Love on ice

chapter 4

Grayson POV

The locker room felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was just me. The air carried the familiar cocktail of sweat, liniment, and disinfectant, but beneath it I caught the faint metallic tang of nerves. Guys went through their rituals — sticks being taped, skates tightened, the low chatter of voices that tried to sound confident.

I sat in my stall, ribs bound so tight I could barely draw a full breath. Every movement reminded me of last game’s hit, but there wasn’t a chance in hell I was sitting this one out. Pain didn’t matter. Winning did.

“Are you sure you’re cleared?” Jensen dropped onto the bench across from me, adjusting his shin pads. His tone wasn’t mocking for once, just edged with curiosity.

“Cleared enough,” I muttered, pulling my jersey down over the pads.

He smirked. “ You told the doc to tape you up and shut up.”

I didn’t bother denying it. My focus was locked on the rows of helmets gleaming under the fluorescent lights. One of them was mine, waiting, daring me to pick it up and step onto the ice like I hadn’t been cracked open a week ago.

The coach barked something about discipline, about cutting off penalties before they killed us like last game. His words blurred at the edges. I heard them, but the fire pounding in my chest was louder.

Discipline. Right. Tell that to the ribs still aching from a cheap shot no ref cared enough to call.

I clenched my jaw, taping my stick slow and deliberate.

“You’ve got that storm look,” Jensen said, pulling on his gloves.

I shot him a flat glance. “What storm look?”

“The one where you’re about to tear through the boards just to shut the crowd up.”

A couple guys chuckled. Even the captain cracked a half-smile, but his gaze warned me to keep it reined in.

I didn’t answer. Talking wasted air I needed.

The buzzer overhead snapped us out of our stalls. Skates clattered against the floor, sticks tapped in rhythm as we filed toward the tunnel. The noise from the arena leaked through the concrete walls, swelling louder with each step.

And then the light hit.

The tunnel spilled us out into the roar of the crowd. Spotlights flashed across the rink, music vibrating through the boards, fans on their feet with banners and jerseys in every direction. That kind of energy punched straight into your veins.

I rolled my shoulders, testing the ribs under the armor of pads. Fire licked along the bruises, but I forced it aside. The pain was mine to own, not to share.

On the ice, the first warm-up laps always felt like slipping into another world — blades biting into the surface, the cold rushing up through every stride, the rhythm of the puck snapping against sticks.

My lungs stretched against the tape. My focus narrowed.

Game on.

The first period dropped like a hammer.

Our opening shift set the tone — fast, punishing, no room to breathe. The other team came hard, checking early, trying to knock the rhythm out of us before we could settle in. I welcomed it. Every hit, every shove along the boards, reminded me I was still here.

“Keep your head up, Wood!” Jensen barked from across the ice as I took the puck through neutral zone traffic.

I snapped a pass clean to the wing, ribs twinging with the twist. The play broke toward their net, but their goalie swallowed the shot. Whistle.

I circled back toward the bench, crowd noise swelling like thunder. Somewhere in the avalanche of sound, something tugged at me faintly, almost imagined.

A shift later, I felt it again. Not the pain. Not the adrenaline. Something else, brushing at the edge of focus.

I shoved it down, digging harder into the play.

Their forward came barreling in on me near the blue line. I met him square, shoulder to chest, and the boards shuddered with the collision. The crowd roared. I didn’t budge, though my ribs screamed. He skated off slower than he came in.

“Hell yeah!” Jensen clapped my back when we crossed the bench.

But his grin blurred in my vision. My ears filled with the rush of blood, my chest burning hotter than it should. Not from pain. From… something else.

The next few shifts turned into a grind. End to end, checks flying, sticks chopping at gloves. The refs let us play, whistles swallowed, and the game tilted into the kind of brawl they called “old-time hockey.”

I thrived on that. Controlled chaos.

But every time the play slowed, every time the whistle blew and I skated circles waiting for the drop, I felt it. A prickle along the back of my neck. A current threading under the noise.

Eyes.

Someone watching.

The idea hit and wouldn’t let go.

I tried to shake it, locking into the coach’s shouts, the assignments barked down the bench. Defense tight. Keep the sticks up. Don’t give them the power play.

But the sensation only deepened. I couldn’t see through the blur of faces in the stands, the sea of jerseys, the waving arms. Still, I knew. Someone out there had their eyes pinned to me like a hook.

The end of the first period buzzed overhead, both benches spilling toward the tunnels.

My ribs pulsed with each stride. My lungs fought the tape. But none of that kept my thoughts from drifting to the stands I hadn’t really seen yet.

I didn’t want to admit it, but part of me already knew. That same pull from last game. The one that cut through blood, sweat, and noise.

I clenched my stick harder, jaw tight.

This was going to be trouble.