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Chapter Twenty-One

" T onight’s game will be played in honor of North Ridge’s own, Callan Cromwell." The announcer’s voice booms across the speakers, shaking through the arena. My pulse thunders to the sound of the crowd cheering for my brother, the guy who has had my back for three years now.

The people in the stands explode with a cheer some of the ice girls were shouting earlier, a sea of signs and jerseys lifted high with Callan’s name and number.

Guilt flares and my throat tightens when I see it.

He’s not even back yet and she’s still his.

It shouldn’t bother me, and I’m not usually one to fight over a girl.

Hell, I don’t even fight for them when I have them.

But Avery is different for some reason and the fact that Callan can’t even remember they fucked and she's still doing all of this for him pisses me off more than it should.

The only silver lining lately is that Callan’s memory loss doesn’t seem to pose a threat to the society. Aidric said he talked to him and told him things might resurface out of order. Callan shrugged it off and said nothing could surprise him after the shit he already remembers.

The announcer’s voice cuts in again, pulling me from my thoughts.

"And don’t forget, tomorrow night, join us right here for the masked benefit skating event hosted in honor of Callan Cromwell."

Applause floods the rink as the ice girls skate in a choreographed sequence. Music blasts through the speakers and the screen flashes with our logo and each player's name and number.

Aidric goes out first, like always. Then it's my turn. I skate fast, circling once before lining up for the first play. The chill of the ice hits my face like clarity, all the tension and rage inside me turning to fuel.

When the puck drops, we’re off. Blades scrape, bodies collide, and the roar of the crowd becomes white noise.

Eaton Rapids is hungry and ruthless, but we hit back harder, not giving them an inch.

I launch forward, weaving between defenders with my heart slamming against my ribs.

My stick connects with the puck and I send it ricocheting toward Aidric.

He shoots, but the goalie blocks it, sending it to their star player.

I skate in front of him, distracting him so Aidric can slam him against the boards, pinning their center in place and regaining possession.

The guy grunts, trying to shove him off, but Aidric doesn’t budge. I clap him on the back when the team starts driving forward, and he instantly turns to face the action.

We play with everything we’ve got. Like something’s chasing us. Like we’ve got something to prove. Because we do. We're the fucking Lords—Ice Lords. This is why we exist.

Every time I hit the ice, it’s not just about the win; it’s about control. We own hockey; we own all of the people who bet and play games behind the scenes. Without us, sports would be back in the mafia's hands, the way it used to be.

But not anymore. The Ice Lords took out all of the families controlling and rigging hockey games, making the fans miserable in the process. Colleges suffered, national teams struggled, and the sport was no longer fun until we stepped in.

The Ice Lords are a legacy of strength, built on the belief that no matter how big you are, we’ll always find a way to keep the game in the players’ hands, even if that means rigging a few matches along the way.

Eaton Rapids is out for blood tonight, so we’re gonna make damn sure they choke on their own.

By the end of the first period, we’re up 2–1. My lungs are on fire, sweat dripping down my neck and soaking into my collar.

As we switch sides, Aidric skates over and leans in. "She was in The Chamber."

I freeze for half a second, blades skidding on the ice. "What the fuck? Is that where you disappeared to earlier?"

The idea of Aidric cornering her down there alone makes my stomach twist. There’s no telling what he said or did.

He nods. "She found the rock again. I caught her on the way out."

I exhale heavily. Of course she did. She’s always trying to be three steps ahead, and I'm always two steps too slow. I don't even know if I'm more pissed at her for sneaking around, or at myself for always underestimating her.

Aidric shrugs and skates off like it’s just another problem to shelve for later. It's really not a big deal. She's already seen the rock, already knows it exists. It's just that now, she's probably got a lot of questions as to why we have it and Klein doesn't.

The second period starts and I let everything go, hitting the ice like I'm trying to destroy it. Like I can outrun the image of her with that sign, sitting with Brogan, like she’s part of Callan’s life and I’m just a shadow in the background.

By the end of the second, we’re up 3–1. I’ve scored once, assisted once, and flattened their defenseman so hard, the boards shook and blood flew.

I did exactly as I promised and made sure he choked on it before his buddies helped him off the ice.

But the fucker was baiting me and got in my way one too many times with that cocky grin on his face.

Intermission hits, and it feels like time is flying. I head into the locker room, grab my jug of water, and chug until my throat burns.

