ON ENEMY ICE

ELIAN The Ashford University arena is split right down the middle tonight, and the atmospheric pressure has been suffocating since warmups. Half the barn is a sea of white and gold for the Ashford Wolves. The other half is navy and silver for my team, the Northwood Eagles. Six thousand seats, a total sellout, everyone standing. This is the match everyone circles on the calendar. Old prestige versus new money. Twelve national titles versus eight in the last ten years. High-society empires separated by ninety minutes of asphalt, hating each other for two decades. It is 2-2 with four minutes left in the third period, and my lungs are burning. We came out tactical in the first, letting Ashford throw their heavy hits and chase the puck while we preserved our lines, striking on the power play when I found our winger backdoor. The second period belonged entirely to Ashford. That's Jace's territory. He doesn't look fast until he is already clearing your blue line, and he doesn't look violent until you are flat on the ice trying to force air back into your chest. He tied it with a wrister from the slot, then engineered their second goal by completely out-muscling our defenseman in the corner to feed it out front. Surgical. Clean on camera, brutal in person. Now it is the third, we are deadlocked, and this is exactly where I thrive. Tired legs, compromised brains, everyone mindlessly chasing the puck except me. The puck is in the corner, trapped on Jace's stick. My wingers crash in to close the perimeter. I don't. I hang high at the top of the circle, calculating his hips instead of the play. Everyone thinks Jace Rhys is an unbreakable monolith—this cold, wealthy heir who never yells, never brawls, and just stares until you feel entirely erased. But I know his tell. His left shoulder drops a fraction of a millimeter before he cuts inside. Always. It drops. He cuts inside, attempting to power straight through me to the net, assuming I'll yield the lane like most. I don't. I wait that extra half-beat and plant my stick cleanly on the puck, completely bypassing his body. I strip it right off his forehand and transition the other way. Behind me, I hear him exhale a sharp, frustrated hiss—that quiet, venomous sound only I am capable of drawing out of him. I fly over their blue line with speed. Their defenseman steps up because he has to respect my release. I fake high glove and he bites, sliding one step to the left. That was the only window I needed. My winger is already flooding the back post because I instructed him to anchor there during the TV timeout. I fire a no-look backhand across the crease, landing it perfectly on his tape. Tap in. Goal light. Horn. 3-2 Northwood with ninety seconds on the clock. Our half of the arena completely detonates. Their half goes utterly, violently silent. Across the blue line, Jace is standing perfectly still, his chest heaving as he glares at the red light. He doesn't slam his stick. That absolute discipline is so much worse. Then his eyes find mine, and a smirk cuts across my face before I can suppress it. That brief, catastrophic crack in his perfect mask when he realizes he was out-thought? Only I get to see it. Only I know exactly how to execute it. The final ninety seconds are a bloodbath. Ashford pulls their goalie for a six-on-five advantage. Jace unloads a one-timer with twenty seconds left that detonates against our post so hard the reverberation echoes through the glass. We hold the perimeter. Buzzer. We flood the ice, helmets off, roaring. Traditional protocol dictates the immediate handshake line. Two columns form at center ice—Northwood Eagles on one side, Ashford Wolves on the other—skating past to trade standard post-game civilties. Jace is the anchor for Ashford. I'm the anchor for Northwood. We have to lock hands. He's still fully encased in his gear, breathing hard. I'm already out of my helmet, my hair damp. His grip is ice cold when his fingers lock around mine. I flash the immaculate golden-boy smile for the cameras pressed against the glass, leaning into his space just enough to bypass the broadcast mics. "Tough night to drop a defensive line on your own ice, huh, your highness?" He doesn't break character out loud. But his jaw locks, and his eyes drop to my mouth for a dangerous fraction of a second before that lethal glare snaps back into place. Everyone else in this building sees an ice prince. I know I just landed a direct hit. He breaks the grip and skates off toward the Ashford locker room without a syllable. I retreat to ours, stripping out of my gear in record time and changing into black sweats, my Northwood Eagles hoodie, and black sneakers. Bag over my shoulder, I exit the room—but I don't head for the team bus with the rest of the roster. I navigate toward the service tunnel that feeds into the private back lot. I know his itinerary; he always exits first. The tunnel is a soundproofed vacuum. Exposed concrete walls, humming fluorescent bulbs, the thick scent of rubber and melted ice. Zero cameras. He’s striding fast toward the exit door, his duffel over his shoulder. All black. A heavy leather jacket and pristine white sneakers. I push off the concrete wall where I've been tracking his shadow, my hands buried in my hoodie pockets. "You were exceptionally quiet out there, Rhys," I say, my tone sweet, curated with that fake-concerned media voice I know rubs against his nerves. "All that family capital poured into this perfect rink, and you still let me walk right around your defense for the winner." He doesn't break his stride. "Move, Cole." I fall into lockstep directly behind him. "You know what's fascinating? The league thinks you’re an unyielding wall. The unbreakable, untouchable rich kid who never cracks under pressure. But I saw the hitch in the corner. You hesitated for a half-second because you knew exactly how I was going to dismantle your play. Was that strategic panic because of me? Or were you already calculating the lecture you're going to endure on the drive home for losing an empire's territory?" That hits the nerve. He stops dead. His shoulders go completely rigid under the black leather. I close the remaining distance between us, letting the bare tips of my fingers brush the skin of his wrist where his sleeve has ridden up. Light. A deliberate breach of his perimeter. I drop my voice to a lethal whisper right against his ear, mocking and sharp. "Look at you. So perfectly controlled. Tell me, Jace... who actually gets to see what happens when you finally break?" He snaps. He spins me in a single, fluid blur of motion, slamming my spine hard against the concrete wall, his forearm driving across my chest to cage me. Body flushed to body. His breathing is ragged, so close I can trace the sweat still cooling on his temple. "There you are," I breathe against the heat of his face. "You think my life is a playground for you?" he asks, his voice low, raw, and entirely dangerous. I lean my face closer, tilting my chin to hold his gaze, letting the smirk spread across my mouth because I know the victory is absolute. I pulled out the real Jace. The one he executes everyone else to hide. "Hmm, that entirely depends," I murmur, my pulse hammering against the pressure of his arm. "Are you going to let me play you, Jace Rhys?" We hold the position for one second too long. His forearm anchoring me to the stone, my defiance, his frantic chest cutting off my air. Then he shoves off me like my skin is toxic, forcing his shoulder through the heavy exit door without looking back. I remain pinned against the concrete for a moment, staring up at the buzzing lights with a slow, dark grin. Cold Jace is the performance he gives the world. This monster belongs exclusively to me. I follow him out into the night. The air outside is dry and freezing. The private lot is nearly deserted, the arena security lights humming overhead. A blacked-out Maybach is idling at the curb. Two security detail in tailored black suits with coiled earpieces stand flanking the chassis, hands clasped behind their backs. Their eyes don't track the environment. One steps into Jace's path as he approaches, silently extending a phone. No words are exchanged. Jace intercepts the device and presses it to his ear. I'm too far down the pavement to catch the audio. I only watch his fingers tighten around the chassis but his expression instantly transitions back into that perfect, emotionless void. He hands the device back, and the second guard wrenches open the rear passenger door. He steps inside, and the car pulls away from the curb. Through the heavy tint of the glass, I catch his eyes tracking me one final time. I don't move from the doorway light. I just stand in the cold and watch his empire take him away.