ON ENEMY ICE

CHAPTER SEVEN

ELAIN

The exterior of the venue is a total circus. Sports paparazzi fire relentless salvos of flash, voices roar over the security barricades, and camera lenses press against the heavily tinted glass of arriving sedans. The red carpet is still slick from the afternoon downpour, mirroring the chaotic grid of light overhead.

Inside, the atmospheric pressure is completely different. Quieter. Heavier. Crueler.

The Grand Hall is massive, flanked by soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers that scatter sharp light across a black marble floor laced with thin gold veins. Round dining tables are styled in immaculate white linens and black chairs bearing a gold crest. Each position is set with gold-rimmed plates, folded charcoal napkins, and deep black-and-gold floral arrangements. At the far boundary, a raised stage features sweeping gold staircases and a dark wooden podium backed by a towering LED display.

It reads NHL HOCKEY SHOWCASE 2025 - PROSPECT SHOWCASE & AWARDS GALA in sharp gold typography.

The perimeter is packed with high-stakes assets: draft prospects, league executives, and NHL players I grew up tracking on television standing by the lounge bar like standard guests. I adjust my collar, smoothing down my emerald green velvet jacket and black satin lapels.

Tian stands beside me in a textbook black tuxedo, wearing the effortless charisma of a classic high-society playboy. "There are too many cameras," he murmurs, his eyes scanning the crowd. "That's literally Marc-André. The legend himself."

"Control your perimeter. Don't go begging for an autograph," I warn him smoothly.

"I have zero intention of doing that," Tian replies, immediately filing away a strategic mental note to secure one before midnight.

We authenticate our gold QRs at the checkpoint. The hostess logs the data into her tablet and slides us our table assignments.

I lock onto him before his defense registers my presence. Across the expansive floor, anchored near the opposite wall. Jace Rhys.

He is encased in an all-black double-breasted suit, black shirt, and a black tie. His dark hair is slicked back seamlessly, a heavy silver ring catching the glare of the chandeliers. The Ashford Wolves captain looks like he was custom-built for an arena of this caliber—cold, entirely untouched, like old syndicate money that learned how to wage war. Cassian Vale and Theo Laurent flank his position, operating their black tuxedos with a level of elite comfort that makes corporate networking look like second nature.

Jace hasn't shifted his gaze toward my quadrant yet. Perfect.

We migrate into the crowd. A defenseman from Westfield intercepts Tian with a heavy clap on the shoulder—old university history, likely. A senior scout halts my line to commend my execution in the third period against Ashford. I flash the pristine golden-boy smile, deliver the calculated gratitude, and maintain my trajectory.

The overhead house lights fracture and dim as a man commands the central podium.

Michael Reynolds, Commissioner of Hockey Operations, taps the integrated microphone, his voice filling the soundproofed vacuum of the hall without effort. "Good evening, gentlemen. On behalf of the National Elite Prospects Gala board, I welcome you to the 2025 Showcase."

Applause ripples through the linen tables as Director Lena Chen joins him, her sharp navy gown cutting a pristine silhouette against the LED display. She leans into the mic. "Thank you, Commissioner. If the attendees could please secure their designated seating, the presentations will commence shortly."

Chairs scrape against the stone as the targets find their names. I locate my sector. Table Seven.

And of course, the universe operates with a sick sense of humor. JACE RHYS is printed on the card positioned directly adjacent to ELIAN COLE. Same table.

Three tables over, Tian locates his assignment, locking eyes with me across the room and mouthing a fierce, “Are you f*****g kidding me?” I offer a lazy shrug in return.

Jace breaches the table perimeter at the exact second I arrive. His grey eyes drop to the nameplate, then to my face, then back to the card as if his sheer force of will could rewrite the seating chart.

"Mmm, this level of proximity feels an awful lot like destiny, don't you think?" I chirp, keeping my voice light and toxic.

He completely erases my comment. He draws his chair back and drops into the seat. I claim mine, watching the remaining slots fill in—a freshman goalie from Lakeshore, a winger from Brentwood who stares at Jace like he’s looking at an idol, and a development camp executive who introduces himself with a polished handshake.

The table directly adjacent houses Cassian and Theo, trading quiet remarks.

But three tables over, Tian's perimeter is an absolute war zone. He has been seated directly next to Viktor Novak—the ruthless NHL veteran Tian has actively loathed since he was twelve years old, ever since Novak executed a brutal open-ice check that forced Tian's childhood hockey idol into a season-ending injury. The other NCAA prospects at the table are practically gushing over Novak, leaning into his space to fish for stories. Tian sits perfectly rigid, granting the veteran absolutely zero data. He is currently interrogating his bread roll as if it contains state secrets.

I watch Novak from across the room. He is executing subtle, predatory glances at my best friend—secretly checking him out, more like. I can’t tell if Tian is genuinely oblivious or just running a masterclass in denial. In my calculated opinion, Novak matches his exact physical profile, but I’m still not entirely convinced Tian would cross the line with a man he’s spent a decade hating. I bleed a slow smirk into the rim of my water glass. Who knows. A lot can happen in the dark before the gala ends. I'm actively betting on it.

I pivot my focus back to my immediate problem.

Jace has his mobile device deployed beneath the edge of the linen, his screen dimmed as he reviews rows of corporate data and syndicate figures. He is executing total radio silence, treating me like dead air. Classic.

It gets exceptionally boring when he plays the statue. So I initiate a breach.

Beneath the heavy tablecloth, my left hand drops from my lap, migrating past the boundary of my chair. Two fingers begin walking across the space. Light, playful, and entirely illicit. I land them directly on his thigh, right over the pristine black wool of his suit trousers.

His expression doesn't hitch by a single millisecond. He continues scrolling through the data.

I advance the fingers further. Tap, tap, tap. Persistent. Lethal. My personal specialty.

He still refuses to grant me visual confirmation, but the muscle along his jaw locks into a tight, visible tick. He’s feeling the friction.

Suppressing the dark grin threatening my media facade, I alter the trajectory, sliding my palm flat as I drive higher, nearing the junction of his thighs.

His hand strikes under the table like a viper. His cold fingers lock around my wrist with enough force to halt my circulation, pinning me cold. Probably a necessary defensive measure; I was getting a fraction too reckless.

Jace finally breaks his line of sight, those dead, bottomless eyes locking into mine. No one at Table Seven can see the physical deadlock beneath the cloth.

"Stop," he mouths silently, his lips barely moving.

I lean my upper body closer, simulating a casual reach for my crystal water glass.

"No," I whisper against his ear.

He drops my hand from his lap like it’s a spent shell, releasing the grip before returning his thumb to the screen of his phone.