“So he holds grudges.” Wonderful.
“Look,” she says, scooting closer so I can hear over the noise, “Dom is impossible when he doesn’t get his way.” She waves a hand for emphasis. “He’s stubborn. He thinks he’s right even when he isn’t. And when you push back or try to tell him what to do?” She shrugs. “It’s like trying to talk the sun out of shining. You can’t.”
“That seems unhealthy for both parties.” I wince.
“It is. But,” Melody adds, turning serious, “he doesn’t mean any harm. He’s used to getting his way, but eventually he does listen, and he does compromise.”
My eyes drift back to the ice.
Dom skates past our section and taps the glass in front of us once in recognition. My heart kicks at thesight of him up close. Melody waves, and I try to do the same in case people are watching. He leans into a turn, eyes focused as if the world depends on it.
God, he’s handsome. And extremely insufferable.
I catch myself exhaling shakily.
“Talk to him after he wins,” Melody says, nudging me again.
“So sure of him,” I laugh.
“He’s the youngest captain in the league to ever win the Stanley Cup.” She grins. “Of course I’m sure of him.”
Melody really loves her brother. She sees him in a way few probably do.
Dom turns his head and sweeps his gaze across the arena until it hits mine, and my body lights up with hot excitement. A flicker passes over his face before he tilts his head and skates off.
Ten minutes into the game, I’m convinced hockey was invented by a psychopath. I don’t understand any of it. There’s a puck, people chase it, and they hit each other for it. Sometimes they hit each other without the puck, which I’m apparently “notsupposed to freak out about.” Whoever said that lied, because I’m freaking out about everything.
“Don’t worry,” Melody leans forward. “This is normal.”
Nothing happening on the ice feels normal. Someone slams into someone else at full speed, and they just get up and keep going. Dominic is everywhere—skating like a black streak of aggression and danger. Not an ounce of hesitation.
I can’t look away.
The game moves so fast I can barely keep up. People shout “forecheck,” “cycle it,” “dump it,” and none of it registers. My stomach’s been in my throat since puck drop. Maybe it’s because it’s only Dom I see, even during the short breaks he’s forced to take.
“Moreal leading the first shift! Dolphins coming in hot!” the announcer booms.
Melody yells something about a line change and a power play, but it’s all foreign. Dom skates near the corner boards, body angled, completely focused on whatever part of the game he runs like a tyrant.
A player from the opposing team shifts direction—not toward the puck, but toward Dom, who doesn’t have it.
I stand without meaning to.
“Melody, what—”
The other player slams into the side of Dom’s knee and hip with full force. There’s no angle, no subtlety, no puck anywhere near them. The sound is sickening. The other guy flies from the collision while Dom goes down on one knee with a grunt.
The arena erupts with gasps, curses, screams.
“THAT’S INTERFERENCE! THAT’S INTERFERENCE ON MOREAL!” the announcer screams. “Completely away from the puck—and it looked like he caught him right in the knee!”
My body moves before my brain. “Oh my God,” I whisper, stumbling to the glass, palms slamming it. “Get up… please get up.”
Players circle, whistles shriek as refs rush in. The Dolphins player is doubled over, gasping, clearly hurt too.
“The officials are calling this—this could be a majorpenalty!”
The arena becomes a beehive of noise, fans pounding on the glass.
