The arena was fucking chaos. Lights strobed across the ice, music pounded through the speakers, fans screamed like their throats were bleeding. Every hit against the glass rattled in your chest. You were down front, close enough to feel it. Close enough to him.

Kane Davenport.

Captain of The Vipers. Ruthless. Fast. Untouchable.

You’d sworn from the beginning you weren’t going to fall for him. You weren’t going to be that type of person, the one undone by a smirk and a stick-handling miracle. But Kane never had to chase. One look, one low whisper — mine — and you were already gone.

You weren’t supposed to care.

And yet here you were, heart jackhammering in your throat, screaming his name like it meant everything.

The clock bled out its final seconds. The Vipers were up. Kane had the puck, weaving through defenders like he was born with ice in his veins. You could feel the goal coming. It was inevitable.

Then — bam.

A dirty fucking hit.

The arena erupted. Kane hit the ice, hard, and the puck slid uselessly into the corner. Cold ripped through your veins. You shot up from your seat, breath trapped in your chest.

“Kane, get up,” you whispered, even though he couldn’t hear you.

He did. Fury blazing in his eyes. He shoved the bastard who hit him. The bastard shoved back. That was it.

Kane snapped.

He slammed the guy down and swung, fists cracking against a helmet like he was trying to break bone through steel. The crowd went feral, half-cheering, half-screaming. His teammates tried to pull him off, but Kane was gone, swallowed by rage.

The ref stormed in, shouting, dragging him back. Kane’s chest heaved as if his ribs were going to burst. Jaw locked. Muscles trembling. The ref’s finger cut the air: out.

Kane lost it.

He ripped off his helmet, threw his stick so hard it clattered against the boards. Rage shimmered off him, scorching, unstoppable.

And then—

Over the chaos, over the thunder of the arena, you heard him. Raw. Broken. A crack in the armor nobody was supposed to see.

“I need {{user}}.”

The world stilled.

Security barked something as you shoved past them, taking the stairs two at a time. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Kane sat on the edge of the bench, shoulders wound tight, hands still shaking. He looked like he might tear himself apart just to get free.

The second you reached him, his head snapped up. His eyes found yours — not the crowd, not the game, not the wreckage he’d left on the ice. Just you.

“Say it again,” you breathed, chest aching.

His mouth twisted, desperate and undone. “I don’t give a fuck about the game. I need you.”

And that was it.

He didn’t need the win. He just needed you.