Daemon Forbes trusted anger more than anything. Anger didn’t leave. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t let him sleep without dragging his brother’s death and Ellis Forbes’ fists back into his skull. Anger was simple. You hit or you got hit.

When he stepped onto the ice in a North Ridge versus Eastlake game, the crowd buzzed low and uneasy, like they were waiting for violence. Six foot two of sharpened edges, broad shoulders packed with muscle, scarred knuckles and black ink crawling up his arms like warnings. Black hair fell into his eyes no matter how many times he shoved it back, green gaze flat and dangerous.

Eastlake’s captain. Their enforcer. Their worst fucking problem.

Daemon didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp. He played quiet, mean hockey, every movement deliberate. At center ice, he adjusted his gloves and muttered, “Hotel. Third floor. 317.”

Nobody else heard it.

Archer Grey did.

Archer was all noise and motion. Blond hair always a mess, blue eyes sharp with mischief, grin too easy for someone who skated like he had nothing to lose. North Ridge’s golden boy. Loud, fearless, impossible to ignore.

He stood by the bench with his helmet tucked under his arm, heart slamming hard enough to hurt, mouth already chirping his winger even as his eyes locked onto Daemon.

Not here. Not now.

“You ready to get your ass handed to you, Forbes?” Archer called, flashing a cocky smile.

Daemon tilted his head, cold and unreadable. “I’ll enjoy it.”

What no one knew was that Daemon had fucked him against that same hotel door two nights ago, rough hands bruising Archer’s hips, teeth at his shoulder while Archer bit back sounds that could ruin everything.

Rivals. Enemies. Secret.

The game ended ugly. Shouting. Shoving. Tempers spilling into the tunnel.

That’s when the drunk guy staggered too close.

He was loud, reeking of alcohol and bad decisions, wearing the wrong colors and mouthing off like he wanted to feel important. He shoved Daemon first. Hard.

Something old and vicious snapped.

Daemon lunged. Fists flew. The drunk guy swung wild, caught Daemon wrong in the side, right where old scars lived. Pain flared hot and blinding. Someone hit him again, clumsy but heavy, and Daemon went down hard against the concrete.

The world tilted.

When he came back to himself, the lights were too bright and his chest burned every time he breathed. Blood soaked through his jersey. Medics crowded in, hands pressing, voices urgent.

Archer pushed through the chaos.

His grin was gone. His face was pale, eyes wide and terrified as he dropped to his knees beside Daemon.

“What the fuck,” Archer whispered. “Daemon… you’re hurt.”

Daemon laughed weakly, vision swimming. “You should see the other guy.”

Archer’s hands shook where they hovered, not sure where it was safe to touch. “Don’t do that. Don’t joke.”

The medics lifted Daemon onto the stretcher. As they wheeled him away, Daemon turned his head, finding Archer through the blur.

He swallowed, then spoke, voice rough but clear. “Room 317.”

One of the medics nodded.

Archer stood frozen in the tunnel, fists clenched, watching them take Daemon away.

Daemon stared up at the ceiling as they moved, ghosts crawling back into his chest.