22

DAVIES

"Keep your eyes on the ice," a harsh whisper left my lips.

The opening ceremony for the Winter Invitational dragged on for a full hour. Neon lasers cut through the freezing fog. Loud trap music rattled the metal bleachers. Thousands of students packed the Wartburg arena. Professional scouts from Detroit and Boston occupied the premium VIP boxes near the glass.

Sitting in the second row, my frame swallowed the hard plastic seat. My black Nike hoodie kept the frigid arena air away from my skin. Matching dark sweatpants covered my legs. This apparel was my usual armor for game days. Comfortable. Dark. Intimidating.

Maya sat close on my right side. She wore a thick bomber jacket and smelled like sweet vanilla. Our thighs touched. To the cameras and the gossip blogs, we looked like the ultimate power couple enjoying the opening night.

Underneath the surface, a thick layer of ice separated us.

Since the disaster at the Sigma house, a brutal cold war had existed between us. She reminded me about the contract. She built her walls ten feet high. Every time my gaze caught hers, she looked away. It pissed me off. Anger had boiled in my gut all week long.

"I am watching," Maya muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. "Stop acting like my coach."

"Somebody needed to point out the details." Leaning forward, I rested my forearms on my knees. "Dogfang played first. We needed to dissect their strategy before tomorrow night. Watch Nathan."

Down on the pristine white surface, the Dogfang team lined up against the Eastbrook Eagles. Red and white jerseys clashed against forest green.

The referee blew a sharp whistle. The black rubber puck hit the ice.

Game on.

Nathan won the face-off with a vicious swipe of his fiberglass stick. He moved with terrifying speed. Hate clouded my judgment most days, but denying his raw talent was impossible. The guy possessed real skill.

"He was fast," Maya noted, her voice lacking emotion.

"Speed was his only weapon." A scoff rumbled in my throat. "Hockey was a game of strategy. Like chess. You controlled the center of the board, you controlled the match. Look at how he played his pawns."

Pointing a thick finger toward the defensive zone, my breakdown began. "He used his own teammates as human shields. Troy and his other defensemen took all the brutal hits. Nathan hung back near the blue line, waiting for the perfect opening. He sacrificed his own guys to pad his stats."

Down on the ice, Eastbrook tried to steal the puck. Two green jerseys rushed Nathan.

Instead of passing to an open winger, Nathan dropped his shoulder. He faked a left turn. The Eastbrook defenders bought the trick. Nathan spun right, leaving them crashing into each other. The crowd erupted into a massive roar.

Taking open ice, he charged the net.

The Eastbrook goalie dropped into a low crouch.

Nathan did not hesitate. His core twisted tight. A lightning-fast wrist shot sent the puck flying past the goalie's blocker. It slammed into the top corner of the net. The red goal horn blared throughout the massive arena.

"Tragic," Julian grumbled from the seat right behind us. He leaned over, resting his chin near my shoulder. "That goalie had the reflexes of a dead turtle. Bro was caught lacking."

"Eastbrook was a garbage team," Chad added, crushing a plastic water bottle in his massive fist. "Dogfang got an easy warmup game. Rigged brackets."

Ignoring my teammates, my eyes stayed glued to the ice.

Nathan celebrated his goal like a true villain. He skated near the glass, raising his stick high into the air. He soaked in the cheers. Then, he did the unthinkable.

His helmet tilted up. He found our seats in the second row.

Right in front of thousands of fans and professional scouts, Nathan pointed the blade of his stick dead at my chest. He held it there for three agonizing seconds. A clear, undeniable threat.

A muscle jumped in my jaw. My hands gripped the metal railing in front of us. The steel groaned under the intense pressure.

"Do not react," Maya ordered. Her soft hand covered my white knuckles. The sudden warmth of her skin sent a wild jolt up my arm. "He wants a reaction. Let him look like a fool. Keep your cool, Captain."

Her touch broke the spell. Loosening my grip, a dark smirk touched my lips. "Let him have his moment. Tomorrow night, I break his ankles."

The game resumed, turning into a pure bloodbath.

Dogfang dominated every single period. They played a dirty, aggressive style of hockey. Troy caught an Eastbrook player against the boards and delivered a brutal check. The hit sent the opposing player to the locker room with a suspected concussion. The refs handed out penalty minutes, but Dogfang did not care. They thrived on chaos.

Nathan scored two more goals before the final buzzer sounded. A hat trick on opening night. The Detroit scouts scribbled frantic notes on their white clipboards.

