The arena roared like a living thing.

Blades carved violently across the ice, sending shards skittering in every direction as players slammed into the boards with bone-rattling force. The cold air of the rink carried the sharp scent of frost and sweat, while the stadium lights blazed overhead, turning the ice into a blinding sheet of white.

You slipped into your seat halfway through the game, breath still uneven from rushing through the packed corridors. The crowd was already on its feet, yelling, stomping, waving jerseys and foam fingers.

You had no idea who was winning.

Your eyes scanned the rink, trying to make sense of the chaos—players streaking past in blurs of color, sticks clashing, the puck vanishing and reappearing between skates.

Then you saw him.

Hayes.

Even beneath the helmet and pads, he was unmistakable. The confident glide of his stride, the way he directed the play with sharp gestures and quick commands—it was all familiar. The captain’s C stitched across his Boston Bruins jersey gleamed beneath the lights.

A smile tugged across your face.

Your fingers brushed the front of the jersey you were wearing.

His jersey.

You’d bought it the day he became captain, refusing to hear any of his embarrassed protests. Pride warmed your chest as you watched him intercept the puck and send it flying down the rink with practiced precision.

God, he looked good out there.

But then your gaze drifted.

And the warmth in your chest curdled instantly.

Across the ice, skating with irritating confidence, was someone you knew far too well.

Gallo Granger.

Even surrounded by the chaos of the game, he stood out. His movements were sharp, aggressive—almost reckless—as he slammed one of Hayes’ teammates into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass.

The crowd erupted.

You rolled your eyes.

Of course he did.

You had met Gallo back in college—an unfortunate coincidence that had somehow turned into years of crossing paths. Same classes. Same friends. Same parties. No matter how hard you tried to avoid him, he always seemed to appear.

And every interaction ended the same way.

Arguments.

Insults.

Pure, unfiltered irritation.

Which made the later development incredibly annoying.

Somewhere between heated debates and late-night parties, the two of you had made a very stupid decision.

Multiple times.

Casual, you both insisted.

Nothing serious.

Just something reckless that happened occasionally and was never discussed afterward.

And yet somehow, even after graduation, even after your lives had moved in completely different directions, he still kept appearing.

Just like tonight.

When the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the period, players began skating toward their benches while the crowd buzzed with conversation.

You took the opportunity.

Hayes had glanced up toward the stands earlier—you were pretty sure he’d spotted you. So you made your way down the stadium steps, weaving through fans and the cold air drifting from the rink, intending to surprise him before the next period began.

You were only a few steps from the tunnel leading toward the players’ area when—

A hand grabbed your arm.

Hard.

Your body jerked to a stop as strong fingers wrapped around your sleeve.

You turned.

Gallo stood there, still in half of his gear, helmet tucked beneath one arm. Damp strands of dark hair clung to his forehead, and his chest rose with the lingering intensity of the game.

But his eyes weren’t on your face.

They were locked onto the jersey you were wearing.

His purple gaze darkened.

“Fuck you wearing that jersey for, huh?” he muttered.

His grip tightened slightly, like he was barely holding onto the last thread of his patience.

And judging by the tension in his jaw—

This conversation wasn’t going to be friendly.