Chapter 16: Away Game Advantage

Brielle’s POV.

The snow was falling heavily over Toronto, turning the streets outside the Four Seasons into a blur of white and neon, but inside the executive suite on the top floor, the temperature was soaring.

Chase stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, his dark shirt unbuttoned at the collar, watching the snow drift over the city. When he heard the soft click of my camera bag hitting the hardwood, he turned. The sharp, business-like focus he maintained during press conferences and team travel was completely gone, replaced by a dark, simmering intensity that set my pulse racing.

"The Toronto media is going to be brutal tomorrow," I said, leaning back against the edge of the mahogany desk and pulling my hair up into a loose knot. "They've already run three spec pieces on whether your new management style can hold up on an away stretch."

"Let them write whatever they want," Chase said, his voice low and smooth as he crossed the room toward me with unhurried, deliberate strides. He stopped right in front of me, his shadow completely blocking out the ambient light of the city. "Tomorrow, we let the scoreboard do the talking. Tonight, I don't give a damn about the media."

He reached out, his long fingers catching my chin and tilting my head back. His thumb traced my bottom lip, sending a sudden wave of heat straight down my spine.

"You've been quiet since we landed," he murmured, his blue eyes searching mine. "Still thinking about the story?"

"I'm thinking about how dangerous you are when you get everything you want," I whispered, resting my hands against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the fine linen of his shirt.

Chase let out a soft, dark chuckle, his arms sliding around my waist to pull me off the desk and flush against him. The sheer contrast between his towering, muscular frame and my own made me gasp as he effortlessly lifted me, setting me onto the edge of the desk so we were eye to eye.

"I don't have everything I want," Chase corrected, his voice dropping an octave, rough and possessive against my skin as he leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive curve where my neck met my shoulder. "Not yet."

My hands tangled into his hair, pulling him closer as a shiver ran through me. "And what exactly do you want, Captain?"

"You," he rasped, his teeth lightly grazing my collarbone before his mouth moved up to capture mine in a kiss so deep, passionate, and demanding that it stole the air right out of my lungs. "Every hour. On the ice, off the ice... everywhere."

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing heavily in the quiet room. Outside, the blizzard rattled the glass, but inside, locked in Chase's grip, I had never felt warmer.

The next evening, the ScotiaBank Arena was a sea of blue and white, hostiles roaring from every deck of the stadium.

I took my spot in the visitor’s media nook, setting up my long lens just as the teams skated out for warm-ups. The noise was deafening, the away crowd doing everything they could to rattle the visiting champions.

Chase skated onto the ice last, his presence instantly drawing a barrage of boos and jeers from the local fans. He didn't care. He took a single, powerful stride around the face-off circle, his posture commanding, his focus razor-sharp.

Before taking his position at center ice, he glanced toward the glass, catching my eye through the camera lens. A slow, dangerous smirk touched his lips, the look of a man who knew he was about to silence twenty thousand people.

He tapped his stick twice on the ice, turned to face the puck, and gave the crowd exactly what they came to see: absolute domination.

The second period in Toronto had devolved from high-stakes hockey into a full-scale battleground.

Toronto’s lead enforcer, a giant defenseman named Miller with a history of cheap shots, had been trailing Chase all night, every time the whistle blew, Miller was there shoving, barking threats, and trying to bait Chase into taking a game-misconduct penalty.

I kept my lens trained on the center ice circle as the puck dropped.

Chase won the draw clean, snapping the puck back to the blue line. But before he could even pivot to follow the play, Miller charged from his blind side. The heavy, bone-crunching impact resonated right through the thick glass barrier. Miller dropped his shoulder directly into Chase’s chest, driving him violently into the boards long after the puck was gone.

The arena gasped, followed by a wave of raucous cheers from the home crowd.

"Dirty hit!" I yelled instinctively, gripping my camera as Chase hit the ice hard, his stick clattering out of his hands.

My heart slammed against my ribs. On the ice, a brawl immediately broke out as our defensemen swarmed Miller, but my focus stayed locked on Chase. He stayed down for three terrifying seconds, his hand clutching his side, his face contorted in a grimace of pain as he fought for breath, no, not now.

Chase pushed himself up onto one knee, shaking his head to clear the haze. The trainer rushed onto the ice, but Chase waved him off with a harsh, violent gesture. He forced himself up onto his skates, his jaw clamped shut so tight the muscle pulsed in his cheek. He skated back to the bench under his own power, refusing to show a shred of weakness to the hostile crowd.

As he reached the tunnel, his icy blue eyes flicked up to where I stood in the media nook. The sheer, unadulterated fury burning in his gaze gave me the answer I needed: he wasn't broken. He was lethal.

While Chase was in the locker room getting his ribs taped during the intermission, I stepped into the media corridor to pull the raw footage from my memory card.

"Great shot of Kensington taking a dive, Hopkins," a voice sneered from behind me.

I turned to see Marcus Vance, the lead sports columnist for Toronto's biggest tabloid network. He stood leaning against the wall, holding a recording mic with a smirking crew behind him.

"It wasn't a dive, Marcus. It was a late, illegal blindside hit," I said coldly, stepping back toward my equipment case. "And the league disciplinary committee will have the 4K high-speed footage on their desk before the third period ends."

"Is that your professional opinion as a journalist, or your personal opinion as his live-in girlfriend?" Marcus replied, taking a step forward to block my path. "Because word on the street is your little 'independent media firm' is just a glorified PR shield to cover up Kensington's ongoing medical issues. How do we know he isn't playing under the influence of illegal painkillers right now after taking a hit like that?"

He raised his microphone, gesturing for his cameraman to start recording live to their digital stream. They were trying to trap me into a defensive rant on camera to create a fresh media scandal.

I didn't flinch. Instead, I pulled my tablet from my coat pocket, tapped the screen twice, and turned the high-definition display directly toward his camera lens.

"That’s funny, Marcus," I said, my voice dripping with calm authority. "Because while you were drafting rumors, my camera captured the exact angle of Miller’s hit, along with the clear audio from the glass mic where Miller explicitly tells his bench he was instructed by Toronto's coaching staff to target Chase's previous injury."

Marcus’s smirk instantly vanished as the clear, high-definition clip played on loop, complete with synchronized audio spikes proving premeditated intent.

"My firm doesn't print rumors, Marcus," I continued, stepping right past him as his cameraman lowered the lens in embarrassment. "We print facts. And if you run that story, my legal team will have a defamation suit filed before the morning edition hits the stands."

I left him standing in the corridor, completely outmaneuvered.

When I returned to the ice for the third period, Chase was already back on the bench. His ribs were heavily wrapped under his jersey, but his eyes were pure fire.

With five minutes left on the clock and the game tied 3–3, Toronto made the mistake of putting Miller back on the ice.

Chase didn't seek revenge with his fists; he destroyed them on the scoreboard.

Winning the puck off the boards, Chase drove straight into the offensive zone, drawing three defenders, including Miller toward him. At the last microsecond, with Miller lunging to hit him again, Chase executed a brilliant no-look backhand pass to our trailing winger, who slapped it into the wide-open net.

4–3.

The horn blared, shutting down the Toronto crowd completely.

Chase skated past Miller, giving the giant defenseman a single, icy look of total contempt before skating straight toward the glass where I stood. He slammed his gloved hand against the barrier right in front of my camera, holding my gaze through the glass with a fierce, victorious grin.

We had survived the hit, crushed the rival, and silenced the media, together.