Revenge On The Ice

I loved him before I even knew what love was. Gavin Woodswork. His name had been my heartbeat since I was sixteen, my dreams tethered to his like a thread I thought could never break. I cheered from the stands as he skated across the ice, a golden halo of talent and charm. I was there through every goal, every trophy, every moment that cemented him as a star. And I had thought… I had believed… that meant something. Until the day I found him in our bed. The sunlight was weak, pale, creeping through the blinds, as if even the world was ashamed to witness what had happened. I froze at the doorway, stomach twisting, heart pounding so violently it hurt. There they were. Gavin, my Gavin, tangled in the sheets with my best friend. Her laughter—my best friend—cut through me like a knife. And then the real dagger hit: the way Gavin looked at her, not ashamed, not hesitant, but like he’d been waiting for this moment all along. I should have screamed. I should have thrown something. But all I could do was stand there, rooted to the spot, as the life I had built for us crumbled in front of me. “I… I…” My voice caught. I didn’t even know what I was trying to say. Gavin turned, finally noticing me, and the smug, careless smile that spread across his face was like fire on dry paper. “Oriana,” he said, like I was a minor inconvenience. “It’s not what it—” Don’t. Even. Try. My knees threatened to give way. I stumbled back, clutching the doorframe, trying to keep myself from collapsing. I saw my reflection in the full-length mirror across the room: my eyes swollen from holding back tears, hair a mess, blouse wrinkled from the panic of rushing in. I looked like a fool. And everyone knew it. Because of course, everyone would know. By the next morning, it felt like the whole city had seen it. My friends stopped calling. My phone didn’t ring. Social media exploded with rumors. And there it was: me, Oriana Bay, the girl who loved too much, reduced to a punchline. Years of devotion, years of unshakable loyalty, gone in a single, violent moment. I packed a bag that night and left without a word. I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at her, couldn’t bear the whispers that followed me down the street. The apartment I had imagined building our life in suddenly felt like a mausoleum, a tomb of memories that belonged to someone else. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I had to get away. I ended up in a small, dimly lit apartment downtown, the kind where the walls smelled faintly of smoke and sadness. I kept my head down, kept to myself, and tried to swallow the ache in my chest. It wasn’t enough. Because the world has a way of throwing gasoline on a fire that’s already burning. I met him at the charity gala—a mistake, though I didn’t realize it at first. Coulten Finley. The man Gavin idolized. The name alone made my stomach twist. He was everything Gavin could never be: untouchable, dangerous, powerful. A hockey legend whose fame eclipsed every arena Gavin had ever played in. And I—still raw, still broken—managed to spill an entire glass of red wine across his crisp, white shirt. The sound of liquid hitting fabric was deafening in my ears. “Oh my God—I’m so sorry!” I gasped, fumbling for napkins. My hands shook. My cheeks burned, not just from embarrassment but from the way his gaze pinned me to the spot. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. His eyes—ice blue and lethal—saw everything. They saw the mess, the panic, the tremor in my body, and they didn’t offer mercy. Instead, he grabbed my arm. Firm. Unyielding. And led me to a private room, away from the crowd, away from prying eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, voice low, a growl that vibrated in my chest. “I—I didn’t mean—” My words fell apart. My knees buckled under the weight of shame and fear. I wanted to disappear, to crawl under the nearest table and vanish. “Look at me,” he said, and I did, trembling. And I broke. All of it—every ounce of hurt, every betrayal, every laugh at my expense—came tumbling out in a torrent of tears and raw confessions. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years, and he… he didn’t look away. He didn’t judge. Not at first. Then came the dangerous part. He stepped closer. His hand brushed against mine, deliberately, and I flinched. His presence was suffocating, intoxicating. The anger in his eyes shifted, softened… but only slightly. “You’re a mess,” he said, his tone almost amused now, but there was steel beneath it. “And you’re going to pay for making me feel pity.” Pity? My chest tightened. “I’m not—” “Shh.” He pressed a finger to my lips. “Not yet. I’m not done with you.” Something dark and thrilling twisted in my stomach. Fear. Desire. Hatred. All wrapped into one impossible knot. I wanted to hate him. I should have. But there was something in the way he loomed, the way he dominated the space, the way his gaze drilled into me—it was like he could see through every lie I’d ever told myself. “I…” I choked on my own words, “I don’t even know you.” “No,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk that sent shivers down my spine, “you don’t. But I’m about to change that.” And just like that, heartbreak had a face. I should have walked away. I should have run. But I didn’t. Because in that moment, something dangerous began. Something I couldn’t stop, couldn’t resist. Something that whispered: revenge is sweet… and love? Love was never part of the plan.