Page 163 of Play Dirty

HAVEN

The storm had been loud.

This was louder.

The arena hit me like a wall the second we stepped inside — sound, light, motion. Skates carving ice somewhere beyond the tunnel, sticks cracking, the low roar of a crowd that hadn’t even begun to peak yet.

It felt alive.

It felt normal.

It felt… different.

I walked a few steps, taking it all in. The smell of the rink — cold air, rubber, sweat — wrapping around me like something familiar I didn’t realize I’d missed.

“You love this shit, don’t you?” Sebastian murmured over his shoulder. His smile was warm. It made me tingle.

“Sure as fuck do.”

His hand drifted backward, his fingers briefly touching mine. The move was quick. Daring. Electric.

Especially considering where we were.

“Welcome back, twenty-one.”

Twenty-one. My jersey number. The words brought back a deluge of memories, bad and good.

We drifted apart as we hit the tunnel. Mercer was there, hands on his hips, already in full command mode.

“Alright,” he barked. “I don’t care what you did during the storm, I don’t care how much you think you’re ready — Barrage is coming to tear our throats out.”

Mercer paused, dramatically. He was never dramatic.

“We take their throat first.”

A cheer went up, and I found myself joining in. Sticks cracked against the cement floor.

“Play fast, play smart, and for the love of God, stop making stupid mistakes in our own zone.”

His eyes cut to Grayson before anyone could answer.

“Captain.”

Grayson didn’t even blink.

“We’re good.”

There was confidence in the way he said it. It was hard. Sharp. Ready.

Mercer held his gaze for half a second longer, then nodded.

“Alright. Prove it.”

They didn’t.

Not at first.

The Barrage came out fast, aggressive, clean. The Reavers?