Dibuang Suami, Dipinang CEO

CHAPTER ONE

TYLER

Tyler Reyes – National Championship Final

Northbridge Hawks vs Silverhollow Storm

The arena was shaking. Deafening. The kind of loud that rattled inside your chest.

“Thirty seconds!” Coach’s voice thundered behind me.

I gripped my stick tighter, my gloves damp with sweat. My heart thudded like a war drum.

One–one. Final period. Championship game.

Twenty thousand people screaming from the stands, but I only saw him.

Mason Grant.

Silverhollow’s golden boy. Big, tattooed, fast as hell.

Wearing that stupid cocky grin. Like he already knew he’d win.

Not tonight. No fucking way.

“Eyes on the puck, Reyes,” Malik snapped, skating to my left.

“I am on the puck,” I muttered.

“No, you’re on Grant.”

I didn’t answer. Because yeah, I was.

Grant had the puck now, weaving past center ice. Fluid, sharp, stupidly smooth.

God, I hated how good he was.

“He’s coming left!” I shouted. “Double him!”

I lunged forward, blade stretched out—

—caught the edge of his stick—

—but he spun, dropped his shoulder, and slipped right past me.

“Fuck!”

I turned hard and chased. I was fast, but he was faster.

“Cover the net!” our goalie, Liam, screamed.

Grant faked left, then slammed the puck right between Liam’s pads—

Ping.

The red light lit up behind the net. The siren howled.

Goal.

My body froze. My breath caught.

I just stood there. Stick limp in my hands. Helmet pressing tight against my head.

“Are you fucking kidding me…” Malik whispered beside me.

I heard the roar of Silverhollow fans. Mason’s name echoing like thunder.

“GRANT! GRANT! GRANT!”

He didn’t even celebrate. Just turned, skated past me slow.

Arrogant. Calm. Like he expected to win.

I looked up at the clock.

3.4 seconds left.

We weren’t coming back from that.

The final buzzer felt like a punch.

We lost.

We lost.

I wanted to throw my stick across the ice.

Instead, I forced myself to skate to the handshake line.

Sportsmanship. Always.

I wanted to scream.

One by one, our team lined up. We bumped gloves with the Silverhollow boys. Some polite nods. Some gritted teeth.

Then he was there.

Mason.

Towering over me. Black curls damp with sweat. Tattoos peeking from under his sleeves.

His eyes locked on mine. Hazel. Sharp. Knowing.

He gripped my glove. Tight.

Leaned in.

His breath hit the side of my cheek.

His voice low, smug.

“Better luck next year, Reyes.”

I didn’t speak.

Not when the buzzer went off.

Not when the trophy was lifted.

Not during the handshake line.

Not even when my coach tried to say “you gave it your best.”

I didn’t give it my best.

I gave everything.

And still lost.

The locker room door slammed shut behind me. I threw my helmet across the bench. It bounced, hit the wall, dropped with a thunk.

“Whoa,” Malik muttered behind me. “Chill, man.”

“I had him,” I hissed. “I had that bastard—”

“You had air,” said Liam. “You let him walk right through.”

I spun on him. “You let him score five-hole!”

“Guys,” Coach warned from the corner. “Not now.”

The room buzzed with low voices. Gritted teeth. Gutted silence.

Everyone else was undressing. Taping off skates. Sighing into towels.

I sat, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my back, gloves still on.

Then the door opened.

Voices outside. Laughter.

Someone said, “You sure this is their room?”

And then—

“Oh, hell no,” Liam muttered.

I looked up.

And there he was.

Mason. Fucking. Grant.

Wearing nothing but compression shorts and a cocky-ass grin.

Shirtless. Chest gleaming with sweat. Arms flexed. Hair damp and messy.

He looked like a fucking ad. Like someone dropped a Calvin Klein model in the middle of our locker room.

“What the hell do you want?” Malik snapped, stepping in front of me.

“I came to say hi,” Mason said casually. “Didn’t get to catch up after the game.”

“We’re not in the mood,” Liam growled.

Mason’s eyes found mine.

He ignored everyone else. Like they didn’t exist.

Like it was just me and him.

“You folded again,” he said.

I didn’t move.

“Last minute,” he added. “You choked. Classic Reyes.”

My fingers curled tight around the edge of the bench.

“You done?” I said, voice low.

“Thought you’d have grown some balls by now,” he said, stepping closer. “Guess not.”

I stood.

My skates scraped the floor. We were nose to nose.

Or… well. Chin to nose. He was taller now. Broader. Still had that face I hated. Still had that voice that crawled under my skin.

“Get the fuck out, Grant,” I said.

He just smiled.

I shoved him.

Hard.

He stumbled back a step, but didn’t fall. He laughed. Actually laughed.

“Ohhh,” he said, grinning. “There’s the temper.”

“Tyler!” Coach barked. “Sit down.”

“Tell him to leave.”

“I will. Sit your ass down first.”

Malik pulled me back by my jersey. “He’s not worth it,” he muttered in my ear.

“I swear—”

“He’s not worth it,” he repeated.

Mason just stood there, arms spread.

“Touchy today, Reyes.”

“Why are you even here?” Liam asked.

“I was bored,” Mason said with a shrug. “Besides, I wanted to see how second pla

ce feels.”

“Get out,” Coach snapped. “Before I make you.”

Mason finally backed up a step. Turned halfway toward the door.

Paused.

Looked over his shoulder at me one last time.

And smirked.

“Have fun, loser.”