Chapter 45

I lace up my skates, each pull of the laces tight and precise, like I'm preparing for battle. The cold air of the arena bites at my exposed skin, a familiar chill that's both a welcome and a warning. It's game day against the Boston Blizzards, and the tension is a thick fog in the locker room, palpable and heavy.

I'm out on the ice now, cutting through the silence with the sharp scrape of my blades. The arena looms around me, the fans are ready for the game to start. Taking selfies of themselves against the players who are stretching, shooting toward the goalie and just making sure we're ready to face off the Boston Blizzards.

It's one of those Friday games when we're at home and Indie is able to visit since her parents offer to watch Myra. Even before I began to date their daughter, Jacob and Pria Decker took it upon themselves to give my child the family she's been wanting for so long. Now . . . they are hoping that soon we'll tell them things are more serious between us.

All that is up to Indie though. I'm doing this at her pace.

The buzzer sounds, and it's time to go back so the game can start. I glance toward the bench, right above it is Indie. Gloves and everything, I blow her a kiss and she does the same.

"Stay the fuck away from my sister," Jude mumbles as I walk by him.

I shake my head but say nothing. He's learning to deal with it.

We're in the thick of it now. I'm on the offensive, my eyes scanning the ice for openings, for that split-second gap in the Blizzards' defense that I can exploit. My teammates are in sync, our time of playing together a silent language only we speak. A nod from Jenkins, a subtle shift from Rodney, and I know what to do.

I take the puck, feeling its weight and promise against my stick. The defense is closing in, a wall of jerseys and determination. I feint left, a move I've perfected over countless games, and then I'm through, breaking past their line with the puck still firmly under my control.

The goalie looms ahead, a final challenge to best. My heart pounds, a drumbeat of anticipation and adrenaline. I shoot. The puck flies, a blur of potential, and then—the unmistakable sound of the buzzer, the puck hitting the back of the net.

The crowd erupts, a wave of sound and fury, but all I hear is my team, their shouts and cheers grounding me. We circle together, to celebrate.

"This is it, boys," I say, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart. "We keep this up, and we keep it home."

After the goal, the game's intensity doesn't just simmer; it boils, each minute ticking by ramping up the pressure. Frederick Rossi, one of the defensemen for the Boston Blizzards, has been a thorn in our side since the puck first dropped, his hits bordering on the excessive, his sneers . . . I've tried my best to brush him off and ignore him. More so when I want to kill him for what he did to Indie.

I have to keep my mind off my personal life, even when what he did should be punished—preferably by me. I focus on the game, but there's a line, and Rossi, with his latest cheap shot on Jenkins, has just crossed it.

I see red, but it's not just anger—it's a fierce protectiveness for my team, and my family. Before I fully grasp the decision, I'm skating toward him, my gloves hitting the ice with a thud that echoes my heartbeat. The crowd roars as a backdrop to the inevitable clash.

Rossi turns, a smirk playing on his lips, clearly underestimating the situation. "Looking for trouble, Brynes?" His taunt is a spark to my already blazing fury.

"This isn't about trouble," I shoot back, closing the distance. "It's about respect." And with that, the gloves are off—quite literally. Our helmets clash.

We trade blows, his helmet comes off and I'm about to punch him when I hear a voice tell me, Don't fuck this up.

The referees are quick to intervene, their hands working to separate us. But even as they pull us apart, I still want to kill him.

Breathing hard, I glance over at Jenkins, who gives a nod of thanks. But as much as this was for him, it was more so for her. As I'm escorted to the penalty box, the crowd's mixture of boos and cheers washes over me, but I'm unfazed.

Sitting there, the adrenaline slowly recedes, giving way to a moment of clarity. The penalty minutes tick by, and I have a moment to gather my thoughts. I watch the game from the sidelines. When I come out, the coach and Jude call me to the bench.

"What the fuck was that?" Jude's voice is loud and angry.

My jaw ticks but I don't say anything.

"You were looking for blood. That's not what hockey is all about," he chides me.

"If you knew, you'd want to help me—and, yes, it was fucking personal."

His eyes narrow. I make the mistake of glancing over at where Indie sits next to Harper, who is holding her. Shit. I wasn't thinking.

"What does Rossi have to do with Indie and you?" Jude asks.

"Not my story to tell," I mumble. "Can I go back to play?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. You're benched for the rest of the game. I can't have you go to jail. I'm doing this for Myra and Indie, not for you."