Prologue

Leo

The air in the Denver Warlords' arena was charged with anticipation, a palpable energy that crackled like electricity through the crowd. It was a feeling I knew well, a feeling that fueled me every time I stepped onto the ice. Tonight, however, that anticipation was tinged with something darker—a sense of foreboding that hung heavy in the air like a storm cloud on the horizon.

As I laced up my skates in the locker room, my mind raced with thoughts of the impending showdown against our arch-rivals, the Minneapolis Avalanche. Every game against them was a battle, a test of skill and willpower unlike any other. But tonight felt different—tonight felt like the culmination of years of rivalry, a clash of titans that would determine not just the outcome of a game, but the course of an entire season.

With each pull of the laces, I felt the weight of expectation settling over me. The pressure was immense, but I welcomed it like an old friend. It was in moments like these—moments of high stakes and fierce competition—that I felt most alive. As I finished tying my skates, I rose to my feet, ready to face our challengers. This was my purpose, the reason why I'd spent countless hours in the gym and on the ice for the better part of my life. My body and mind were ready.

Stepping out onto the ice, I felt a surge of adrenaline course through my veins. The crowd erupted into cheers as my teammates and I took our positions, the tension in the arena so thick you could cut it with a knife. This was it—the moment we had all been waiting for, the chance to prove ourselves on the grandest stage of them all.

***

The game was tied as the final period loomed, the pressure mounting with each passing minute. The crowd"s deafening roar was a constant backdrop, a symphony of hope and desperation that reverberated through the arena, amplifying the stakes of each play. Every shift on the ice felt like a battle, every play a test of skill and endurance. But amidst the chaos of the game, there was a sense of unity among my teammates and I—a brotherhood forged in the crucible of competition. We were the Denver Warlords, and together, we were unstoppable.

In the midst of the frenzied action, as players jostled for control of the puck near the boards, Sawyer Steele's presence was unmistakable. His towering figure moved with purpose, his eyes gleaming with determination as he closed in on me. His stick rose ominously, cutting through the air like a weapon poised to strike.

The slash came with lightning speed, a vicious blow aimed directly at my leg. The impact was like a sledgehammer, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through my body. I stumbled, my vision swimming as I fought to stay upright, but it was futile. My leg gave way beneath me with a sickening snap, crumpling beneath the force of the assault as I crashed to the unforgiving ice.

The arena fell into stunned silence as players and spectators alike watched in disbelief. The game, which had been a fierce contest of skill and willpower, came to an abrupt halt, the final buzzer forgotten in the wake of the chaos. Trainers and medical personnel rushed onto the ice, their urgent voices a distant murmur as they began to assess the extent of the damage.

And then, as I lay there, clutching at my injured limb, I saw Sawyer standing just a few feet away, his expression unreadable. There was no mistaking the look in his ice-blue eyes, the cold hard glint of satisfaction that danced in their depths. He knew what he had done, and he didn't care.

I had faced off against Sawyer many times before, each encounter more intense than the last. Our rivalry was legendary, a clash of wills that had captivated fans and pundits alike. But tonight, as I lay on the ice, writhing in pain, I knew that this was different. This wasn't just another clash on the ice—this was personal.

Anger surged within me, hot and fierce. How dare he? How dare he try to take away everything I had worked so hard for? The pain in my leg was excruciating, but it was nothing compared to the hot rage that burned in my chest. As the paramedics and coaches barked orders at each other over me, I vowed that this was only the beginning. Sawyer might have won this battle, but he'd be a fool to think that the war between us was over. I wouldn't rest until I had made him pay for what he had done, until I had exacted my revenge. How I'd do it I didn't have a clue, but I'd come up with that later when the storm of pain and adrenaline currently overpowering my system dissipated enough to allow me to think clearly again.

As the medics lifted me onto the stretcher and carried me off the ice to the waiting ambulance, the crowd's cheers rose up. But the memory of Sawyer's attack burned bright in my mind, like a fire that would not be extinguished until I'd seen justice served with my own eyes.

The ride in the emergency vehicle to the hospital passed in a blur, the noise of the sirens rising and falling as if mimicking the tortuous spasming in my leg. I felt a sharp pain in my arm as one of the paramedics started an IV. The emergency room staff met us at the entrance and a swarm of nurses and doctors descended on me as the world around me faded to black.

***

When I woke up again, I was lying in a hospital bed. The room was dark and quiet, and I assumed it was nighttime, although I had no idea how many hours had passed since I'd been admitted. The initial shock of the injury had now given way to an eerie calm created by being pumped full of God only knew how many narcotics and sedatives. The combination was devilishly effective, and I was pain-free at last. I listened to the rhythm of my own breathing in the solitude while determination settled over me like a heavy blanket. I would not let this setback define me. I would not let Sawyer"s cowardly act go unpunished.

With each passing moment, my resolve only grew stronger. I would bide my time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike back at Sawyer. I would make him pay for what he had done, for the pain and suffering he had deliberately caused. If he'd intended this injury to take me out of the game for good and end my career, he could think again. I'd work harder in rehab than I ever had in practice, than anyone else ever had before, in order to settle the score between us. I couldn"t shake the feeling that Sawyer"s attack had been deliberate. The collision had been too perfectly timed, too precisely executed to be a mere accident. He had targeted me, singled me out for retribution, and I couldn"t let him get away with it.

As the hours ticked past, I couldn"t help but replay the events of the game in my mind, searching for any clues that might confirm my suspicions. The collision with Sawyer had been so sudden, so unexpected, that I hadn"t had time to react. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I could see the pieces falling into place.

It had happened during a routine play near the boards. The puck had been loose, bouncing unpredictably between players from both teams. I had been focused on regaining possession, my eyes fixed on the puck as I raced towards it. And then, out of nowhere, Sawyer had appeared, his body slamming into mine with bone-jarring force. At first, I'd assumed it was just another hard hit, the kind that was par for the course in a game as physical as hockey. But now, as I thought back on it, I could see the malice behind Sawyer"s actions even more clearly—the way he had zeroed in on me, the way he had followed through with such force.

It was no accident. Sawyer had deliberately targeted me, intending to take me out of the game. Revenge wouldn"t come easy. Sawyer was a skilled player, a fierce competitor, and he had the full backing of his team behind him. If I was going to take him down once I got out of here, I would need a plan—a strategy that would catch him off guard and leave him vulnerable. I'd never be able to confront Sawyer directly, not with the eyes of the league, the law, and the paparazzi all sure to be watching our every move. No, I would need to be patient, to bide my time until the moment was right.

But even as I plotted my revenge, a nagging voice at the back of my mind whispered words of caution. Revenge, it warned, was a dangerous game—one that could consume me just as surely as it had consumed Sawyer. But I pushed those thoughts aside, burying them beneath a wave of righteous anger. I had been wronged, and I would see justice done. Sawyer might have broken my body, but he would never break my spirit. And as I lay there, surrounded by the steady hum of the medical equipment, I made a deal with the devil–retribution would be mine, no matter the cost.