They’re just... being."
The game resumed, but the energy had fundamentally shifted. Julian served his five minutes, stepped back onto the ice, and played the rest of the game with a terrifying, cold precision. He scored twice in the third period, securing a decisive 4-1 victory for Portland.
When the final horn sounded, Elara didn't wait for security to escort her. She didn't wait for Sarah’s instructions.
She turned and practically ran out of the VIP suite, navigating the winding concrete corridors of the arena until she reached the heavily guarded double doors of the locker room tunnel.
The press pool was already swarming the velvet ropes, their cameras flashing like strobe lights in the dim concrete hallway. They were shouting Julian’s name, demanding quotes about the fight, about Kovac, about the look on the jumbotron.
Elara ignored them completely. She stood directly in the center of the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest, waiting.
The locker room doors swung open.
Julian stepped out. He hadn't showered yet. He was still wearing his heavy hockey pants and his black undershirt, completely soaked in sweat. His hands were wrapped in white athletic tape, spotted with a few drops of Kovac’s blood. He looked exhausted, brutalized, and incredibly beautiful.
He was in the middle of a sentence with Coach Baxter when he looked up and saw her standing there.
Julian stopped dead. The rest of the world instantly ceased to exist.
He dropped his gear bag on the floor with a heavy thud. He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the reporters screaming his name. He didn't care about Sarah’s rules.
Julian crossed the concrete hallway in three long, predatory strides.
Elara let out a breathless laugh, stepping forward to meet him.
Julian didn't hesitate. He reached out, his massive hands wrapping around her waist, and lifted her completely off the ground. Elara gasped, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his chest heaving against hers.
"You shouldn't have done that," Elara whispered fiercely into his ear, though her hands were tangled in his dark hair, holding him as close as physically possible. "You could have been suspended, Julian."
"Let them suspend me," Julian growled, his voice a low, ragged vibration against her skin.
He slowly lowered her until her boots touched the ground, but he didn't let her go.
He framed her face with his taped hands, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones.
"I told you, Elara. I’m not playing defense anymore. I’m clearing the entire ice."
The flashbulbs behind the velvet ropes were blinding.
"Julian! Are you worried about the disciplinary hearing?!" a reporter shouted.
Julian ignored the reporter. He looked down at Elara, his stormy eyes entirely clear. The contract was a ghost. The PR team was irrelevant.
"Are you ready for this?" Julian asked softly, the corners of his mouth curving up.
"For what?" Elara breathed, entirely captivated by him.
"To break the last rule," Julian murmured.
He didn't wait for her answer. Julian tilted her head up, his eyes dropping to her lips. In front of a hundred cameras, in front of his coach, in the gritty, freezing concrete tunnel of the arena, Julian Thorne kissed her.
It wasn't a polite, rehearsed peck for the cameras.
It was a deep, scorching, soul-consuming kiss that possessed all the desperate heat of the night before.
His mouth was demanding, his tongue sweeping past her lips, claiming her entirely.
He kissed her like a man starving, his hands pulling her flush against his chest, entirely indifferent to the chaos erupting around them.
Elara kissed him back with equal ferocity, her fingers gripping the fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. The thrill of it—the absolute, unapologetic public declaration—sent a violent rush of adrenaline through her veins.
When Julian finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, his forehead resting against hers. He looked over her head directly at the press pool.
"Any other questions?" Julian asked, his voice a lethal, vibrating weapon.
The press pool was entirely, completely silent.
Julian smirked. He grabbed his gear bag with one hand, securely wrapped his other arm around Elara’s waist, and walked her down the hallway toward the private exit, leaving the media to scramble over the ashes of the greatest PR stunt that had ever accidentally become real.
"You’re a menace, Thorne," Elara laughed, leaning her head against his solid shoulder as they walked.
"I’m yours," Julian corrected softly, the absolute truth in his voice echoing in the quiet hallway. "Now let's go home. I need to get out of this tape, and you owe me five minutes."