I flick my gumshield out and grin at no one in particular, popping the plastic between my teeth like a smoker lighting up; it’s my ritual before the chaos of the game. I can’t fucking wait.
My sister, Sofia, tells me she thinks I have a secret death wish, like I prod at the biggest, baddest, bastards in the league until they snap and beat the shit out of me.
What can I say? I’ve always been kind of a brat. Kind of. The world sees the Texan Titan with a death wish, but behind the Texan drawl and my southern charm is a nerd who guards his 3.5 GPA as fiercely as he guards the puck.
I play with a bratty smirk to keep people looking at the surface, but I study twice as hard just to prove I’m more than a shadow of my brother's NHL legacy.
The whistle blows, the puck drops, and everyone on the ice bursts into a flurry of activity.
This is where I thrive.
It might needle me that Ro found his calling first, and I’m almost a consolation prize, but there’s no denying I was born to play.
Adrenaline surges through my muscles, urging me forward. The crowd shouts. My heart hammers in all my pulse points.
Push with everything I’ve got, digging deep, chasing every puck, and rinse and repeat until my teeth rattle and my legs burn like fire. The game blurs past, and before I know it, we’re ten minutes into the third, down two-to-one and a bitter taste filling my mouth.
The youngest de la Peña has stood on his head all fuckingnight, robbing me left, right, and center of the three potential goals that had my name on them.
You don’t own the goals until they’re in the net, Roman’s voice taunts me.
Every save is a needle in my ribs. I taste copper with each miss from how hard I clench. Ares, the smug bastard, grins at me as I cross the line into our offensive zone and pat the puck back and forth as I approach him.
He skates out to meet me.
It would be so easy to throw a shoulder and knock him on his ass, take him down a peg or two. All Daddy’s money in the world means nothing right here on the ice.
I swallow down the sourness, no, envy, simmering at the back of my throat. Roman makes a killing playing for the NHL, but beyond that, we come from humble roots.
I still remember my mama’s chipped teacups. She spent years skipping meals and pulling extra shifts to cover my fees and the cost of equipment for not one, but two quickly growing hockey players who couldn’t even share kit because they weren’t playing the same position.
This sport is a constant, painful reminder that talent shouldn’t have a bank-account requirement, even if it’s built for kids with chauffeurs.
We have a hardworking mom, a modest upbringing, and despite Ro’s millions, as a family, we aren’t accustomed to the lavish lifestyle the de la Peñas are very publicly reported to have.
I ignore the intrusive thought to shunt Ares on his ass, but when my shot goes wide, and I chase the loose puck into the corner, I throw my shoulder into whatever flash of green-shirted Raccoon that comes into my periphery. The hit sounds like a thrown trash can against a wall, a helmet clangs. The arena blinks for half a beat as the plexiglass sways.
I wince, quickly schooling my face, trying not to react tothe fact whoever I hit goes down in a crunch of pads against the boards. A whistle blows and play stops. But there’s a presence looming on me, an aura I feel before I see, and I know I’m about to have an unpleasant collision with a fist.
To be honest, given the hit I just landed on his teammate, I don’t blame him. And I’d be lying if a thrill doesn’t shoot through me. Goading the Dark Destroyer, Artemis de la Peña, into a fight sounded like a good idea at the time, but when I turn to face his stony expression, I have regrets.
The dude is huge. He easily has a couple of inches on me in height, and he’s built like a tank. Sweat beads on his temple, slides into the crease near his scar, and glints on the hair of his jaw.
The scar that splits the hair above his top lip, is not pristine. It’s the only imperfection I can see, which he must hate, because everything else about this man is… fuck. He’s gorgeous up close.
His beard is well trimmed, his chocolate-brown eyes are swirling with something I can’t define, but it looks awfully like I’m about to lose my life.
He says nothing, which is almost worse than having him snarling and chirping at me. He’s controlled, poised; I’ve never seen him snap. Has anyone?
He drops the gloves when he needs to. He keeps people in check with his sinister glares and his mere presence, which… if I’m honest is doing things to me below the waist.
Does a river of molten lava run beneath his composure?
There’s a cold, focused fury in the way he moves—he’s not just playing a game; he’s taking something internal, something deep out on the boards. He doesn’t chirp or showboat; he just hunts with a terrifying, silent precision that makes you realize 'The Dark Destroyer' isn't a nickname—it’s a way of fucking life for this guy.
Does the Dark Destroyer erupt like an earthquake? Or ishe even measured when he loses control? There’s a something about him that says controlled danger, like a bomb with a long fuse. How long?
I search his face as he just… stares. My breath hitches in my lungs as he looms, my muscles tight, waiting for him to shove me, or punch me… or… something.
