Romance on ice

Serena’s POV Three years ago, I promised myself I would never set foot in a hockey arena again. Yet, here I was, standing outside the Blackridge Titans training facility. My medical bag felt heavy against my chest as I stared up at the massive building, which felt like it was staring right back at me. Players were pouring through the doors, gear slung over their shoulders. Coaches were shouting into phones. Near the entrance, a group of reporters was practically shoving microphones into the faces of anyone wearing a Titans jacket. In Blackridge, hockey wasn’t just a sport. It was a religion, and I was about to walk straight into its temple. My phone buzzed in my hand. Mom. I stepped to the side to answer. “Hey, Mom.” “Did you make it there okay?” “I’m here.” “Good.” There was a pause—the kind that was far too deliberate to be casual. “The electricity bill is due this Friday.” Of course it was. There was always another bill waiting. “I know. I’ll take care of it.” “And your brother’s medication... it’s running low.” I closed my eyes for a moment. The biting cold air hit my face, and for a single second, I let myself acknowledge just how exhausted I really was. “I’ll handle that, too,” I promised. Her voice softened. “You always do.” She meant it as a compliment, but it still felt like a weight settling on my chest. After my brother’s career ended, our house changed. It learned a new, heavy kind of silence. Dad was constantly working double shifts, Mom was perpetually worried, and my brother—the boy who used to fill every room with noise—would go days without saying a single word. Someone had to keep us afloat. That someone had to be me, which was exactly why I couldn't walk away from this job, no matter how much I wanted to turn around and run. “I have to go, Mom. Love you.” I hung up, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the gate. The security guard looked up from his tablet. “Name?” “Serena Blake. I’m the new physical therapist.” He scrolled through his screen, nodded, and waved me through. The second I stepped inside, the noise hit me like a wall. Whistles, shouting, and then—the sound I’d hoped I’d never hear again: the sharp, rhythmic scrape of skates cutting into ice. My stomach did a nervous flip, but I kept walking. I followed the sound down a long hallway until it opened up to the rink. I stopped just behind the glass. The Titans were mid-practice. They moved with a speed that was almost impossible to track—a blur of black jerseys, the sudden c***k of the puck, and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the boards. I hated how beautiful it looked. I hated that I still understood why people were obsessed with it. Then, I saw him. I didn't know his name yet, but I could tell the entire rink seemed to revolve around him. When he called for the puck, it found him. When he surged forward, his teammates instinctively cleared a path. Even the coaches on the bench were watching him, as if he were the only person actually on the ice. Suddenly, a defender slammed into him at full speed. I flinched at the impact. The defender stumbled back, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. The man didn't even blink. He turned, and I saw a streak of blood on his eyebrow. He dragged his glove across it, smearing red across the black leather, and just kept skating as if nothing had happened. Idiot, I thought. Concussions don't care how tough you think you are. Ninety seconds later, he took a pass at center ice, sliced through three defenders like they weren't even there, and hammered the puck into the net. The staff along the glass went wild. His teammates swarmed him in a celebratory pile. He barely reacted. He just tapped his stick against the ice once, as if scoring were nothing more than a tedious chore he had finally completed. The whistle blew, signaling the end of practice. As the players drifted toward the benches, the man pulled off his helmet, pushing damp, dark hair away from his forehead. For one brief, unguarded moment, his shoulders slumped, and his face went slack with pure exhaustion. It was a look I recognized instantly. It looked like something heavy had been weighing him down for a very long time. I saw that same look in my own mirror every morning. Then, it was gone. His expression turned blank and granite-hard, like someone had flipped a switch. That moment wasn't meant for anyone to see. “Who is that?” I asked the woman standing next to me. She was wearing a staff lanyard and clutching a stack of folders. She followed my gaze. “Damien Volkov,” she said, her voice careful, the way you’d speak about something volatile. “Captain of the Titans.” Down on the ice, Damien was mid-argument with a coach who looked twice his age. The coach was turning red, but Damien stood perfectly still, arms folded, completely unfazed. Cocky. Reckless. Exactly the type of trouble I avoid, I decided. As if he’d heard me, Damien turned his head. Across the entire width of the rink, through the thick glass, his eyes locked onto mine. They were pale and piercing, holding me captive for one long, unreadable second. I was the one who looked away first. I hated myself for it. “If I were you,” the woman beside me whispered, “I would stay far away from him.” “Why?” But she was already walking away, clutching her folders to her chest. Before I could catch up, a young staffer appeared at my side. “Serena Blake? The medical director is ready for you.” “That’s me.” He led me down the corridor. Halfway there, he muttered, almost to himself, “That’s strange.” “What is?” “Captain Volkov never looks at anyone. He doesn’t even look at the owner.” I glanced back one last time. Damien Volkov was still standing alone on the ice, helmet in hand, watching the hallway where I had just disappeared. For some reason I couldn't quite explain, I felt his gaze all the way down the hall.