Dropping onto the bench, I rip the tape off my stick and start wrapping on a fresh layer. Retaping always helps keep my hands busy when my head won’t shut up and right now it's fucking screaming. I can’t stop picturing Avery alone with Aidric in The Chamber.

Was she scared? Did he touch her? What else could she have been looking for down there?

Slade plops down beside me, breathing hard, helmet hanging from one hand.

"Yo," he says, voice low. "You hear the rumor?"

I don’t look up. "What now?"

"Brogan told me Callan might make an appearance at the event tomorrow."

My hand stops mid-wrap. "What?"

"Yeah." Slade glances around to make sure no one’s listening. "Apparently, if he’s feeling strong enough, the doctors are letting him come by for a bit to see the crowd, feel the love or whatever."

I stare at the black tape, jaw tightening. "Does Avery know?"

Slade shrugs. "Don’t think so. Brogan made me swear not to say anything. Said she doesn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up if it falls through."

A dry laugh scrapes my throat. "Yeah. Good fucking luck with that. Callan is one stubborn fucker."

Avery can smell a secret from a mile away, especially if it involves her precious Callan. There is no way she doesn’t already know.

Slade eyes me sideways. "You okay?"

"Fucking fantastic," I mutter, finishing the tape job with a final rip and slamming the roll into my bag.

Callan's my boy and fuck…of course I want him back.

But lately, every move we make is for him.

Every fucking thought is wrapped around Callan.

Especially when it comes to Avery. Callan is all she sees, and all she wants.

Him coming to the event tomorrow will be a goddamn miracle to everyone else, but a grenade to the chest for me.

I take another long drink, drag a towel over my face, and lean back against the locker.

Coach walks in, clapping his hands. "Strong period, Banks. You’re flying tonight. That’s the shit I need from you."

I nod, not really hearing the rest. Something sharp twists in my chest and I press my shoulders hard into the locker behind me, like it might help dull the edge. But even here, away from the ice and the crowd, she's still in my blood.

The buzzer sounds, echoing through the room and snapping me back to reality. I rise with the rest of the team, grab my stick, and follow them out.

As we step back onto the ice, the sound of music and chants rushes in, but even in a packed stadium, I’m drawn to her. She’s standing at the glass, eyes locked on mine, and for a second, the weight lifts and nothing else exists.

I’ve been trying to ignore what’s building between us.

Pretending it’s just adrenaline or obsession.

But fuck…I think it's more than that. I feel something for this girl—something I don't want to. I just don’t know yet if it’s about wanting control, or needing her in a way that scares the shit out of me.

I break our stare first because if I look too long, I think I’ll have the answer to my question. And I’m not ready to face that yet.

By the time the final buzzer sounds through the arena, my lungs are heaving and adrenaline is still ripping through me like a storm.

We fucking did it. North Ridge wins, 4-2.

The guys gather around, sticks raised, gloves in the air. Callan’s name echoes from the stands, signs waving like a tribute to a fallen king. For a second, I let myself feel the pride, the relief, the kind of win that makes it all worth it.

But I’m not looking at the scoreboard for validation of our win—I’m looking for her.

She’s already making her way toward the exit, Brogan at her side, her dark hair tucked beneath that damn beanie, the one that makes her look too sweet for the way she wrecks me.

I cut across the tunnel and intercept them near the corner of the stands.

"Avery."

Her steps slow and she doesn’t even look surprised that I found her.

"We're heading to The Effin Bar, wanna go?" I ask, feeling like I already know the answer.

She blinks at me once. "No. We’re going to Legends."

That’s it. There's no smile, no sarcasm, not even a spark of heat in her eyes.

I nod, jaw flexing. "Right."

Brogan gives me a knowing look, one that says don’t push it , before she loops her arm around Avery’s and guides her out through the crowd.

For a second I think about chasing after her, then I remember the notes she left me and I assume she’s still pissed.

Not to mention, she got caught red-handed tonight by Aidric and there's no saying what he did to crawl under skin.

And as much as it kills me not to follow her, I know when to give a girl space.

That doesn’t mean I’m letting her out of my sight though. I spot Drake leaning against the tunnel wall, laughing with a couple of the rookies. I nudge him with my stick as I pass.

Tipping my chin toward Avery, I say, "Go keep an eye on her at Legends. Make sure she doesn’t do anything reckless."

Drake’s smile fades just enough to show how much he doesn't want to do this, but I couldn’t care less.

"Got it."

I don’t need him to report back; I just need to know she’s okay.