Chapter 13: The victory lap

Brielle’s POV.

Chase hadn't let go of my hand. His fingers were laced tightly through mine, warm and unyielding, as if anchoring himself to the real world after walking out of a living nightmare.

"You did it," I whispered, turning to look at him.

The tense, agonizing line of his shoulders had finally relaxed. The cold, impenetrable mask of the Ice King was nowhere to be seen. In its place was just Chase, exhausted, victorious, and looking at me with an intensity that made my pulse jump.

"We did it," Chase corrected softly, his thumb gently tracing the back of my hand. "If you hadn't stayed, if you hadn't chased down that IP log or faced down Nate in that locker room... I’d be facing a lifetime ban right now."

Before I could reply, his legal representative stepped up beside us, holding a tablet. "The league has officially issued a public retraction, Chase. The suspension is lifted. Nate Bryant is currently in police custody being questioned for reckless endangerment and corporate espionage. Your father’s PR team is scrambling, but the league has made it clear: you are fully reinstated as captain for tomorrow night's championship qualifier."

Chase gave a slow, sharp nod. "Good. Tell the team I’ll be on the ice for pre-game morning skates tomorrow."

"Understood. Congratulations, Captain." The lawyer offered a respectful nod to us both before stepping away to handle the barrage of incoming press calls.

Silence settled between Chase and me as the plaza cleared out, the adrenaline that had carried us through the night from the midnight break-in to the emergency lab run was finally beginning to wear off, leaving a deep, bone-heavy fatigue in its wake.

"Come on," Chase said, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that made my heart flutter. "You haven't slept in over twenty-four hours, let's go home."

The penthouse was quiet and bathed in the soft gold of the mid-morning sun when we returned. The chaos of the previous night felt like a distant memory, locked outside the double doors.

Chase tossed his suit jacket onto the back of the couch and kicked off his dress shoes. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the skyline, taking a long, unhurried breath. I stood near the entryway, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness as the reality of our dynamic caught up to us.

The case was solved, ghe conspiracy was exposed. My job as an investigative photojournalist was technically done and yet, standing here in his space, the idea of walking away felt completely impossible.

"Bri," Chase called softly without turning around. "Come here."

I set my camera bag on the side table and walked across the hardwood floor, stopping beside him at the window. The city below was humming with life, oblivious to the high-stakes battle that had played out in the boardrooms above it.

"I spent my whole life thinking everyone around me had a price," Chase murmured, his blue eyes reflecting the sunlit clouds outside. "My father treated me like an investment asset. My teammates treated me like a hurdle or a ladder. I learned early on that if you build walls thick enough, no one can get inside to hurt you."

He turned to face me, taking a step closer until the heat radiating off his chest wrapped around me.

"Then you walked into my arena with a camera, refusing to back down, seeing right through every lie and every barrier I put up." He reached up, his long fingers gently tucking a strand of dark hair behind my ear, his touch surprisingly soft for a man who spent his life crashing into steel boards. "You fought harder for my life than I was ready to fight for myself."

"I fought for you because you deserved someone in your corner who wasn't buying a piece of you," I said softly, looking up into his eyes. "You're a good man, Chase. A leader. You just had the wrong people around you."

"I have the right person now," he whispered.

The air between us charged, dense with an electric, undeniable gravity. The lingering tension of the last forty-eight hours melted into something raw, fierce, and entirely consumed by heat.

Chase closed the distance between us, sliding one hand behind my waist and pulling me flush against his chest. His other hand cupped the back of my neck, tilting my head up as his lips found mine.

The kiss wasn't hesitant or careful it was possessive, deep, and filled with a desperate, pent-up passion that had been building since the moment we first locked eyes across the dark ice. I gasped into his mouth, my hands flying up to clutch at the lapels of his open shirt, pulling him closer. He let out a low growl, his grip tightening on my waist, lifting me slightly as he backed me up until my shoulders hit the cool glass of the window.

His mouth moved down my jawline, trailing fire along the side of my neck, making a shiver run down my spine. "Tell me to stop, Brielle," he rasped against my skin, his breath hot and ragged. "Tell me to stop right now, or I'm never letting you go."

I tangled my fingers in his thick, dark hair, pulling his lips back to mine. "Don't you dare stop, Chase."

He lifted me easily into his arms, carrying me down the hallway into the dim, quiet sanctuary of his master bedroom.

When he laid me back onto the dark sheets, the rest of the world completely vanished. There were no press alerts, no league investigations, no toxic father, and no shadow of betrayal. There was only the sound of our ragged breathing, the touch of his skin against mine, and the absolute certainty that whatever storm came next, we would face it together.

The next evening, the energy inside the Boston Garden stadium was deafening.

Thousands of fans packed the steep rows of bleachers, a sea of team colors, banners, and flashing camera flashes. The roar of the crowd rattled the glass panels surrounding the rink as the arena announcer’s voice boomed over the public address system.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen... entering the ice... YOUR CAPTAIN... NUMBER 24, CHASE KENSINGTON!"

The stadium exploded into a thunderous, shaking roar.

I stood in the designated media pit right beside the home team glass, my heavy camera lens raised and ready. Through the viewfinder, I watched Chase step onto the pristine, scraped ice. He looked magnificent tall, imposing, dressed in the dark team jersey with the bold silver "C" stitched proudly over his heart.

He took a slow lap around the rink, his skates cutting smooth, razor-sharp grooves into the surface. The crowd went wild, waving signs that read THE ICE KING RETURNS and UNSTOPPABLE.

As he skated past the corner glass, Chase slowed down. His piercing blue eyes scanned the sidelines, past the swarming photographers and security guards, until they locked directly onto me.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a private, fierce secret shared between just the two of us amidst fifteen thousand screaming fans. He raised his hockey stick in a subtle, sharp salute toward my lens.

I pressed the shutter.

Click.

The flash caught the intensity in his eyes, the absolute confidence in his stance, and the unspoken promise lingering in the air.

He turned back toward the center circle, sliding into position for the opening face-off. The referee dropped the puck, the whistle blew, and the Ice King moved forward to claim his game and his freedom.