Page 104 of Sticks & Serpents

My fingers tightened around the stick, the grip familiar and reassuring as I glided over the ice. The cold air filled my lungs, sharp and invigorating, drowning out everything but the sound of skates slicing through ice. I moved with my team, going through the motions of warm-ups—stretching, passing, shooting. Each slap of the puck echoed in my ears, a rhythmic reminder of what I was here for.

I stole glances at Holly as we practiced, her presence a constant pull on my focus. She shouldn’t be here. Not after what they did to her—not after what I had done to protect her.

But there she was, standing by the glass like a beacon through the noise. Her eyes followed me as I skated up and down the rink, fierce and unwavering. A part of me wanted to push her away, to tell her that this wasn’t a place for her. That it was too dangerous to be so close to my world.

I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension building inside me. My teammates passed the puck back and forth while calling out plays—everyone seemingly focused on our upcoming game. But all I could think about was how Holly’s gaze burned into me.

All right then, little lamb. Watch me win this for you.

The thought solidified in my mind as I prepared for battle on this frozen battleground. The weight of expectation settled over me like armor; it was time to unleash everything I had buried deep within myself. Each shot on goal became more than just practice; it became a promise—a way to show her that despite everything that had happened, I could still be something worth believing in.

With each slap shot echoing through the rink, each stride across the ice fueling my fire, I found solace in knowing that she would see it all unfold before her eyes.

The puck dropped, and I surged forward like a bullet, my body moving on instinct. I was sharp, fast, unstoppable. Every muscle in my frame ignited with energy as I glided across the ice, the world around me fading into a blur of colors and noise.

With every stride, I felt the anger coiling within me. It was more than just adrenaline; it was a raging storm, a fire demanding release. Maybe I did have something to prove—not just to them, but to myself. I needed to remind everyone that Damien Sinclaire wasn’t someone to be underestimated.

I targeted the opposing players like a predator honing in on its prey. Hit after hit landed with sickening thuds against pads and boards as I barreled through the competition. The crowd roared with excitement, but all I heard was the thumping of my heart and the ice beneath my skates.

I didn’t need their approval; I didn’t care about their cheers. What mattered was this moment—this game where I could unleash everything that had been building inside me for far too long.

When I finally found an opening, the puck danced at my feet like it belonged there, waiting for me to claim it. In one fluid motion, I snatched it up and sent it flying toward the goal with precision.

The net rippled as the puck slid past the goalie’s outstretched glove, and an explosion of sound erupted from the stands. The crowd’s roar drowned out everything else—the cheers of teammates and fans merging into a singular wave of noise that crashed over me.

But I didn’t celebrate. There were no fist pumps or shouts of triumph. Instead, I skated back to center ice with barely a nod in acknowledgment of what just happened. Scoring wasn’t the point; it never had been.

This game was about releasing all that pent-up rage burning inside me—anger toward my mother, frustration with my father’s expectations, pain from pushing Holly away when all I wanted was to pull her closer.

As play resumed around me, each moment on that ice became cathartic—a reminder that despite everything they threw at me, despite all their attempts to cage me in their world, I could still rise above it all and carve out my own path.

I felt the adrenaline coursing through me as the second period began, my heart still racing from that last goal. I had poured everything into that moment, and the energy of the crowd fueled me further. But just as I was about to glide into my rhythm, a voice cut through the haze.

“Hey, Sinclaire,” a voice jeered beside me.

I turned slightly, irritation bubbling up before I even laid eyes on some asshole from the other team.

The guy was one of those second-rate players—nothing special but always trying to get under my skin. He skated alongside me, a sneer plastered across his face like he thought he was untouchable.

“Heard your girl got kicked off the committee,” he said, his tone dripping with malice. “Guess sleeping with you didn’t get her Daddy’s approval, huh?”

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to ignore it. Just keep playing. Stay focused. I tried to channel my anger into the game, redirect it into something productive instead of letting this idiot rattle me.

But he wasn’t done.

“Maybe she should’ve gone for your old man instead,” he continued, laughter in his voice. “Isn’t that what the papers are saying? Daddy’s little slut wanted a real man.”

The words hung in the air like a noxious cloud, thick and suffocating. Something inside me snapped—some barrier I had built around my anger shattered like glass.

Before I could think about it rationally, I surged forward, cutting off his path with my body. He stumbled back slightly at my sudden movement, surprise flashing across his face as I glared at him.

“You don’t know shit,” I growled low enough that only he could hear it. The heat of fury boiled within me, and all rational thought faded away.

He laughed again—a hollow sound devoid of any real amusement—and pushed back against me with mock bravado.

“Aw, is someone getting protective? Don’t tell me you’re actually in love with her?”

With that stupid question hanging in the air between us like an open wound, I lost all sense of restraint and slammed him against the boards with all my strength.

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