Chapter 14: Unstoppable

Brielle’s POV.

The siren blared across the arena, a deafening signal marking the end of the second period. The score was tied 2–2, but the energy in the stadium was electric.

I stood near the team tunnel, my lens focused on Chase as he skated off the ice. Drenched in sweat, his chest heaving under his pads, he looked like a warrior mid-battle, as he passed me, his eyes met mine through the mesh of his helmet visor, a silent message passing between us before he disappeared into the locker room.

The atmosphere in the arena was electric, but in the media lounge, the tension was different. Microphones were buzzing, and sports analysts were glued to their screens, adjusting their coverage in real time as news of the league’s official charges against Nate Bryant flooded every major sports network.

"Miss Hopkins?"

I turned to see the team’s senior media director standing behind me, holding a tablet and looking thoroughly relieved.

"The front office just issued the final statement," she said, offering a tight, appreciative smile. "The board cleared your press credentials completely. In fact... John Kensington officially stepped down from the executive board twenty minutes ago. The franchise is transitioning full operational control to Chase’s management group."

A quiet weight lifted from my chest. "And the press?"

"They know the truth now," she replied. "The story broke as a massive victory for Chase. You saved this team's season, Brielle."

By the final two minutes of the third period, the stadium was on its feet.

The puck slammed against the boards near the home bench. Chase scooped it up with lightning speed, pivoting sharply on his skates as two Boston defenders closed in on him. His reaction time was flawless sharp, lethal, and completely unhindered.

He didn't just out-skate them; he read the ice like a master chess player. With a fake left shift that sent the lead defender sprawling, Chase drove straight down the center lane toward the goal.

The crowd went dead silent for a fraction of a second as the goaltender dropped into a butterfly stance.

Chase raised his stick, the flex of the composite shaft bending under his immense strength, and snapped a high-wrist shot right over the goalie's shoulder into the top corner of the net.

The red light flashed, the horn blasted.

3–2.

The arena erupted into absolute chaos, glass rattled as fans slammed their hands against the barriers, chanting Chase’s name until the roof practically shook. Chase didn't celebrate by pumping his fist at the crowd. Instead, he turned, skated straight toward the side glass where I was standing, and slammed his gloved hands against the barrier right in front of my lens, his eyes burning with pure, unadulterated triumph.

I snapped three rapid shots, catching the raw emotion, the ice spray, and the unmistakable look of a man who had reclaimed his kingdom.

An hour after the game, the press room was packed wall-to-wall with cameras and reporters.

Chase sat at the podium in a tailored dark suit, the captain's 'C' freshly restored to his legacy. 

Questions flew at him from every angle about Nate's arrest, his father's resignation, and the incredible game-winning goal.

"Chase! Over here!" a lead reporter called out. "With all the chaos off the ice this week, how were you able to perform at such an elite level tonight? Who was keeping you grounded?"

Chase paused. His gaze swept over the sea of flashing cameras until it settled on me standing quietly at the back of the room, my camera resting against my hip.

A faint, handsome smile touched his lips.

"When you're under attack, you quickly learn who is standing with you and who is just waiting for you to fall," Chase said into the microphone, his voice calm, steady, and carrying across the entire room. "I won tonight because the right person had my back when everything else was falling apart. And going forward... she always will."

The reporters turned, following his gaze toward the back of the room, but I just smiled, raising my camera one last time to capture the moment.

The Ice King had his crown back and I had mine.

Six months later.

The high-pitched hum of the camera shutter filled the quiet space of my new downtown studio, followed by the soft flash of warm key lights.

On the screen linked to my laptop, the high-resolution preview refreshed instantly: a striking, black-and-white editorial shot of Chase. He wore a crisp tailored suit, looking every bit the formidable franchise leader he had become since stepping into full operational control of the team, but his eyes soft, clear, and relaxed were focused entirely on me behind the lens.

"You're slacking, Hopkins," Chase said, a lazy, handsome smirk playing on his lips as he adjusted his cufflinks. "We've been at this for an hour, and you've spent half that time staring at the monitor."

"I'm reviewing the lighting," I countered, stepping out from behind the tripod with a playful roll of my eyes. "And for your information, the Ice King looks surprisingly marketable when he isn't scowling at reporters."

"The Ice King retired that scowl six months ago," Chase murmured.

As I walked over, he reached out, catching my waist and pulling me onto his lap as he sat back on the leather posing bench, the scent of cedar and cool ocean air wrapped around me instantly. I rested my hands on his shoulders, looking down at the man who had turned my world upside down.

Everything had changed after that fateful night at the league headquarters.

Nate Bryant had accepted a plea bargain for corporate espionage and reckless endangerment, effectively ending his athletic career permanently. John Kensington had officially retired to his estate in Europe, completely stripped of his voting rights on the franchise board.

Without the toxic shadows of betrayal hanging over the locker room, the team had gone on an unprecedented championship run, taking home the league cup for the first time in over a decade.

As for me?

My investigative series exposing sports corruption had won a national media award. But more importantly, I had launched my own independent sports media firm with full, exclusive press access to the reigning champions.

"You're thinking again," Chase whispered, his hand gently sliding up my spine, sending a familiar spark of heat straight through me.

"Just thinking about where we started," I admitted, tracing the strong line of his jaw with my thumb. "A stolen photo, an empty ice rink, and a guy who threatened to destroy my career if I didn't hand over my memory card."

"Best decision I ever made," Chase said softly, his blue eyes darkening with that intense, undeniable devotion that still took my breath away. "Though I think my second-best decision was convincing you to move into the penthouse."

"You didn't convince me, you practically hijacked my moving truck."

"Details," he murmured against my skin, leaning up to press a warm, lingering kiss to the side of my neck.

I leaned into his touch, tangling my fingers in his hair as his lips found mine in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like home, safety, and a future built on total trust.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, his thumbs stroking my hips.

"Game 1 of the new season starts tonight," Chase said quietly. "Are you going to be on the sidelines?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I smiled, reaching over to tap the shutter button on the remote control in my hand.

Click.