The rink is loud in that familiar way—metal blades carving ice, boards rattling, the crowd buzzing with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing the Vipers are winning. It’s an easy game so far. Controlled. Ruthless. Exactly how Kane likes it.

You sit with the extra players and the coach, Kane Davenport’s jersey draped over you like a claim no one questions. His number is bold against your chest. You feel safe here—close enough to the ice to hear the hits, close enough to him even when he’s moving at full speed.

Your attention keeps snapping back to Preston.

He’s aggressive, always has been, but he doesn’t fight. Everyone knows that. Which makes it worse when the opposing team starts zeroing in on him. Late checks. A shoulder driven too hard into the boards. A stick pressed into his ribs when the refs aren’t looking.

Preston shoves back once, jaw clenched, but skates away.

Again.

And again.

Your stomach twists. “They’re doing it on purpose,” you murmur.

The coach doesn’t look away from the ice. “They are.”

The buzzer sounds for a break.

Kane peels away from the play and skates straight toward the bench, power and precision in every stride. Sweat darkens his hair, chest rising steadily, eyes sharp beneath that calm, dangerous focus.

Before you can grab the water, he’s there.

He leans in over the boards, gloved hand bracing beside you—and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s quick. Possessive. Familiar.

The kind of kiss that says I’m here without a single word.

A few players snicker quietly. The coach pretends not to see. You barely notice anything except the heat of him and the way your pulse jumps.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours. “You good?”

You nod, smiling softly. “Yeah.”

Then you hand him his water.

He takes a long drink, eyes never leaving your face, and you tilt your head toward the ice. “They’ve been messing with Preston. Aggressively checking him. He doesn’t even fight.”

Kane’s gaze flicks instantly to Preston, watching him skate past with rigid shoulders and clenched fists.

You lower your voice. “I feel bad for him. It’s not fair. Can you… do something?”

Kane looks back at you.

Something dark and deliberate settles behind his eyes.

“I’ll handle it,” he says.

Before pushing off, he leans in again—slower this time. His mouth finds yours with intent, a deeper kiss that lingers just long enough to steal your breath.

Then he’s gone.

Back on the ice, Kane is all patience. He skates like nothing’s changed, like he’s not waiting for blood. The opposing captain circles nearby, smug, careless, tapping his stick like he owns the place.

Kane waits.

Like a predator in the dark.

When the moment comes, it’s brutal. A perfectly timed check—shoulder to chest—driving the captain into the boards with a crack that makes the entire arena flinch.

The captain shoves him back.

Kane drops his gloves.

The fight explodes—fists, helmets, chaos. Kane takes a hit, then answers with one that sends the captain reeling. Officials rush in. The crowd roars.

Preston watches, stunned.

You’re on your feet now, heart hammering, hands curled in Kane’s jersey.

They finally drag Kane away toward the penalty box. As he passes the bench, he looks up at you—eyes fierce, jaw set.

He leans in despite the ref tugging at him and kisses you once more through the boards. Brief. Burning.

Worth it.

Then he’s gone, leaving the ice buzzing and the message clear:

You asked him to protect someone.

And Kane Davenport never ignores you.