Page 82 of Shattered Ice
Maya shakes her head, quick and certain. “Can’t confirm yet. Just know it’s big. He’s calling in favors. Whatever it is, it’s meant to hurt.”
Clara’s hand tightens around mine, her grip almost painful. “We’ll handle it,” she says, her voice steadier than mine.
Maya’s gaze flicks to her, then back to me. “You better. Because when men like him play this kind of game, they don’t just aim to win. They aim to end.” She steps back, vanishing into the chaos as fast as she appeared.
Clara turns to me, her eyes steady, stormy. “He’s trying to rattle you before the draft.”
“He’s going to regret it,” I snarl, the old rage thick in my chest, acid in my veins.
All around us, the world is still celebrating. Photos snapping, teammates shouting, parents crying. I force a grin for the cameras, let Calder sling an arm around my shoulders, let Gio shove my cap on backward. I laugh when they laugh. I pose when they pose. But every smile feels like a mask stretched too tight.
Because I know what’s coming.
The draft isn’t just about the NHL. It’s about surviving him one last time.
Epilogue
Adrian
Three Years Later
Theroarofthecrowd is a living, breathing entity, a monstrous animal that rises and falls with every shift in the game. It presses against the boards, a palpable wave of sound, then echoes back from the cavernous rafters. The vibrations thrum through the steel of my skates, up into the very seams of my bones. Game 7. Conference finals. The kind of night that demands everything and, if you’re lucky, gives everything back. Less than a minute on the clock, and the score is a precarious knife-edge. My lungs burn. My legs feel forged from a strange blend of iron and desperate prayer.
Then, the puck drops. A detonator. Sticks collide with a sharp crack that triggers a thousand honed reflexes. My blade meets the puck with a satisfying precision, a clean connection that feels like the only thing that has ever truly fit in my hands. Idrive forward. One shoulder, then another, absorbs the impact of opposing players. Bodies collapse around me like waves breaking against a rock. I don’t think; I move, an instinctual flow of learned motions and raw desire. I see the gap open, a sliver of opportunity, and I take it, as if it was always waiting for me.
The net swallows the puck with a hungry gulp. The horn rips open the sky, a triumphant, deafening shriek that signals the end.
The arena detonates into white noise—screams of jubilation, the thunderous stomp of thousands of feet, the electric hiss of a hundred thousand voices rising in a single surge. But amidst the chaos, one sensory thread, fine and unbreakable, pulls me through the pandemonium: her.
I don’t need to search. My gaze, even through the sweat and the blur of the lights, knows exactly where she is. Ten rows up, in our private box, past the cold glass and the blinding glare, is Clara. My wife. My anchor. She is draped in my jersey, the familiar blue and white swallowing her small frame, her hair a loose, dark cascade around her shoulders. She isn’t waving pom-poms or screaming herself hoarse; she never needs to perform. Her eyes are a scalpel—precise, unblinking, cutting through the noise and straight to me. Her mouth parts on a soft breath. And then she gives me the smallest, almost imperceptible nod. Steady. Certain. Mine.
I skate off the ice, the scent of sweat and ozone clinging to my uniform. The crowd’s noise tapers, receding into a distant thunder. In the locker room, the boys are a tidal mess of exhilaration—beer sprays, chests are slapped with the rough, untamed joy that rips out of you when you’ve survived. Calder is whooping. Declan offers his usual quiet grin. But none of it truly lodges. My head is a tunnel, and at the end of it, illuminating everything, is the quiet, steady look she gave me.
Hours later, the adrenaline has burned down into a deep, hollow ache that hums. Our apartment sits like a dark bowl above the lake, quiet and small and exactly ours. I drop my bag by the door, and the soft click of the lock sounds like the closing of a covenant.
She’s on the couch, laptop on her knees, the glow painting her face gold. My jersey hangs over her thighs, the hem fluttering with every small breath. The sight of her—ordinary and devastating—hits me harder than any goal.
“I knew you’d win,” she says without looking up, the smirk in her voice pure provocation.
I cross the room in two steps, my palms already wanting skin. “You always do.” My voice is gravel and promise.
Before she can say anything else, I'm on my knees, my hands finding their way up her thighs. I push the jersey upward, the fabric gathering around her waist, revealing the pale, inviting sweep of her hips. The air in the apartment is thick with her scent: citrus shampoo, coffee, and the lingering trace of the vanilla lotion she adores. It's a heady combination, potent enough to make my vision narrow, focusing solely on her.
“Not because of me,” I rasp, the words scraping out. “Because of you.Alwaysyou.” I take her laptop and place it on the coffee table.
Her breath hitches, sharp and wet. “Adrian—” she starts, the syllable equal parts warning and invitation.
I don’t let the caution hold. With a predatory smirk, I spread her thighs. A triumphant hum rumbles in my chest when I confirm she’s bare underneath, already anticipating my touch. My fingers slide through her wet folds. She’s molten, slick, ready. I bring my fingers to my mouth, tasting her—a dizzying blend of musk and honey that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Always ready for me, baby,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire. She moans, a low, guttural sound that spurs me on, andI pull her to the very edge of the couch, her hips tilting perfectly for my assault.
My mouth finds her, hot and immediate. I taste the salt of her skin, the tang of adrenaline, and the sweetness that is uniquely, intoxicatingly her. She folds under me, her fingers tangling in the back of my neck, her nails digging in with a desperate, exquisite surrender.
“God—” she breathes, her voice splitting.
“Say my name,” I demand between licks and kisses.
She does—in pieces, in gasps, each syllable a worship that reverberates through my chest. “Adrian.” A prayer. A surrender. “Adrian, oh God,Adrian—” Her voice breaks on my name, the sound a raw testament to the power I hold over her.
