And behind me, in the crease, I can feel Rafe watching—like a wolf tracking which throat to bite first.
There’s no break between periods. No buzzer. No benches. Just blood melting into the ice and more bodies shuffling into place like nothing happened. Nobody resets. Nobody rehydrates. No one wipes the blood off their mouth. We’re already halfway through a war, and the only way out is either score or kill something.
The crowd hasn’t stopped screaming since the first goal. The betting is out of control—fistfuls of cash changing hands, people screaming over each other in three different languages, arguments breaking out behind the makeshift VIP rows, a gunshot fired into the air at one point just to shut someone up. No one even flinched. This place runs on a different kind of gravity.
La Fiamma Nera’s up three goals.
The first—Luca’s slick little fuck-you from my pass. The next two? Mine.
Both scored like I had something to prove. Which I fucking do.
The first, I stole again—clean, surgical—and cut past two defenders like they were standing still. I didn’t even think, just ripped it top shelf while skating full-speed. The second I crashed through a scrum near the crease and somehow—somehow—managed to poke the puck under the goalie’s pad while half-on my stomach, screaming through gritted teeth.
I barely heard the crowd that time. I just heard Rafe. Saw him in the net.
Bishop’s already punched two guys. Not during plays. Just… whenever he felt like it. One of them skated too close and muttered something in Spanish, and Bish just decked him mid-glide. The guy didn’t get up for thirty seconds. The second one tried to throw hands, but Bishop laughed while his nose shattered. He didn’t even drop his stick. He just passed it off to Misha like a babysitter and kept swinging.
Luca’s gone feral. He’s currently wrapped around some poor bastard’s head like a psychotic barnacle, legs locked around the guy’s waist, cackling like a goddamn villain while gouging at his helmet with both hands. No idea what the fight’s even about anymore. It started with a trip. Then a shove. Then Luca jumped him like a demon on meth.
Finn’s yelling, “GET HIS EYES, BABY GIRL!” from the blue line while swinging his own sticklike a sword.
I should be laughing. But I’m watching the guy from earlier. The one who checked me. The one who promised my funeral with his eyes. He’s skating slow now, calm—dangerously calm—but I see it. The way his right sleeve bulges just a little. The way his hand never leaves that side. He’s got something on him.
It’s a knife.
It has to be.
And he’s coming straight for me. Not with the puck. Not with intention to play. Not even looking at the game anymore. Just me. The crowd roars again as he picks up speed. I start skating backwards, fast, stick up, pretending I’m preparing for defense, but my heart’s already punching a rhythm against my ribs because I know that look.
He’s not here to check me, he’s here to end me. He crouches a little lower, cutting across center like he’s gonna shoulder me again, and I see the blade start to slip from his sleeve—just a glint, fast as lightning. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
I don’t wait. I twist my grip on the stick and swing it like a fucking baseball bat. The shaft connects with his face so hard I feel the impact vibrate up through my arms, the crack echoing across the rink like wood meeting bone. His head snaps sideways, his helmet flying off as blood instantly sprays from his nose—or maybe his mouth. I don’t fucking care.
I expect him to go down.
He doesn’t.
He staggers instead, then lifts his head and looks straight at me. And he smiles. Actually fucking smiles. Blood fills his teeth, one eye already swelling shut, and the knife is still in his hand.
He doesn’t say a word. He just skates faster.
Jesus Christ.
He’s still coming, full speed, blood running from his nose, the blade now fully visible in his grip and gleaming under the overhead floodlights like a promise soaked in rust. He isn’t skating like a player anymore. There are no dekes, no shifts of weight, no tactical movement—just velocity and intent.
And that intent is me.
I bolt. Fuck it—call me a coward, call me smart, call me whatever you want. I don’t care. I whip around hard and push off the ice with everything I’ve got, blades cutting deep, lungs burning. I hear him gaining behind me. I hear the crowd shriek. Someone’sshouting something in Russian again. Finn’s cackling in the distance. Luca’s still attached to someone’s shoulders like a demon backpack, laughing like he just saw God naked.
But none of it matters because the guy is on me.
He’s faster than I expected—bigger, but still quick—and I know if he catches me, if he gets close enough to grab my jersey, it’s not going to be a hit or a slash. It’s going to be a fucking stab. Center mass. Or ribs. Or throat. Wherever he can stick the blade and make it stick.
So I sprint across the ice, no strategy, no plan—just survival. And I slam straight into Rafe. I hit him like a brick wall I didn’t know was there.
He’s not in the net anymore.
What the fuck—?
