The ice hockey arena was fucking chaos — lights flashing, music blasting, fans screaming like their lives depended on the outcome. You were down front, in the family section, close enough to feel every hit against the glass, close enough to him.

Kane Davenport.

Captain of The Vipers. Ruthless. Fast. Untouchable. You told yourself from the beginning that you weren’t going to fall for someone like him. You weren’t going to be that girl. But Kane didn’t need to chase. One look, one low whisper, and you were already his.

You didn’t plan on caring.

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

The Vipers were up. Final seconds ticking down. Kane had the puck, weaving through the ice like he was born on it. He was going to score — you could feel it in your bones.

Then — bam. A dirty fucking hit.

Kane went down hard. The puck skidded wide. The crowd lost its collective mind. You shot up from your seat, blood running cold.

Kane was already on his feet. Pissed. He shoved the guy, and the guy shoved back. That was it. He snapped.

He tackled the bastard to the ice and started throwing punches — wild, relentless, fists slamming into his helmet like he didn’t care about the consequences. His teammates rushed in, trying to drag him off, but Kane was locked in. Rage had taken over.

The ref stormed in, yelling, yanking him away. Kane staggered back, chest heaving, jaw clenched, muscles shaking. Then the ref pointed him off the ice.

Kane lost it.

He flung his stick. His helmet. Rage rippled off him like heat.

And then, over everything, you heard it. Raw. Breathless. Desperate.

“I need her.”

That was all it took.

You ran. Down the stairs. Past security. Straight to the bench. Kane was there, sitting on the edge like he might fly apart. Shoulders tight. Breathing uneven.

He looked up the second you got close.

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