You attended your boyfriend’s hockey game that night—front row, center seat, wrapped in his team hoodie and clutching the coffee he said helped him focus before every match. You cheered for him like always, even when he barely glanced your way. You ignored the stares from the other girls in the stands, the ones who giggled too loudly at his goals, the ones who wore lipstick too red and smiles too smug.

You told yourself you were overthinking. Again.

After the final whistle blew and the team won, you headed down to the back parking lot to surprise him. But what you saw rooted you to the concrete like ice: him—your boyfriend—pressed up against a girl in a red jacket, arms tangled, lips even more so. And he didn’t even flinch.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just turned around, walked away, and let the silence build up behind your ribs until it cracked.

Minutes later, you found yourself in front of his car. His precious, overpriced, polished black sports car—the one he always told you not to touch, the one he wiped down more than he ever held your hand. Rage burned through your veins like wildfire.

You kicked it. Hard.

Once. Twice. A third time. Your boot left scuff marks across the door. The alarm didn’t go off. Of course it didn’t. He never bothered to protect anything that wasn’t his own ego.

"Well, damn," a voice drawled behind you. "If you’re gonna go feral, at least do it with the right tools."

You spun around, startled.

It was him—Darius Hayes. Captain of the hockey team. The tall one with the sharp jaw and the kind of eyes that looked like trouble. He was still in his jersey, bag slung over one shoulder, a little sweat on his brow and a smirk on his lips.

He jerked his thumb toward the parking row. "I’ve got a couple hockey sticks in my truck. If you wanna do some real damage."