Chapter 18: The French

Brielle’s POV.

If Toronto was a high-stakes wrestling match, Montreal was pure, unadulterated theatre.

By the time our team bus pulled up to the Bell Centre under a blanket of heavy Quebec snow, the sidewalks were already lined with hundreds of die-hard fans in red, white, and blue jerseys. Drums were beating, smoke flares flickered in the dusk, and the chants echoed off the concrete pillars of the plaza.

"They take their hockey very seriously here," I remarked, looking out the tinted window as security cleared a path for us into the subterranean loading dock.

Chase sat beside me, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He had his custom noise-canceling headphones resting around his neck, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos outside. His ribs had been freshly re-taped by the training staff before we left the hotel, and although every deep breath still cost him a fraction of a second's hesitation, his eyes were clear, dark, and lethal.

"They don't just take it seriously, Bri," Chase said smoothly, reaching over to take my hand, his knuckles warm against my cold fingers. "They treat it like religion and tonight, they’re looking to burn the heretics."

"Good thing I brought extra memory cards for the bonfire," I replied with a tight smile.

When we stepped off the bus into the secure lower corridor, the energy shift was instantaneous. Montreal’s home media corps was already waiting, lining the security perimeter with cameras flashing like strobe lights.

"Chase! Chase! Un mot pour la presse française!" a veteran reporter shouted over the barrier, thrusting a microphone forward. "Is it true your team requested extra security details following the incident in Toronto?"

Chase didn't even slow his stride. He kept his arm loosely wrapped around my waist, guiding me past the crowd toward the visitor's locker facility.

"We don't need extra security to play hockey," Chase tossed back over his shoulder in fluent, effortless French, his accent crisp and intimidatingly refined. "Tell your defense to bring everything they’ve got, we’ll be ready."

The press corps erupted into a frenzy of scribbling and whispered commentary as the heavy double doors of the visitor's locker room swung shut behind us, cutting off the noise.

I blinked, turning to look up at him in surprise. "Since when do you speak fluent French?"

A slow, handsome smirk touched Chase's lips as he set his gear bag down by his stall. "Private boarding school in Quebec when I was fourteen. My father thought it would look good on my future corporate profile."

"It sounded remarkably arrogant," I teased, stepping closer to adjust the collar of his suit jacket. "And ridiculously attractive."

Chase let out a low chuckle, his hands coming around my waist to pull me flush against him before any of the other players walked in. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a sudden wave of heat straight down my spine despite the chilly arena air.

"Keep looking at me like that, Hopkins, and I'm going to skip pre-game warmups entirely," he whispered, his teeth lightly grazing my earlobe.

"You have a game in forty minutes, Captain," I said, my voice dropping an octave as my hands rested over his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thud of his heart. "Save the energy for the ice."

"I have plenty of energy for both," Chase murmured, his mouth moving down to press a warm, lingering kiss against the side of my neck before slowly letting me go. "Go get your spot in the photowell. I'll give you something worth shooting tonight."

The first ten minutes of the game were a absolute pressure cooker.

The Bell Centre crowd roared with every hit, every save, every pass. Montreal’s forecheck was lightning fast, pressing high into our defensive zone and testing Chase’s mobility. Every time Chase touched the puck, twenty thousand voices boomed with a deafening chorus of boos.

I stood behind the thick glass near the visitor's bench, my heavy telephoto lens tracking his every move.

Through the glass, I could see the subtle strain in Chase’s posture. Every time he absorbed a body check against the boards, his jaw clenched tighter, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps but he didn't yield an inch. His hockey IQ was simply lightyears ahead of everyone else on the ice. He anticipates plays before they happen, moving the puck with surgical precision, dissecting Montreal’s aggressive defense piece by piece.

With two minutes remaining in the first period, the play broke down in our zone.

Montreal’s star forward intercepted an outlet pass, driving hard toward our net. Chase pivoted on a dime, his skates carving two white trails of ice spray, and sprinted back to recover.

He closed the distance in three powerful strides, matching the forward skate-for-skate. As the forward raised his stick to shoot, Chase executed a flawless, clean stick-check, lifting the opponent's blade, stealing the puck in one fluid motion, and spinning away toward the open ice.

The home crowd fell instantly silent.

Without missing a beat, Chase launched a fifty-foot saucer pass straight down the middle lane, landing the puck perfectly on our left winger's tape for a breakaway goal.

1–0.

The red light flashed, and our bench erupted.

Chase didn't join the wild high-five line right away. Instead, as he skated back toward the bench, his eyes searched the glass until they locked directly onto mine. He raised his stick in that familiar, subtle salute, a private nod meant only for me amidst a stadium full of stunned rivals.

I pressed the shutter button, catching the exact fraction of a second where the Ice King dominated the arena and gave his heart to the girl holding the camera.

After the game, the hallway outside the press room was quiet, dimmed to a warm amber glow as the last of the stadium staff cleared out. Chase leaned against the brick wall, his hair still dark and wet from the shower, a sharp black sweater clinging to his broad shoulders. When he saw me walking toward him with my camera bag slung over my shoulder, the cold, distant look in his eyes dissolved completely. 

He reached out, pulling me into the shadow of the alcove, his mouth finding mine in a deep, hungry kiss that tasted like cold ice and victory.