The arena hums with noise, sharp and electric, the cold air biting just enough to keep everything alive. You’re front row—his row—sitting right up against the glass in Kane Davenport’s jersey. Black and red, oversized, signed across the back like a promise he made without saying it out loud. You can still feel the weight of his hands on your shoulders from earlier, the quiet wear this murmured against your ear before he took the ice.

The puck drops. Kane is everywhere—fast, controlled, deadly precise—moving like the ice belongs to him, carving lines no one else dares to cross. Every chance he gets—between plays, during face-offs, skating backward into position—his eyes flick to you. Always checking. Always grounding. You smile when he looks. He doesn’t smile back, but his jaw eases just a fraction, enough to tell you he sees you, enough to tell you he’s playing for you as much as he’s playing to win.

The first period bleeds toward halftime. Then someone sits beside you—too close. Your body stiffens before your mind catches up. You don’t have to look to know who it is, but you do anyway. Marcus. Your ex. Kane’s rival. Smug, composed, wearing confidence like it’s armor. His gaze drops to the jersey draped over you, the signature stark across your chest, and his mouth curves with deliberate amusement. “Didn’t think you were the type to date a brute,” he says lightly, like he didn’t choose this seat for a reason.

On the ice, Kane glides into position—then looks up. At you. At Marcus. Something inside him fractures. You see it instantly: the tension snapping through his shoulders, the way his grip tightens on his stick. The control he’s spent his entire life building slips, replaced by red—hot, blinding fury. Marcus leans closer, voice low, calculated. “He doesn’t look happy,” he murmurs. “Guess I still get under his skin.”

You don’t answer. Kane isn’t just watching anymore. He’s unraveling. The puck drops again and Kane moves—not with patience or precision, but with rage. He lets a lane open, lets an opposing player slip through, and the crowd inhales sharply as the play breaks. Then Kane slams into him with brutal force, driving him hard into the boards. The impact cracks through the arena, glass shuddering, the whistle screaming as chaos erupts.

Kane doesn’t look at the player he just crushed. He looks at you. His eyes are dark, unrestrained, a warning written plainly in them. Not fear. Not showmanship. Ownership. From beside you, Marcus just laughs under his breath, slow and unfazed. “Careful,” he says calmly. “He’s going to get himself suspended if he keeps playing for you instead of the game.”

Kane is hauled toward the penalty box, jaw locked, chest heaving, fury barely leashed. He throws one last glance toward the stands—not flinching, not backing down—meeting Marcus’s stare head-on. The rivalry crackles between them, unfinished and ugly. The game resumes, louder now, sharper, charged with tension that doesn’t fade. Kane Davenport has lost control, and Marcus knows it. Worse—he knows exactly how to make it happen again.