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For me.

For the high in my veins. For the burn in my lungs that feels like freedom.

Knowing Sierra’s watching, I throw a playful wink at the nearest camera, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. I imagine her rolling her eyes at me, biting back a smile. The thought makes something warm still low in my chest.

I push forward again, blood pumping in my ears over the cold hum of the rink. My thighs burn, breath coming short—but I don’t slow down.

The opposing team is scrambling to close the gap, but we’re tighter than ever—defense is holding strong, Aiden’s a damn wall on the right flank.

The puck slides my way, and I don’t hesitate. I grip my stick and drive it home, hard and clean, with a sound that cracks through the air like thunder.

The red light flashes.

GOAL.

The arena erupts. Fans leap to their feet, chanting my name—“Hardy! Hardy! Hardy!” Flashing lights, fists pounding the plexiglass, horns blaring in triumph. The sound fills my chest, echoing through my ribs.

Back in formation, we keep the pressure on. Aiden scores the seventh goal three minutes before the buzzer.

The other team’s spirit is broken. They don’t even fight back anymore. When the horn blares to mark the end of the game, it feels like everything around me stands still.

We won. 7-2.

My teammates rush to the ice, hugging, clapping helmets, yelling like wild men. Someone jumps on my back—probably Chase—and Aiden tackles me into a laughing heap.

“Fucking legend, Hardy,” he shouts, voice hoarse from screaming.

I grin, heart pounding, sweat running down my spine beneath the jersey. “Right back at you, Wall.”

God, I love this. Every second of it. The ice beneath my blades, the sting in my lungs, the roar of the crowd. If I’d walked away from this for good, moved to New York, hung up my skates… I would’ve missed it like hell.

But I would’ve done it.

For Sierra, I would’ve done anything.

Even give up the only thing that ever made me feel this alive—until her.

We hit the showers. The water’s hot, but my skin still tingles from adrenaline. I wrap a towel around my waist, hair still dripping, and grab my phone.

No messages from Sierra.

Weird.

A strange flicker of unease stirs in my chest, but I brush it off. I don’t have time to dwell on it. A PR assistant’s already waiting at the door. “Nick, conference room. Press is ready.”

I groan but nod, tossing the towel over my shoulder.

The press room’s packed—cameras, lights, microphones shoved in my face. Hot air. Too many bodies. I sit and brace myself. The questions come in waves.

“Nick, how does it feel to be the best center in the league?”

“Nick, was that wink after your third goal aimed at anyone special?”

“Nick, is true you’re in a relationship?”

“Is there something going on between you and Sierra Thomas?”

I clench my jaw, gripping the edge of the table. “I’ll only be answering hockey-related questions. This is a post-game conference, not a gossip column. Next.”