The arena lights buzzed to life one by one, turning the ice into a blinding white stage. The Wolves were already on their half, skating sharp, aggressive circles. Kane Harlow stood at center ice like a king surveying conquered territory. Tall, broad, with a cruel handsomeness sharpened by grief, his dark eyes found me the moment I stepped onto the ice. A slow, predatory smile curved his mouth.
I felt it like a blade pressed to my throat.
Warm-ups were brutal. Caleb stayed close—closer than captaincy required—his presence a constant shadow at my back. Every time I took a shot or made a tight turn, I felt his gaze. Every time Kane shouted something across the red line, Caleb’s jaw clenched so hard I heard the grind of his teeth.
“Eyes up, Jones,” Caleb muttered during a drill, skating bes
