Page 7

CHAPTER 2

POST GAME

Reznik

Isit in front of my locker and unlace my skates with enough force that the leather creaks. My knuckles throb where they connected with Kilovac's and then Faulker's jaw, and my shoulder aches from where Faulker ripped me off his “bestie” and we went at it, causing the entire pileup where I slammed into the ice before the refs finally pulled us apart.

We lost.

Not just lost. Got humiliated in overtime after I spent valuable time in the penalty box because I let that bastard Kilovac bait me. Damn right I'd had enough of his smug-ass look, and I decided to remind him what happens when you play dirty and then act innocent.

The locker room buzzes with the particular energy that follows a loss nobody saw coming. We were certain we'd slaughter their winning streak. Equipment gets yanked off with more force than necessary. Shower water runs longer than usual. Nobody wants to be the first one to speak.

I rip my jersey over my head and catch sight of my phone screen lighting up on the shelf above the stall. Social media notifications. Probably fifty variations of the same headline: Reznik Loses Control Again.

They're not wrong.

What pisses me off is that Kilovac started it. That cheap shot in the first four minutes when Hayes was already down, the elbow to Nolan's ribs that the refs somehow missed. And somehow, I'm the villain because I'm the one who drops the gloves and finishes it.

And Faulker. That smug bastard acting like Kilovac's some innocent kid who needs protecting when everyone in the league knows exactly what kind of player he is.

I saw them afterward, through the glass as I skated off. Kilovac leaning against the boards with his rich-ass fiancée, Faulker with his arm around a kid, standing with the redhead while she stood there smiling at them.

Her? Anna Winterfield.

I've seen her in photos for years. Social media posts. Background of team celebrations. Always with Faulker, sometimes with Kilovac. The fiancée who looks like she stepped out of a museum painting, all sharp cheekbones and perfect posture and the kind of beauty that makes you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

Seeing her in person is different.

She wore this long camel coat and stood in the Fairfax box like she owned the building. Not arrogant. Just completely comfortable in a world most people only see from the outside. Her hair caught the arena lights, and even from the ice, I could see the way she watched us warm up. Not casually. Actually paying attention.

Then she took off the coat, and I could see that jersey with both Faulker's and Kilovac's numbers on it.

How she stood there with that kind of grace, being the one discarded for his new American life. Woman, child, one on the way?

I will admit to… no one that it irritated me, that itching desire to crush them on the ice. Neither deserves her type of loyalty.

And when the fight happened, she didn't look away.

Most people do. The girlfriends, the families, the corporate sponsors up in their boxes. They turn their heads or cover their eyes or suddenly find their phones very interesting.

She watched the whole thing.

I don't know why that stays with me. Maybe because it felt like she was actually seeing what happened instead of just deciding I'm the bad guy because that's easier.

Yeah, wishful thinking for sure. And honestly, why the fuck do I care? The reality is, I don't. Maybe I'm just pissed off and looking for something to think about other than how we just lost.

I grab my towel and head for the showers.

The hot water helps. By the time I'm rinsing shampoo out of my hair, my pulse has dropped back to something resembling normal, and my hands have stopped shaking.

“You good, Rez?” Hayes leans against the tile wall in the next stall, water streaming over his shoulders.

“Peachy.”

“You broke Kilovac's face.”

“He'll heal.”