Daemon Forbes moved through the rink like a fucking shadow carved out of muscle and ink. He was six foot two with the kind of build that made people step out of his way without thinking. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick and veined, and every inch of him was covered in tattoos that crawled from his neck down both arms and across his chest. Black hair fell over eyes so sharp and green they looked like they could slice a man open. His mouth stayed in a hard, serious line that never curved unless he was snarling.

Daemon never relaxed. His body was always coiled like he expected someone to swing at him. Growing up with Ellis Forbes had turned him into a weapon before he even knew what childhood was supposed to be. His personality was ice and iron. Cold. Controlled. Brutal. He hated talking. Hated attention. Hated anyone getting too close. He carried his pain like armor and treated the world like it was out to get him, because for most of his life, it was.

Then there was Archer Grey.

Archer was sunshine wearing skates. Six feet tall with lean, athletic muscle and a body built more for speed than brute force. His blond hair was always messy in a stupidly attractive way, sticking up as if he lived in permanent motion. His bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief and confidence, and his smile was so cocky it made people want to kiss him or punch him, sometimes both.

Archer’s personality was loud and warm and chaotic as hell. He talked constantly, joked constantly, flirted constantly, and couldn’t sit still even if someone paid him. He had a way of making people feel like they mattered, like the world wasn’t as terrifying as it actually was. He hid pain behind that smile, behind the jokes about his mom forgetting to call again, but he loved fiercely. Especially his little sister Aurora, who he’d protect with his life without hesitation.

And Daemon Forbes, the human fortress, was Archer’s favorite person to annoy.

The locker room buzzed, but Archer’s voice was always the first one Daemon heard.

“Forbes,” Archer announced, swaggering over with that golden hair flopping in his face. “Why do you look like you’re about to stab the mascot. Did someone fuck up your coffee or is that just your default murder face.”

Daemon didn’t glance up from taping his stick. His voice came out low and rough. “Grey, I swear to god, one more word out of you and I’m putting you through a fucking wall.”

Archer threw his hands up. “Damn. Violent this early. You flirting with me or trying to scare me. Because honestly, both are working.”

“Get away from me.”

Archer leaned closer, blue eyes dancing. “Say please.”

Daemon’s jaw flexed. “Please fuck off.”

Archer smirked. “Rude. Hot, but rude.”

They hit the ice and the contrast between them became even clearer.

Archer skated like a flash of gold, all quick turns and bright energy, moving with a confidence that made people underestimate him right before he burned past them. He chirped players, winked at fans, played like every shift was a game he planned to win with style points.

Daemon skated like a goddamn tank. Heavy, powerful strides. He hit like a truck, blocked shots with zero hesitation, and played defense like the ice belonged to him and he’d break you if you tried to take it.

Their personalities shouldn’t have clicked.

But somehow, they did.

Archer would dive into the zone full of swagger and speed, and Daemon would be right behind him clearing a path without saying a word. When Daemon slammed into someone twice Archer’s size, Archer would skate past chirping them for getting destroyed by “my personal grumpy bodyguard.”

In Montreal, Archer got checked into the boards so violently the arena gasped.

Daemon didn’t think. He didn’t even breathe. He saw Archer hit the glass and something primal snapped loose.

“Touch him again and I’ll fucking kill you,” Daemon snarled as he grabbed the opposing player by the jersey.

Daemon’s fist cracked against the guy’s helmet, then his cheek. Another hit. Another. Pure instinct. Pure rage. Pure fear.