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Friends?

The word echoes in my head like a fucking curse as I storm down the hotel hallway to my room. She wants to be friends? What the hell have I been doing to make her think I only want to be friends?

Or is this her way of friend-zoning me?

I slam the keycard into the reader harder than necessary and push into the room I’m sharing with Mitchell. He’s sprawled on one of the beds, scrolling through his phone.

“You look like you want to murder someone,” he observes without looking up.

“Maybe I do.”

One thing about me—I make my intentions very clear. I don’t play games, I don’t hint around, I don’t do subtle. When I want something, I go after it directly. So, the fact that Sage is somehow misreading everything I’ve done for her pisses me off beyond reason.

I’ve brought her into my house, my bedroom, my sanctuary. I’ve let her see parts of me that no one else has access to. I’ve been protective, possessive, territorial—all the things that should make it crystal fucking clear that I want more than friendship.

And she calls me her friend.

“You getting ready for the game or just going to stand there brooding?” Mitchell asks.

I grab my gear bag and start pulling out my equipment with more force than necessary. “I’m going to play like hell tonight.”

“Good. We need it.”

Mitchell has no idea. I’m going to channel every ounce of frustration, every bit of rage at being friend-zoned by the one and only woman I have ever felt anything for, and I’m going to take it out on Chicago.

The bus ride to the stadium is torture. Sage sits up front with the coaches, professional and untouchable, while I’m stuck in the back with the team. Every time I catch a glimpse of her, that word plays on repeat in my head.

Friends.

Fucking friends.

She has no idea what she’s unleashed. The demons I keep locked away when I’m around her? They’re out to play tonight, because I’m not about to let her think she can friend-zone me and walk away unscathed.

In the locker room, I go through my pre-game routine that Archer and I used to have. Tape, pads, jersey. The familiar ritual usually calms me, centers me, but tonight it just gives my anger time to simmer.

Sage is working on mobility with some of the guys across the room, and watching her hands on them makes my jaw clench.

Richardson is flexing his shoulder while she assesses the range of motion, and Davidson is letting her stretch his hamstring.

Every touch, every professional interaction makes the possessive beast in my chest roar.

But I save that energy. I’m going to need it.

When her eyes find me across the room, I deliberately look away. Let her wonder what she did wrong. Let her sit with the consequences of trying to put me in the friend box.

Coach gives his usual pre-game speech about playing smart, playing hard, playing as a team. I hear the words, but all I can think about is the woman who thinks I’m safe enough to be her friend.

She’s about to find out exactly how wrong she is.

When the puck drops, it’s game on.

The first Chicago player to come near me gets a shoulder check that sends him flying into the boards. The crowd erupts, and I can feel the familiar rush of violence singing in my veins.

This is who I really am. Not the careful, controlled man who brings her lunch and tucks her into bed. This is the animal she should be afraid of.

Thirty seconds later, I steal the puck from their center and fire a pass across ice to Henderson, who buries it in the net. The goal light flashes, and I skate past the bench without celebration, already hunting for my next target.

Chicago’s biggest defenseman tries to line me up for a hit, but I see him coming and lower my shoulder, driving through him instead of around him. He goes down hard, and the ref’s whistle screams.

“Boarding! Number 91, two minutes!”

I don’t argue. I skate to the penalty box with satisfaction burning in my chest. The fans are booing, throwing things at the glass, but their hatred just feeds the fire.

Two minutes later, I’m back on the ice and hungrier than ever.

The second period is when I really let loose. A Chicago forward gets too close to our goalie, so I cross-check him so hard he nearly goes through the glass. Another player tries to get cute with a hit on Mitchell, so I drop my gloves and feed him a right hook that drops him like a stone.

The refs give me five minutes for fighting, but it’s worth it to see the fear in Chicago’s eyes when they look at me.

By the third period, I’ve assisted on two more goals and taken four penalties. I’m playing like a man possessed, like someone with nothing to lose. Every hit is harder than it needs to be, every pass more aggressive than necessary.

This is what notorious looks like. This is the reputation that follows me wherever I go—the player who skates the line between hockey and warfare, who makes other teams think twice before stepping on the ice.

And through it all, I can feel Sage watching from the bench area. I wonder if she’s finally starting to understand that the man who brought her lunch is the same one who just sent three Chicago players to the medical room.

I wonder if she still wants to be fucking friends with someone like me.

The final buzzer sounds with us up 5-2, and as I skate off the ice, I catch her eye through the glass. She’s staring at me with something that might be recognition, or fear, or both.

Good. Maybe now she’ll understand that a man like me doesn’t have any friends.