Page 30

Chapter 30

Damien

I laced my skates with aggressive, sharp tugs, the laces biting into my fingers as I pulled them tight. Each tug sent a pulse of anger coursing through me, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. My teammates chatted and laughed around me, their voices a blur that I couldn’t bother to decipher.

I didn’t care about their banter. My blood was still boiling from the meeting with Holly’s father. My parents had tried to ruin her, and now she was paying the price for it. For me.

What kind of sick joke was this?

She didn’t know what kind of storm she was inviting into her life.

I focused back on my skates, forcing my mind to clear the clutter that threatened to drown me. But even as I tightened the final knot, the thoughts kept flooding in—my parents' calls going unanswered, their persistent attempts to reach out feeling like chains trying to drag me back into their world. A world I’d fought so hard to escape.

I didn’t need saving.

What I needed was revenge.

The alumni game loomed ahead like a ticking time bomb—a chance to show everyone just how far I’d come while reminding them who I truly was. A player who thrived on chaos and conflict, not some perfect little son molded by his parents’ expectations. I slammed my stick against the boards for emphasis, letting the sound echo around me.

“Dude! You good?” one of my teammates asked, concern etched on his face.

“Yeah,” I snapped back without looking at him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

They exchanged glances but fell back into their conversations. Their lightheartedness felt foreign now—unattainable. As if they lived in a bubble that would never pop.

I adjusted my helmet, rolling my shoulders as I stepped onto the ice. The chill hit me like a slap, a refreshing reminder I was alive, that I could still feel something beyond the chaos of my life. If I couldn’t fight them outside—my parents, their expectations—I’d fight them here. On the ice. Where I could actually hurt someone.

As I glided onto the surface, my blades cut deep into the ice, leaving behind marks that would soon fade but felt permanent in this moment. The roar of the crowd swelled around me, drowning out everything else. It surged like a tidal wave of energy, and I soaked it in.

But then I saw her.

Holly.

My heart dropped into my stomach as if gravity had suddenly intensified. She sat at the glass, front row, eyes wide and sparkling with something that twisted in my chest—a mix of anger and longing. And she was wearing my jersey. My name stretched across her back like a banner for the whole world to see.

It felt like a declaration—she was telling everyone who she belonged to.

I tightened my grip on the stick as I skated closer to her, moving past my teammates warming up with their usual banter. They faded into the background noise as her presence pulled me in like a magnet. The sight of her sent adrenaline racing through my veins, a jolt that contrasted sharply with the icy surface beneath me.

She looked beautiful and fierce, standing firm against whatever waves crashed around us.

And just like that, she became both my anchor and distraction.

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.

"You knew better than that," he said. "That girl is only good for one thing. Filling that tight pussy up with come."

Rage flared inside me like a wildfire. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. My grip tightened around my stick, the wood digging into my palms as I spun around, letting instinct take over.

In one swift motion, I swung.

The crack of the wood against his ribs echoed through the rink, a satisfying sound that drowned out the roar of the crowd and the whir of skates on ice. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air as I stood over him, adrenaline surging through my veins like liquid fire.

“Don’t you ever talk about her like that again,” I snarled, my voice low and menacing.

He struggled to catch his breath, eyes wide with shock and pain. The satisfaction coursed through me, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

My heart raced as I felt the weight of all their gazes on me—teammates, rivals, spectators—all waiting for what would happen next. My breath came heavy and fast; the thrill of chaos beckoned to me like a siren's song.

I glanced toward Holly in the stands, her expression a mix of surprise and something else—fear? Disappointment? Maybe even admiration? It twisted in my gut as if she were tearing at old wounds that hadn’t fully healed.

Before anyone could intervene, I turned back to my opponent sprawled on the ice, seething with anger. How dare he speak about her like that? She was more than just a pretty face; she was everything to me—the light in my dark world—and no one had the right to belittle her or what we had.

A whistle blew somewhere far away, but it barely registered as I loomed over him, fists clenched tight at my sides.

“Get up,” I growled. “You wanted this fight; now face me.”

He struggled to rise but couldn’t muster any words—just stared up at me with fear etched across his face. Good. Let him be scared; let everyone see what happens when they cross me or threaten what’s mine.

I dropped my gloves, the sound of them hitting the ice echoing in my ears. My heart thundered as I grabbed the guy by his jersey, yanking him close enough to see the fear flicker in his eyes. I didn’t give a damn about the consequences.

I started swinging. My fists landed heavy and brutal, each punch connecting with a satisfying thud. Blood splattered across the ice—red against white—and I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins like gasoline igniting a fire.

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t care.

The world narrowed down to just me and him. Every hit was a release—a way to unleash all the pent-up rage and frustration that had been building for years. I felt invincible, every swing powered by memories of my mother’s cruel words and my father’s cold indifference.

Then the refs rushed in, trying to separate us, but it was too late. My focus was singular, driven by an instinct to protect what was mine and punish anyone who dared to threaten that.

It took two players to pull me off him, their hands grabbing my arms and dragging me back as I fought against their hold, snarling like a wild animal caged too long.

I spat blood onto the ice, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. My eyes remained locked on the opposing player groaning on the ground, rolling onto his side with a look of shock etched across his features.

Good.

He deserved it.

The crowd roared around us—some cheering for me, others stunned into silence—but I barely registered them. The rage still bubbled beneath my skin, threatening to spill over again at any moment.

I almost went for him again. The instinct surged inside me like a tidal wave; he had dared to insult Holly, and that would never go unanswered.

But before I could move forward, someone held me back tighter this time—two sets of hands gripping my arms firmly until I couldn’t break free.

The crowd erupted into chaos, a cacophony of cheers and boos swirling around me as I stood there, fists still clenched, adrenaline surging through my veins.

I barely registered the refs yelling, their voices drowned out by the roar of the spectators. My coach was somewhere in the background, his face twisted in anger as he shouted at me to calm down. But it was too late for that. The fight had taken over; I felt alive and dangerous.

Two guys dragged me off the ice, their grip tight and unyielding. I struggled against them, muscles coiled and ready for another round. My heart raced with each step away from my opponent sprawled on the ice, blood staining the pristine white surface.

One thing was certain: my game was over.

As they pulled me toward the locker room, I caught glimpses of Holly in the stands, her expression a mixture of shock and something else—fear? Disappointment? Maybe even admiration? The sight twisted something inside me; I had just fought like a man possessed to protect her honor, yet here she was watching me being led away like a criminal.

I could almost hear her thoughts— why can’t he control himself? Why does he keep getting into trouble?

But how could they understand? They weren’t me. They didn’t know what it felt like to have everything unraveling at your fingertips while still being expected to play nice.

I barely noticed when we reached the bench. My coach exploded with frustration, waving his arms wildly as he demanded an explanation for my actions. All I could think about was how this might ruin everything—my reputation, my future on this team, maybe even my season altogether.

And deep down? A part of me reveled in it.

I bypassed him and headed straight for the locker room. I made my bed. Now, I had every intention of lying in it.