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She cracks a grin. “Make sure you’re in nice and early tomorrow morning.”

“You got it,” I reply as I nearly walk into Riley.

“Hey, girl.” She's looking way too pleased with herself. “Where are we drinking tonight?”

Chapter three

Blake

The clock’s ticking down, five minutes. My legs are on fire, my lungs are working overtime, but I’m dialed in. Laser-focused. Scrimmage drills have got that sharp edge to them, fast shifts, full contact, and bragging rights on the line.

Brody’s pinned along the boards, grinding for space against Landry, who’s digging in like he’s trying to plant roots. The puck’s jammed between their skates, and both of them are grunting like pissed-off bulls.

I stay low at the top of the slot, watching. Waiting. The ice beneath me is scarred and choppy, worn down from drills and more drills before this. The boards creak under every hit. Overhead, the screens are dark. There’s no crowd. No music. Just the raw sound of skate blades slicing, sticks tapping, and voices cutting through the cold air.

Everything echoes off the empty seats. This place, with twenty thousand fans, is a madhouse. Today, it’s a goddamn tomb.

“Move your ass!” Coach McCullum’s voice detonates from the bench. Gruff. Direct. The kind of tone that demands an instantresponse. The guy is built like a brick shithouse with a whistle, and even though he’s not skating, he could probably still put half of us into the boards if he felt like it.

He’s glaring straight at me, his eyes locked in like he’s hunting.

“Talk! Find your gaps! Peters, seal that lane!” That’s Danny, the assistant coach. He’s high-speed, always calm, but no bullshit.

Peters reacts and cuts off the passing lane like he’s reading the play a page ahead, forcing them to dump it.

Thumper gets there first, beating the winger by a skate length, and snaps a filthy backhand toward Bishy, who’s already halfway up the right side.

We’re flying now.

I drop back, my eyes tracking Vasko, part of our twenty-three-man Aces team, but right now, the other squad’s golden boy. He’s got slick hands, sharp instincts, and a permanent smirk I’d love to knock off. He’s drifting, waiting like a predator, guessing where the play will turn before we do.

I cut across the middle, my stick down, baiting the turnover.

Brody rips one from the slot.

Too high.

“Goddammit, Mason!” Coach’s voice booms out again. “Shoot the net, not the goddamn ceiling!”

Before Brody can recover, Davis swoops in on the loose puck and lets a slapper fly.

McAvoy sprawls out like a goddamn starfish and manages to kick the rebound straight into traffic.

Chaos erupts.

Vasko sees daylight. He grabs the rebound mid-stride and charges—fast.

No time to think. I meet him. Hard.

He tries to slip past, but I drop my weight and angle into him, my shoulder catching just enough to push him wide. He flings apass to Monty, who barely touches it, and flicks it toward the net like a Hail Mary.

McAvoy flashes leather. Caught.

Whistle.

“Better, better!” McCullum’s pacing like he’s trying to wear a trench in the boards. “Mitchell, you need to adjust quicker next time. Feel that pressure.”

I nod. No excuses. Just adrenaline.