28

MAYA

Neon lights buzzed loud outside the Wartburg ice arena.

Stepping out of his truck, the sheer volume of the crowd hit my ears like a physical wave. Hundreds of students packed the concrete plaza, funneling toward the glass entrance doors. Fans wore blue and red jerseys, painting the night in rival colors. The cold air smelled of burnt pretzels, hot coffee, and raw anticipation.

Walking side by side, Davies kept his right hand planted firmly on the small of my back. He scanned the crowd, his protective instincts on full alert.

“Hold up, Wartburg!”

A shrill voice pierced the chaotic noise.

Chloe stepped directly into our path. She held her brand-new iPhone mounted on a bright ring light. Her pink microphone aimed straight at our faces.

“Wartburg Gossip Live is back!” Chloe screamed into her camera, bouncing on her white sneakers. “We have the Westbridge Captain and his queen arriving for the main event! Davies, the blogs are going crazy! Chat is spamming fire emojis! You guys are serving main character energy today!”

“Excuse us, Chloe.” Davies kept his tone polite but firm. He did not stop walking. His hand steered my hips around the frantic media girl.

“Any words for Dogfang?” Chloe chased after us, pointing the microphone at my face. “Maya! Rumor has it Nathan is out for blood today!”

“He better bring a mop,” tossing a sharp glare over my shoulder, the insult slipped out naturally. “Because Westbridge is going to wipe the floor with him.”

Chloe gasped loud, her mouth dropping open. “Savage! You heard it here first, chat!”

Leaving the media circus behind, we pushed through the heavy glass doors into the main lobby. The temperature dropped ten degrees. The loud thumping bass of the warmup music rattled the metal rafters.

Heading toward the locker room tunnels, a wall of bright blue uniforms blocked the corridor.

The Westbridge cheerleading squad stood in a tight circle. They wore short pleated skirts and tight crop tops. The moment they spotted Davies, the group broke apart and swarmed him like a hive of desperate bees.

“Captain!” A tall blonde girl named Brittany pushed her way to the front.

She stepped right into his personal space. Her hand reached out, resting flat against his chest. She batted her eyelashes, flashing a bright, manufactured smile.

“We made a special routine just for you tonight, Davies,” Brittany purred, her voice dripping with sickly sweet charm. “We are rooting for our favorite boy. Good luck out there. Do you need a pre-game hug?”

A hot, ugly spike of pure jealousy stabbed me right in the chest.

My jaw locked tight. Watching her manicured nails trace the collar of his dark shirt made my blood boil. The possessive urge to shove her backward was almost impossible to ignore.

Davies caught my dark glare out of the corner of his eye.

A tiny, amused smirk touched the corner of his lips. He stepped backward, smoothly dodging Brittany’s open arms.

“Thanks, ladies.” He reached down, grabbing my hand and interlocking our fingers. He raised our joined hands up for the entire cheer squad to see. “But my good luck charm is already right here.”

Brittany’s fake smile faltered. Her eyes darted down to our locked hands, flashing with bitter annoyance.

“Enjoy the game,” Davies added, pulling me past the stunned group of cheerleaders.

Walking down the empty concrete tunnel, a breathless laugh escaped my lips. The heavy weight in my chest vanished, replaced by a warm, fluttering joy. He knew exactly how to handle them. He knew exactly how to make me feel secure.

Reaching the VIP seating section right behind the Westbridge bench, he stopped.

“Sit here.” He tapped the thick plexiglass. “Do not move. Julian’s brother is sitting two rows back. He will keep an eye out.”

“Just focus on the puck,” leaning forward, a soft, encouraging kiss landed on his bruised jawline. “Crush them.”

DAVIES

The cold air of the rink scorched my lungs.

Stepping onto the frozen white surface, the roar of the crowd sounded like a jet engine taking off. The bright halogen lights beat down from the ceiling. Gliding toward the center circle, my skates carved deep, familiar grooves into the ice.

My left side throbbed with a dull, constant ache.

The butterfly stitches held the skin together, but every twist of my torso sent a sharp spike of pain radiating through my ribs. Pushing the pain aside required mental blocks.

Lining up for the opening face-off, my eyes tracked the opposition.

Nathan stood in the center circle. He wore his crimson Dogfang jersey. He looked way too confident. Troy was missing from their defensive line, replaced by a nervous-looking sophomore. Good. Crushing Troy’s face in the alley was worth the broken skin on my knuckles.