The scoreboard glowed bright red above the center ice.

Dogfang six. Eastbrook zero.

"Absolute wipeout," Julian sighed, standing up and stretching his long legs. "Let us grab some food. Watching this trash makes me hungry."

Nodding, my body rose from the hard seat. Maya followed my lead. We navigated the crowded concrete steps, moving toward the VIP lounge located under the lower bowl. The scent of burnt popcorn and spilled beer filled the warm corridors.

Fans parted ways as we walked. My towering frame and black Nike hoodie commanded respect. Maya stayed close to my side. She kept her chin high.

Pushing through the double glass doors of the lounge, the noise levels dropped. The room held a premium buffet and soft leather sofas. Only players, media, and scouts had access.

Grabbing a white plate, my focus shifted to the protein options. The gym routine demanded fuel. Five days of intense conditioning had left my muscles craving meat.

"Davies."

The voice sounded like nails dragging across a chalkboard.

Turning around, my jaw locked tight.

Nathan stood ten feet away. He still wore his sweaty red and white jersey. Troy and three other massive Dogfang players flanked him. They blocked the exit doors. A smug, victorious grin was plastered across Nathan's bruised face.

"Good game, rookie." My voice lacked any real respect. Setting the plate down on a high-top table, my body turned fully to face the threat. Julian and Chad stepped up beside me, forming a solid wall of Westbridge muscle.

"It was a massacre," Nathan boasted, stepping closer. He looked past my shoulder, aiming his dark gaze right at Maya. "Hope you enjoyed the show, babe. Consider it a preview."

Maya stepped out from behind my back. She did not flinch. "I saw a team that relied on cheap shots. Do not let one win inflate your ego."

Nathan laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Still playing the loyal girlfriend act? You deserve an Oscar. Or maybe you just like holding onto his wallet. Fake relationships must pay well."

A dangerous red haze filled my vision.

"Watch your mouth." A low growl tore from my throat. Stepping forward, the space between us vanished. "Speak to her like that again, and you leave this lounge on a stretcher."

"Oh, scary," Troy mocked, crossing his thick arms. "Captain Davies acting tough. Bro thinks he's him."

"Step back, Troy," Julian barked, getting up in the giant defenseman's face. "Before I rearrange your ugly teeth."

The tension snapped.

Troy shoved Julian hard in the chest. Julian stumbled backward, crashing into a table filled with glass water pitchers. The loud shatter echoed in the quiet lounge. Water and sharp shards covered the floor tiles.

Total chaos erupted.

Chad lunged at a Dogfang winger. They hit the carpet.

"Keep your eyes front and stop giving them free real estate in your head."

I rolled my shoulders back and let the tension bleed out into the cold air. The staging tunnel smelled like ozone, stale sweat, and damp earth.

Jax scoffed next to me. He tugged the drawstrings of his black Nike hoodie, his gaze darting across the concrete corridor. "No cap, Davies. Look at their formation. They look ready to put someone in the dirt."

"Let them look." I cracked my knuckles. The sound echoed off the cinderblock walls. "Looking doesn't win the tournament."

Footsteps thundered above us. The stadium crowd stomped in unison, a rhythmic booming that vibrated through the soles of my boots. That day was the opening ceremony. It was the first time all the rival packs gathered under one roof before the trials began. We were supposed to stand there, smile for the cameras, and pretend we didn't want to rip each other's throats out.

Nobody believed the act.

A massive steel gate ground open at the end of the tunnel. Blinding halogen light spilled over the dirt floor.

"We move," I ordered.

Our team stepped out into the arena. The sheer volume of the crowd hit like a physical punch. Screams, howls, and the blare of airhorns drowned out everything else. Thousands of faces blurred in the steep concrete bleachers. Banners snapped in the artificial wind of massive industrial fans.

We took our designated spot on the grid. Dirt crunched under my shoes.

I ignored the announcer's booming voice echoing through the speakers. I did not care about the grand speeches or the history of the games. My focus locked on the other teams. This was the only reason we came to the ceremony. Intelligence gathering.

Life was just a giant chessboard. You scanned the enemy lines. You figured out who the pawns were. You located the knights. You kept your eyes fixed on the king.

Right then, the king of the board was Nathan.

He stood fifty yards away, leading the Vanguard crew. They wore matching crimson jackets, sleek and tailored. Nathan did not fidget. He did not react to the roaring crowd. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid and perfect. Total stillness.