Because I know. I know for a fact he didn’t miss.
He hit exactly where he intended—deep enough to terrify, shallow enough not to kill. A warning shot delivered with bone and pain instead of bullets. He meant for the stick to burst clean through the other side. He meant for the man to live, screaming and bleeding and remembering. He meant for every eye in this arena to witness it.
He did this for Finn. For the team. For me.
I finally yank hard enough to break his stance, pulling Julian backward off the man, who collapses to the ice gripping his thigh and screaming for someone to pull the weapon out. Blood spreads fast across the ice, streaking like an abstract painting under the lights.
Julian spins in my grip, chest heaving, eyes wild enough to burn holes in the boards. His hands drip blood—some his, most not. His curls are plastered to his forehead. Sweat mixes with the smear across his cheek. He’s panting like an apex predator interrupted mid kill.
He looks at me like he’s not sure if I came closer to stop him—or to join him. And I look at him like he’s the most dangerous, loyal, perfect mistake I’ve ever made.
The moment Finn starts moving, the breath I’ve been holding finally drops.
Kai and Misha are the ones who get him off the ice—Kai on one side, muttering something clinical and clipped under his breath while Misha lifts him like a bodyguard ferrying a bloodied prince. Finn’s not even conscious for the first few strides, but by the time they reach the edge of the boards, his head lolls, and he gives the dumbest, cockiest, barely-there grin like he just got laid in the back of a truck instead of fucking murdered mid-shift.
Kai turns toward me just before he disappears down the tunnel, giving a single thumbs-up—simple, sharp, and enough. Finn’s fine. He’ll live. He’ll chirp again soon enough, and if Kai allows it, he might even be back skating in the third with a toothpick taped to his spine for extra attitude.
But Julian’s not fine. He shakes off blood like it’s nothing more than water clinging to his skin. His gloves are still slick and dark with the Belladonna guy’s scream, the fabric soaked through. His eyes burn molten, pupils blown wide with something beyond adrenaline—something primal and unspooling. When the puck drops again, he’s the one planted at center ice. No one volunteers to line up against him.
Someone gets shoved forward. Poor bastard.
Julian leans low over his stick and snarls loud enough for the crowd, the rafters, and the fucking dead to hear: “Who the fuck is next, huh?!”
Nobody answers. Because the answer is obvious. No one.
Julian’s gone rabid now—teeth bared, jersey pulled tight across his chest like armor stitched from pure vengeance. The puck hits the ice, and Belladonna doesn’t even get a chance to touch it. Julian claims it instantly, spins off the line, and moves like a man possessed. There’s no pattern, no strategy—just raw, blistering speed and spite. Every stride is a dare. Every shot is a punishment delivered with interest.
I don’t even bother standing in the crease anymore. I stay there, sure—but it’s ceremonial now. A shadow in black pads, watching from the mouth of the net. Because Belladonna never gets the puck long enough to reach my zone. Julian makes damn sure of that.
He and Luca turn the second period into a fucking blood feud.
The first goal is pure showmanship. Julian toe-drags through three defenders like they’re cardboard cutouts, flips the puck behind his back to Luca, and Luca taps it in with a wink so filthy it should come with a censor bar across the ice.
The second is chaos wrapped in skill. Luca gets tripped mid-stride, flips into a full somersault in the air, lands hard on his ass, and still manages to launch the puck across the rink to Julian. Julian picks it up, spins into a fucking pirouette—what the hell—and slaps it bar-down so viciously it shatters the Belladonna goalie’s stick on impact.
The third goal is just mean.
They don’t need it. They just want it.
Julian drags the puck behind the net, takes a lazy half-lap like he’s choreographing a humiliation ballet, then feeds it to Luca with such casual indifference it’s practically an insult. Luca doesn’t even shoot properly—he flicks it in, effortless and disrespectful. The Belladonna goalie doesn’t flinch anymore. He just stands there, broken stick dangling from numb fingers.
Their bench has gone silent. Their captain looks pale under the lights. One of their defenders actually turns his head away when Julian skates past, as if eye contact might ignite something he can’t survive.
Julian chirps them the entire time.
“Thought you guys had teeth?”
“Is this your A team or your retirement squad?”
“You got that puck for sale, or just renting it every three seconds?”
By the third goal he’s not even shouting anymore. He’s whispering—real close, right behind their ears as he glides by. One of them blushes. Actually fucking blushes, cheeks flaming red under the helmet.
The entire Belladonna bench starts shifting away from the boards every time Julian passes, like proximity alone might mark them as the next target.
I stay in net. Because Julian isn’t playing hockey anymore. He isn’t even trying to win. He’s burning the entire fucking house down and daring them to say thank you for the ashes.
And I love him for it.
