The university rink was almost empty.
It was past midnight, lights dimmed to maintenance mode, the ice reflecting long silver streaks across the glass. The Zamboni sat parked near the tunnel like a sleeping animal. The air smelled sharp and clean — cold ice, rubber, metal, sweat soaked into boards.
Daemon Forbes stood alone at center ice.
Helmet off. Hair damp. Jersey half unlaced and hanging loose at his throat. Six foot two of scar tissue wrapped in captain’s C and NHL draft projections.
First-round lock, analysts said.
Future franchise defenseman.
Monster on skates.
They never mentioned the burns that crawled up his ribs under the padding. The knife scars. The crooked knuckles from fists thrown at walls instead of people. The jagged slit through his eyebrow from the night his father smashed his face into a kitchen counter when he was fifteen.
They never mentioned Ryan.
They never mentioned that Daemon still couldn’t handle locked doors.
His phone buzzed in his hockey bag on the bench.
Daemon froze.
The empty rink amplified the vibration until it sounded like it came from everywhere at once.
His lungs tightened.
Unknown number.
No. No no no.
He didn’t move.
It buzzed again.
Across the ice, the championship banners hanging from the rafters blurred in his vision. His pulse roared in his ears louder than any crowd he’d ever skated in front of.
One more month.
One more semester.
Then the draft.
Then the NHL.
Then he’d be untouchable.
The phone buzzed a third time.
Daemon snapped.
He skated hard to the bench, nearly tripping as he yanked the bag open and grabbed the phone like it might bite him.
He already knew.
He answered.
“What.”
Static crackled on the other end. Then breathing. Slow. Wet. Familiar.
“Big man now, huh?” his father’s voice rasped. “Saw you on TV.”
The rink vanished.
Cold ice turned into tile. The smell of rubber turned into whiskey and blood. Glass breaking. Ryan crying from the bedroom.
Daemon’s grip tightened so hard the screen creaked.
“What do you want.”
“Heard you’re about to be famous,” his father continued. “Figured you’d wanna thank me. Made you tough.”
Daemon laughed once. It sounded wrong in the empty arena.
“You buried my brother,” he said flatly.
A pause.
“They never proved that.”
Of course.
They never proved it.
They just found Ryan at the bottom of the stairs and called it an accident.
Daemon’s scars burned under his gear like they were fresh.
“You don’t get to say his name,” he whispered.
“I’m still your father.”
“No,” Daemon said. “You’re a sentence.”
His father’s voice sharpened. “Watch your mouth.”
Daemon stepped onto the ice without realizing it, blades carving shallow violent lines into the surface.
“You beat him until he stopped breathing,” he said. “You beat me until I stopped feeling.”
“Soft,” his father muttered. “You always were. Crying over that kid—”
The phone shattered against the boards.
The crack echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
Daemon stood there, chest heaving. The quiet afterward was worse. The kind of quiet that leaves room for memory.
Closets. Laundry rooms. Locked doors.
The equipment tunnel behind him creaked.
“Daemon.”
He spun.
Archer Grey leaned against the glass near the players’ entrance, stick resting against his shoulder. Blond hair still damp from his own late workout. Hoodie pulled over his broad frame. His expression wasn’t smug tonight. No rival grin. No smartass comment.
Just sharp, focused concern.
“Since when do you sneak around?” Daemon snapped, voice rough.
“Since when do you practice alone at midnight and throw phones at walls?” Archer shot back, but it was quiet. Careful.
They’d been rivals since freshman year.
Top defensive prospect versus top scoring winger.
Daemon hit like a freight train.
Archer skated like he’d been born on ice.
Three years of chirps. Cross-checks. Fights that got too heated. Media constantly comparing them.
Three years of Daemon pretending the way Archer looked at him after games didn’t make his chest feel strange.