It’s a far cry from the warehouse where my father died.
But out here on the ice, none of that matters. Out here, it’s just speed and skill and the willingness to draw blood when necessary.
I take the face-off at center ice, stick blade flat against the cold surface, eyes locked on a short guy from the opposing team. The ref drops the puck and I’m faster sweeping it back to defense. The play develops exactly how I called it in the locker room, our forwards breaking toward their zone in perfect formation.
This is what I’m good at. Reading the ice. Anticipating. Staying three steps ahead of everyone else.
It’s the same skill set that kept me alive as a kid in Vincent’s world, just applied to a game with rules and referees instead of guns and bodies.
I intercept a clearing attempt at the blue line, drop-pass to Atticus streaking up the wing, and drive hard to the net. Their defense collapses on him—mistake—leaving me open in the slot. Atticus’s pass hits my tape and I one-time it past their goalie before he can react.
The red light flashes. Goal.
“Fucking beautiful,” Atticus says as we bump gloves, skating back to center ice.
I don’t respond. Just get in position for the next face-off, already analyzing their defensive structure, finding the next weakness to exploit.
Coach watches from behind the bench, arms crossed, whistle hanging from his neck. He’s been pushing us harder this week, running drills until guys are puking in trash cans, and I know why.
Pointe University. Next Friday.
Koa.
The name sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold. My stepbrother, the weapon our father made, now our biggest rival. The media’s already hyping it up.
“Again!” Coach barks, and we reset.
The locker room after practice is controlled chaos. Guys stripping out of gear, music blasting, the usual chirping and bullshit that comes with a team of twenty alpha males confined in close quarters.
I sit at my stall, unlacing my skates slowly, methodically. My phone sits on the bench beside me, screen dark but demanding attention anyway.
Three unread messages.
I know who they’re from without looking.
“Heard Koa’s been on a tear,” Eli says from across the room, toweling off his hair. “Peters was at their practice this week, said he’s playing like a completely different player.”
“Yeah?” I keep my voice neutral, disinterested.
“Like he’s got something to prove or some shit.” Eli laughs. “You know him, right? Family thing?”
“Something like that.”
“Must be weird, playing against your brother.”
“Ex-stepbrother.” The correction comes out sharper than intended.
The room goes a little quieter. Guys exchanging glances.
Atticus appears in my peripheral vision, settling into his stall two down from mine. He’s already showered, hair still wet, and when he catches my eye there’s something knowing in his expression that makes my jaw clench.
“You checking your phone or just willing it to spontaneously combust?” he asks, that British accent making everything sound like mockery.
“Neither.”
“Right.” He pulls his own phone out, deliberately holding it where I can see the screen. Lexi’s name at the top of his messages. “Because you’re definitely not thinking about her.”
My hands still on my skate laces. “Shut it, Atticus.”
