Power of Betrayal

Lukas’s POV

The roar of twenty thousand people is a physical thing. It’s not just noise; it’s a vibration that starts in the soles of your skates and crawls up your spine until your teeth ache.

I stood at center ice, feeling every bit of it. To the fans, I was Lukas Moretti—the "Golden Boy," the captain, the guy whose jersey was currently being sold for two thousand bucks a pop in the concourse. My face was on the billboards. My life was the dream. But standing there, under the blinding white lights of the Garden, I felt like a fraud. A prince in a castle made of rotting wood.

"Snap out of it, Moretti," I said to myself, adjusting the grip on my stick. The carbon fiber was cold, sleek, and cost more than most people’s morgage rent.

I looked across the red line. And there he was.

Jaxson Vane.

If I was the league’s "Golden Boy," Jaxson was the "Devil" sent to drag it to hell. He was a six-foot-four wall of muscle and bad intentions, draped in a Rangers jersey that looked like it was struggling to contain him. He wasn't even looking at the puck. He was looking at me.

His eyes were cold, like chips of frozen lake water, trapped behind the cage of his helmet. He didn't look like he wanted to play hockey. He looked like he wanted to end me.

"You look a little pale, Lukas," Jaxson’s shot at me, as we lined up for the face-off. It was a low tone, the kind of voice that sounded like it had been dragged over gravel. "Is the crown getting too heavy? Or is it the news from the DA’s office?"

My heart skipped a beat. "Shut your mouth, Vane. Focus on the puck."

"Oh, I'm focused," he said with a smirk on his face, a dark, predatory tilt to his head. "I'm focused on exactly how much you're willing to lose to keep your daddy out of a jumpsuit."

“I wont let myself be triggered by any of this”, I said to myself as I tried to calm my nerves.

The ref dropped the puck, and the world exploded into motion.

The first two periods were a blur of violence. I played like a man possessed, dodging hits, carving through the defense, trying to drown out Jaxson’s voice with the sound of my own heavy breathing. 

My father’s face kept flashing in my mind. the way he’d looked at me through the glass of the cell’s visitor’s room last night. He didn't have to say it. He was a Moretti. We didn't beg. But the fear in his eyes had been enough to make me want to burn the whole world down.

The scoreboard showed thirty seconds left in the third. Tied game. Championship on the line.

I had the puck. I was flying. The wind was whistling through the vents of my helmet, and for a split second, I was just a kid on a pond again. I broke past the blue line, my eyes locked on the top-shelf of the net. This was it. The moment I’d lived for.

Suddenly, the sun went out.

I didn't see the hit. I felt it. It was like a freight train broad-shoveling a bicycle. My carbon-fiber stick, the one that had never let me down, shattered with a sound like a gunshot. The force of the impact lifted me off my skates, sending me spiraling through the air before I slammed into the boards.

Crack….

The air left my body in a quick rush. My vision went white, then black, then a muddy, bruised purple. I slumped onto the ice, my cheek pressed against the cold, wet surface. Everything hurts. My lungs were screaming for air that wouldn't come to its aid.

I tried to push myself up, my fingers clawing at the ice shavings. My head was ringing with high-pitched sounds that drowned out the screams of twenty thousand people.

Then, a shadow fell over me.

A pair of black skates came into view, stopping inches from my face. I looked up, trying to see who that was, and just as I expected, it was the Devil himself. Jaxson didn't help me up. He didn't call for a trainer. He dropped to one knee, hovering over me like a grim reaper. 

He leaned down, his gloved hand gripping the back of my jersey to pull me closer until his breath was hot against my ear.

"Listen to me, Captain," he whispered. His voice was lethal, and utterly calm. "I have the logs. I have the wire transfers. I have every single file that proves your father was framed…. and the ones that would ensure he never sees the sun again."

I gasped, a sob of pain and terror catching in my throat. "Vane... you mean you....."

"Look at the clock, Lukas," he commanded, his grip tightening until the fabric of my jersey strained. "Twenty seconds left. If you win this game, those files go to the DA tonight. Your father’s heart stops in his cell by midnight. He won't survive the first night in the General Cell. You and I both know the Commissioner wants him silenced."

My heart started to beat so fast against my bruised ribs. I looked up at the scoreboard. 0:20.

