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W arm-ups are a blur of routine motions—skating patterns, passing drills, shooting sequences. I scan the stands during a break, spotting section 109 where team families sit. Even from a distance, I can see her—dark hair, familiar posture, and the unmistakable home-team red.

My chest tightens. She came. She wore it. She’s really here.

Our eyes meet across the distance, and she raises a hand in a small wave. I nod in acknowledgment, fighting back what would certainly be a ridiculous grin inappropriate for pre-game intensity.

As we finish our warm-up routine, Miami takes the ice for theirs. I deliberately avoid looking for Jason, focusing instead on my own preparation. But a commotion near the family section draws my attention.

Jason, in his Miami blue, has skated to the side of the rink nearest section 109. He’s looking up, obviously having spotted Elliot. Even from across the ice, I can see his expression change as he registers the jersey she’s wearing. His posture stiffens, his face hardening into something cold and angry.

He says something—I’m too far away to hear what—but Elliot’s reaction makes it clear it wasn’t pleasant. She stares down at him impassively, not responding, not retreating. Sarah, beside her, looks ready to climb over the glass and fight him herself.

I start skating in their direction, protective instinct overriding caution, but Jensen intercepts me. “Not during warm-ups,” he warns, steering me toward the tunnel. “Coach will bench you if you start something now.”

He’s right, frustratingly so. I follow the team off the ice, casting one last glance toward Elliot. She’s fine—still seated, still composed, Sarah now animatedly talking beside her. Whatever Jason said, she’s handling it.

The final minutes before puck drop pass in a flurry of last-minute preparations. Coach’s final instructions. Starting lineup announcements. The familiar rush of adrenaline as we line up in the tunnel, waiting to take the ice for real.

And then we’re out there—bright lights, roaring crowd, the clean sheet of ice awaiting the battle to come. I spot Elliot again during the national anthem, her hand over her heart, eyes fixed on the flag. Not looking at Jason. Not looking at me. Just present in the moment.

The puck drops, and everything else fades away. This is what I’ve trained for all my life—reading plays, anticipating movements, using my body and stick to disrupt the opponent’s plans. For the first period, it’s just hockey, pure and focused.

We take an early lead on a power play goal, the crowd erupting as Tommy feeds Ramirez for a one-timer that Miami’s goalie has no chance of stopping. The energy in the building rises, our confidence with it.

It’s midway through the second period when things start to get chippy. Miami, frustrated by the 2-0 deficit and our suffocating defensive play, begins taking liberties after whistles—extra shoves, subtle slashes, the kind of provocations that test discipline.

“Stay focused,” I remind the defensive unit during a TV timeout. “They’re trying to draw penalties.”

Then comes the shift that changes everything. I’m matched up against Jason’s line, tasked with shutting down their top scoring threat. He avoids looking at me during the faceoff, but as soon as the puck drops, he’s relentless—driving to spaces I’m covering, initiating contact whenever possible.

“Having fun playing house with my sloppy seconds, Carter?” he mutters as we battle for position in front of our net. “Didn’t realize you enjoyed charity cases.”

I ignore him, focusing on clearing the rebound from Jensen’s save.

“She always was desperate for validation,” he continues, following me up the ice. “Guess she found it with Phoenix’s resident teacher’s pet.”

Still, I say nothing, making the breakout pass to Tommy and changing directions to support the rush.

The play continues, back and forth, physical but clean. Until Jason takes it to another level.

“Tell me,” he says during a puck battle along the boards, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Does she still make that pathetic little whimpering sound when she comes? Or wait—has she even let you fuck her yet? Took me months to crack those frigid legs open.”

Something snaps inside me—a red haze descending over my vision. But years of discipline keep me from reacting physically. Instead, I win the puck battle, sending him sprawling with a perfectly legal body check that drives the air from his lungs.

“Stay down if you know what’s good for you,” I advise as I skate away, leaving him gasping on the ice.

He recovers quickly, revenge written clearly across his face. For the rest of the period, he hunts me on the ice—late hits, stick work behind the play, constant verbal jabs designed to provoke a response.

“She’s only with you to piss me off,” he hisses during a faceoff. “The moment I snap my fingers, she’ll come running back. Always does.”

“Funny,” I reply, finally breaking my silence. “She didn’t mention you once during our date last night. Almost like you don’t matter anymore.”

His face contorts with fury, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. The puck drops, and he immediately cross-checks me in the back—blatant, reckless, earning him a well-deserved penalty.

Our power play capitalizes, extending the lead to 3-0 as the second period ends. In the locker room during intermission, Coach pulls me aside.

“Whatever’s going on between you and Martinez, keep it clean,” he warns. “I need you on the ice, not in the box.”

“You got it, Coach.” I nod, fully intending to maintain my composure.

But Jason has other plans.

The third period begins with Miami pushing desperately to get back in the game. They score early, cutting our lead to 3-1 and injecting new energy into their attack. Jason is at the center of it all, playing with a controlled fury that makes him dangerous.

“He’s coming for you,” Tommy warns during a line change. “Watch your back.”

I’m always aware of where Jason is on the ice—hockey sense combined with self-preservation. So I’m not surprised when he lines me up for a hit in the corner. I brace for impact, absorbing the blow and staying on my feet.

What I don’t expect is what comes after—his gloved hand grabbing my jersey, pulling me close enough that his cage presses against mine.

“She’s using you,” he snarls. “Elliot’s got issues a mile wide. Couldn’t keep her own father around, couldn’t keep me around, won’t keep you around either. She’s damaged goods, Carter. Frigid, neurotic, and about as exciting in bed as a dead fish. But you’ll figure that out soon enough. The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.”

It’s the specific cruelty of it—the intimate details designed to humiliate Elliot, not me—that finally breaks my control. I shove him off, helmet to helmet, fury coursing through me.

“Say another word,” I growl, “and they’ll never find your body.”

He smirks, knowing he’s found the pressure point. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it? Ask her about Atlantic City sometime. Ask her why we really broke up. It wasn’t just the cheating, Carter. It was because she couldn’t give me what I needed. What any man needs.”

The officials are separating us now, whistles blowing, linesmen inserting themselves between us. But it’s too late. The switch has been flipped.

“You’re not even worth her time,” I say with cold certainty. “She’s more woman than you deserved.”

“We’ll see about that,” he replies, and there’s something in his tone—a calculated malice—that sends a chill through me. “Game’s not over yet.”

Play resumes, tension crackling through the arena. The crowd senses the personal battle underlying the game, their reactions growing louder with each interaction between Jason and me.