LOGINNoah POVThe silence inside the United Center lasted two seconds before the panic hit.Twenty thousand people screamed in the pitch blackness. Above our heads, metal rafters groaned as red emergency lights flickered to life along the upper deck, casting an eerie, blood-red glare across the ice sheet.I stood in the faceoff circle, my stick held flat across my thighs.The cold red mist rising off the ice blurred my visor. Without light, my Omega senses spiked. The heavy scent of frozen rubber and panic filled the air, but beneath it, I tracked the thick cedar surge of Adrian’s aura ten feet to my left.“Adrian,” I called out, my voice cutting through the noise.“Right here, Bennett,” Adrian rasped from the dark.His steel skates scraped the rough ice as he closed the gap between us. His broad shoulder pressed flat against mine, his heat burning straight through my black Chicago jersey.Jax moved up on my right, his massive frame blocking the view toward the New York bench. “This isn’t
Adrian POVThe air inside the United Center hit my lungs like frozen iron.This was the last game of the series, and every player on the ice knew it.Twenty thousand Chicago fans filled the stadium bowl, their voices roaring through the rafters in a continuous, deafening wave. Cold mist rose off the ice, smelling of skate wax, sweat, and cheap beer.I stood at the center ice circle wearing my dark blue New York Titans jersey.Across the red line, Noah Bennett lined up for the Chicago Wolves. His black helmet sat low over his eyes, his synthetic neck collar pulled tight under his jersey. Beneath his left glove, the heavy silver championship ring sat taped against his palm.Jax Miller skated up to my right, his dark Titans jersey soaked in sweat, his jaw set like a granite block. On Chicago's blue line, Leo Vance adjusted his gloves, his dark eyes flicking toward Jax for a split second before locking onto the referee.Head Ref Mark Clint skated into the circle, holding the black rubber
Adrian POVThe private banquet suite on the top floor was silent save for the hum of the air conditioning.A mahogany dining table sat in the center of the room, set for twelve with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. High glass windows behind the head chair showed the rainy skyline of Boston stretching into the dark. Rain streaked down the glass in long, slow lines, turning the city lights below into blurred streaks of gold and red.Commissioner Victor Blackwood sat at the head of the table. He wore a dark grey tailored suit, cutting a steak on his plate with slow, deliberate strokes. The silver knife scraped quietly against the plate with every cut.Four syndicate enforcers stood posted against the wood-paneled walls, their dark jackets unbuttoned over shoulder holsters. None of them looked at the food. Their eyes stayed fixed on the four of us.Jax and I sat on the left side of the table in our dark Titans suits. Noah and Leo sat directly opposite us, wearing their black Chicago Wo
Leo POVThe carpeted hallway of the fourteenth floor was silent.Four guards stood posted near the main elevators, but the far corner near the service stairs remained in deep shadow. I walked quietly along the wall, holding my black travel bag. The thick carpet muffled every step, and the only light came from the dim wall sconces spaced too far apart.A door clicked open up ahead.It was not a player room. It was the private laundry room where the team equipment bags sat lined up for the Game 2 pre-game check. A man in a tailored grey suit stepped out of the laundry room, looking left and right.I pulled back behind a concrete pillar, my heart hammering against my ribs.He held a small glass vial in his right hand. The blue cap on the vial matched the exact synthetic doping markers Mercer had used in the clinic. He reached down toward the large blue gear bag sitting on the top rack.The white stencil on the side of the bag read: J. MILLER — NY TITANS VP.The bastard was trying to plan
Adrian POVThe heavy steel bolt in my hotel room door shot into place with a sharp, electronic clack.Outside in the carpeted hallway, heavy combat boots thudded against the floor. Private syndicate guards, dressed in dark tactical uniforms with zero security badges, took up positions every ten feet.I stood by the window of Room 1402, looking out at the rain-slicked streets of Boston.My phone sat on the glass coffee table. The signal bar showed a hollow grey icon with a small red X. A signal jammer truck sat parked on the street corner below, blocking every outgoing call from the hotel tower.Commissioner Blackwood had moved his pieces fast.Using the parking garage "incident" as an official excuse, he put both the New York Titans and the Chicago Wolves under mandatory hotel lockdown. No media. No federal agents. No leaving the floor before Game 2.I turned around, my hand dropping onto the wooden chair back.My dark blue Titans hoodie felt tight over my broad chest. Under the fresh
Adrian POVThe silver SUV tore through the dark, rain-slicked streets of Boston, its engine letting out a low, heavy hum.Inside the closed cab, the air was thick, hot, and completely saturated with my dark cedar scent. Noah sat anchored in my lap, wrapped tight in my heavy wool coat, his hands still clutching the torn collar of my dark blue Titans shirt. His whole frame trembled as the remaining electrical current faded from his muscles."We aren't going back to the hotel," Jax said from the driver's seat, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror."Carter's team set up a secure perimeter at a private estate outside the city limits. Federal guards are already on site."Leo sat in the passenger seat, his dark eyes fixed on Noah. "How are his ribs?"I slid my hand beneath the heavy coat, my broad palm pressing flat over Noah’s left side. His skin was burning hot, his sea-salt scent blending with mine in a dense, sweet cloud that filled the entire vehicle."They used a shock rod," I rasp


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