"But," Jaxson’s voice dropped even lower. "If the Titans lose... if you fail right here, right now... I might find a reason to keep those files in my pocket. Decide, Lukas. Is the Cup worth your father’s life?"

He let go of my jersey and stood up, looking at the ref as if he’d just been checking if I was conscious. To the world, he was a rival athlete. To me, he was a god deciding my fate.

The whistle blew. The ref helped me up, asking if I was okay. I nodded dumbly, my legs shaking like I was on thin ice for the first time in my life. I lined up for the face-off. My teammates were shouting, screaming for me to bring it home. “For the dynasty, Lukas! For the family!”

The puck dropped.

I got it. I had a clear lane. I could have scored. I should have scored. But as I crossed the blue line, I looked at the defender. I saw my father’s face. I saw the gray walls of a prison cell. I saw a coffin being lowered into the ground.

I "stumbled."

It was the most pathetic, choreographed piece of acting in the history of the sport. I let the puck slide off my blade. I didn't chase it. I stood there, paralyzed, as a Rangers winger scooped it up and sprinted the other way. I watched him fire it into our empty net.

The buzzer sounded. A long, mournful drone that felt like a funeral bell.

The Rangers’ bench emptied. They were a riot of blue and white, screaming, piling on top of each other. My teammates slumped over their sticks, some of them dropping to their knees in the middle of the ice. The fans my fans were silent for exactly three seconds.

And then the boos started.

It wasn't just a noise; it was a physical weight. A roar of betrayal that made the ice under my feet feel like it was cracking. I didn't move. I sat down right there on the ice, right in the center of the New York Titans logo. The "Golden Boy" was dead. I could feel the heat of my own tears melting the ice shavings beneath me.

"Lukas?" My teammate, Miller, skated over, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated confusion. "What was that? You had it. You had the lane. Why didn't you shoot?"

I couldn't answer him. I couldn't even look at him. I just stared at my shattered stick, lying a few feet away like a broken limb.

I felt that same presence behind me again. The shadow that always found me. Jaxson Vane stood over me. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. 

"The game is over, Lukas," he finally said. There was no mercy in his voice, only a dark satisfaction. "But our deal? That’s just getting started."

I looked up at him, my eyes showing so much hate. "I did what you wanted. Give me the files. Save him."

Jaxson gave me a slow, cruel smile that made my skin crawl and my heart race in a way I didn't want to admit. He reached out, his thumb brushing over the 'C' on my chest before gripping the fabric of my jersey. He pulled me up until I was standing, face-to-face with the man who had just dismantled my life.

"Not here, Captain," he said with a smirk on his face. "Meet me in the locker room. Your locker room. Alone. If you're even a second late, I hit 'send' on those files, and you can start picking out a plot at the cemetery."

He let go of me and skated away to join his team. I stood there, the disgraced prince of New York, while twenty thousand people screamed that they hated me.

I had saved my father. But as I watched Jaxson walk away, I realized I had just handed my soul over to a demon. And the worst part the part that made me want to scream was that as I watched the way his shoulders moved under that jersey, a part of me wasn't just afraid. It was waiting.

I pushed through the tunnel, the boos ringing in my ears like a physical assault. I didn't stop to talk to the press. I didn't stop to talk to my coach. I walked straight into the Titans’ locker room, the heavy steel door clicking shut behind me with a sound like a guillotine.

The lights were dimmed. The air smelled of sweat and expensive floor wax.

"You're late, Lukas."

The voice came from the back of the room, near my stall.

I froze. He was sitting there, right in my chair. He’d already taken his helmet off, and his dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. He looked bigger without the gear—wider, more imposing. In his right hand, he held a thick, leather-bound folder.

In his left hand, he held a pair of heavy, stainless steel handcuffs.

"The world thinks you're a failure tonight," Jaxson said, standing up slowly. He walked toward me, the handcuffs clinking with every step, the sound echoing off the empty lockers. "But I think you’re exactly where you need to be. Stripped of everything."

He stopped inches from me, the folder pressed against my chest, right over my heart.

"Now," he whispered, his eyes burning into mine. "Strip. Every bit of that jersey comes off. From this moment on, you don't wear anything I don't give you. Do you understand me, servant?"

I looked at the handcuffs, then back at his eyes. 

The "Golden Boy" was gone. 

My life is officially over…..