Nathan was pissed off.

He was supposed to be focused on the game, mentally running through strategies and plays, but his mind kept drifting back to the DM notification he had seen on his phone earlier.

You had been asleep on his chest last night, curled up against him, breathing steady and warm. He’d noticed the little ping from his phone but hadn’t wanted to disturb you. Still, he had picked it up—just to make sure it wasn’t an emergency from your family.

But when he saw the sender…

He clenched his jaw.

It was a rival player. A player he would be facing on the ice today. And the message itself made his blood boil.

@slickblade99: “Hey, saw you last night… looked cozy in his arms 😉 Too bad you’re way out of his league. Hope you’re ready to watch him lose tomorrow.”

Nathan felt his hands shake slightly, gripping the hockey stick as he tried to push the anger down. His team could sense the tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace.

“Yo, Nate,” his teammate whispered, “you good, man? You’re scaring us.”

Nathan didn’t answer immediately. He stared down at his stick, knuckles white, before finally standing tall and throwing a glare over at the bench.

“15 is mine,” he said, voice low but hard.

“What?” another teammate asked, confused.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nathan snapped, and then softer, almost to himself, “Nobody touches what’s mine.”

He could feel the heat of the locker room, the murmur of the other players, but all he could think about was you—about that smug, arrogant message from someone who had no idea what kind of fire he could unleash.

He slammed his stick down on the ice with a thud, making a couple of teammates jump. “Let’s move,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Game time.”

And as he skated out onto the ice, all he could see was your face, the way you’d looked asleep in his arms, safe and unaware, and that gave him the focus he needed. Not just to play—but to dominate.