The referee dropped the black rubber puck.

Slapping my fiberglass stick down, the impact sent a nasty shockwave straight into my injured side. My muscles locked up for a split second.

Nathan stole the puck instantly.

He moved fast, dodging Julian and weaving past Chad. My boots tried to keep up, but the sharp pain slowed my usual explosive speed. Skating backward, my focus shattered.

Visions of the dark alley clouded my brain. The sickly smell of chloroform. Maya lying unconscious on the metal floor of a van. The switchblade tearing into my flesh.

My mind was not on a hockey game. It was stuck in survival mode.

Nathan crossed the blue line. I stepped forward to deliver a brutal body check. He faked a shot, dropping his left shoulder. Biting on the fake, my weight shifted the wrong way. Nathan spun around my massive frame, leaving me looking like a clueless rookie.

He ripped a wrist shot. The puck sailed over our goalie’s shoulder and smashed into the net.

The red goal horn blasted loud. The Dogfang fans erupted into cheers.

“Wake up, Cap!” Chad yelled, slapping his stick against the boards.

Cursing under my breath, my skates dragged back to the center circle.

Ten minutes later, the exact same scenario played out.

Chasing a loose puck near the corner boards, my stick fumbled the catch. The rubber disc bounced off my blade. A Dogfang winger snatched it, passing it straight to Nathan in the slot.

Nathan did not miss. A fast slap shot sent the puck burying into the back of our net.

Score: Dogfang 2, Westbridge 0.

The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the first period.

Skating back to the bench, my head hung low. Disappointment sat heavy in my chest.

Coach Vance paced the rubber floor mats behind the bench. His face burned a furious shade of purple. He held his white clipboard like a weapon.

“What is wrong with you?” Vance roared over the noise of the arena. He pointed a thick finger right at my helmet. “You look like a ghost out there, Davies! Two turnovers! Two goals! You are playing sloppy, lazy hockey! The Detroit scouts are writing you off as we speak!”

Spitting cold water onto the rubber mat, my jaw clenched.

“Get your head in the game!” Vance slapped the glass barrier behind him. “Or I will bench you for the rest of the season!”

Looking up, past the angry coach, my dark eyes found the VIP seats.

Maya sat in the second row. She leaned forward, pressing her hands against the clear plexiglass. She did not look disappointed. She looked fierce. She mouthed a single word through the thick plastic barrier.

*Fight.*

Staring at her beautiful face, the chaotic noise of the arena faded into dead silence.

The pain in my side ceased to exist. The mental fog blocking my focus burned away like mist under a hot sun.

Nathan thought he could break my spirit by attacking the girl I cared about. He thought playing mind games would secure him a victory. He treated people like pieces on a chessboard, sacrificing pawns to protect his own ego.

It was time to flip the damn board.

Closing my eyes, a deep breath filled my lungs. All the boiling anger, the toxic rage from the alley, the protective instinct burning in my soul—I pulled it all together, forging it into a sharp, deadly weapon.

Opening my eyes, the cold, ruthless captain returned.

“Line up,” my voice dropped into a dark, commanding growl.

Julian and Chad jumped over the boards, their skates hitting the ice with purpose.

The second period began.

The referee dropped the puck.

This time, my stick moved like lightning. Stealing the black rubber right from under Nathan’s nose, my legs pumped hard. The explosive speed returned. The sharp sting in my ribs became fuel.

Racing down the ice, two Dogfang defenders tried to block my path.

Lowering my shoulder, my massive frame crashed into the first guy. The brutal impact sent him flying backward into the boards with a loud, sickening crack. Keeping the puck secure, a fast spin move left the second defender tripping over his own skates.

Approaching the net, their goalie crouched low, shaking with anticipation.

Drawing my fiberglass stick back, my core twisted tight. I unleashed all my fury into the slap shot.

The puck moved so fast it looked like a black blur. It smashed into the top left corner of the net, tearing the water bottle clean off the rim.

The red horn blared. The Westbridge fans lost their minds.

Skating back toward the center line, my dark eyes locked onto Nathan. He looked pale. His cocky smirk was dead and buried.

“Your turn, rookie,” a dark, wicked smile stretched across my face.

The comeback was just beginning. And I planned to destroy his team piece by miserable piece.