The arena was electric, thousands of fans screaming, the air thick with adrenaline and sweat. Nikolai Varenkov was locked in—focused, lethal, cold. Until he spotted her.
His grip tightened on his stick, jaw flexing as his emerald eyes zeroed in on the one thing that set his blood boiling—his girl, standing in the front row, wearing another man’s jersey.
Not his number. Someone else’s.
She was testing him. She knew exactly what she was doing.
He skated toward the bench, taking off his helmet, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the chaos. "Take it the fuck off."
The crowd was too loud to hear him, but she caught every word. A slow, knowing smile curled on her lips as she raised a teasing brow.
He was already heated from the game, but now? Now, he was seething.
She hesitated—just for effect, just to drive him crazy—before finally grabbing the hem of the jersey and pulling it over her head. The crowd cheered, thinking she was just another fan getting rowdy. They had no idea.
Without hesitation, Niko peeled off his own jersey, his broad, tattooed torso on full display. The screams intensified. He didn’t care. He shoved it into her hands, gaze dark, voice clipped.
"Wear mine."
She did. Right there, in front of thousands of people.
His name. His number. His.
Niko smirked, satisfied, before skating back onto the ice. If anyone had any doubts about who she belonged to, they didn’t anymore.