“Keep an eye on him.”
“Always,” he says, and skates off to his post.
I let it go longer than I should have.
He’s still frozen in place, like the ice is lava, like one wrong move will send him straight through it. He’s breathing wrong, standing wrong. This isn’t a man on the verge of warming up—this is a man unraveling molecule by molecule.
The boys are circling now. Not close enough to swarm him, but close enough to start the chirps. Bishop’s the first to laugh, low and sharp, skating past and muttering“Maybe he forgot how to skate.”Vlad follows with something in Romanian, dry and cold, probably a curse. Misha circles once and snorts, “Didn’t knowstatuesmade the league.” Even Finn, who should know better, glides by and offers a lazy, "Hey, if you fall, I’ll catch you, baby bird."
They’re not even being mean. They’re beingplayers. But it still cuts. Because I remember the footage. Julian Reaver used to be the fastest winger in the fucking league. He moved like water—flowed through defense like gravity bent for him. He could see plays before they happened. Knew how to cut, strike, vanish. A million-dollar instinct wrapped in muscle and flash.
And now? He’s standing there like he doesn’t even belong to the ice anymore.
Something’s not right.
“Reaver!” I bark, stepping forward in the crease. “Look at me!”
No reaction. He's still staring straight ahead.
“JULIAN!” My voice echoes off the steel walls, ricochets off concrete and glass. “I SAID LOOK AT ME!”
His head jerks, his eyes lock to mine across the rink.
Good.
I don’t stop. I grab a puck from the net andhurlit across the sheet. Not at his head, not enough to hurt, but close enough to make a point.
Still, he doesn’t move, so I grab another and throw it harder.
Still nothing.
Another. This time, it hits the toe of his skate and that’s it. That’s the moment his eyes flash. Jaw clenches and hesnaps, reaches down, scoops up the puck like it personally insulted his mother, and fires it back at me without warning—laser-quick, sharp wrist shot, straight toward my mask. I catch it without blinking.
And there's the golden boy. The one whoknowshow to bite.
I smirk behind my glove, tossing the puck down like bait. “Good,” I mutter. “Now fucking skate.”
Before he can flinch again, before that fire behind his eyes has a chance to snuff out, something cuts through the air—a clatter, a whistle of velocity—a stick. Someone throws it across the ice. Could’ve been Finn. Could’ve been Misha. Could’ve been fate. And Julian catches it without thinking. Gloved hand wraps around the shaft mid-air, smooth as muscle memory, a twitch-reflex save from a brain still wired to the game, even if everything else in him is short-circuiting.
And then—he moves. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t chirp. Doesn’t thank whoever tossed the stick. He just turns to the net andfires.
First shot rings off the post—clean, fast, no windup. The second hits the lower left pipe, hard enough to make it sing. The third slips past the empty crease and dents the back of the net with a brutal snap of the blade.
He's still shaking. Still jittery from the withdrawal, jaw tight under the tape, legs coiled too tight. But he’sshooting over and over. Like each puck is a piece of the past he’s trying to obliterate.
And I just stand in the crease, watching. Because this—this—is the closest I’ve seen him to alive since he arrived.
5
JULIAN
Three days without anything in my veins. Three days without a hit, a line, a pill, a sip—nothing. No numbness. No blur. No chemical mercy. And my body is screaming for it. My skin crawls like insects are trying to burrow out. My bones ache. My muscles twitch without permission. My heartbeat is a fist punching inside my ribs over and over and over.
The worst part is that my mind won’t shut up. It’s not quiet in here. Not ever.
Rafe finally unlocked the container yesterday, told me I could leave whenever I wanted. He didn’t say it like a kindness. He said it like he already knew what I’d choose. And he was right.
I haven’t stepped out once. Because Rafe knows everything, sees everything. There are cameras in every corner, shadows with eyes, doors that open only when he fucking decides they do. He doesn’t need to follow me—every move I make belongs to him whether he’s in the room or not.
