Dirty Games Off Ice
Wasn’t.
Center-ice lights on. Damien out there alone, no helmet, hair dripping sweat, stick tapping the puck like he was trying to beat it into submission. For half a second he looked… off. Shoulders low. Face tight. Almost human. Then he spotted me in the shadows and the mask slammed back down smirk, straight posture, predator eyes.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” he called, voice echoing.
“Fuck off,” I said, dropping my bag anyway. “I booked this time.”
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