SCORED HER HEART, NOT THE PUCK.

ICE FOUR: JUST BEFORE MY DOWNFALL.

THANE'S POV:

The world outside was screaming my name.

Not literally. But the way the crowd roared, the way camera flashes went off like fireflies on adrenaline—it might as well have been. The arena was packed shoulder to shoulder, each person holding their breath for history to happen. My history.

And I was about to make damn sure it did.

I stood in the far corner of my private prep room, still pacing, my blades not yet laced but my heart already sprinting. I ran a gloved hand through my slightly tousled hair, still damp from the pre-game warm-up. My jersey clung to my chest.

The overhead light buzzed, and the faint murmur of the pre-game broadcast filled every corner of the place.

Outside the tall window, the stadium looked like it had come alive. Seats pulsed with excitement. I tilted my chin and moved closer toward the window. The thick glass buzzed faintly, trying to muffle the roars from outside, but it barely contained it. Flags waved like desperate hands. Fans wore my jersey, screaming with faces painted, hearts in their throats.

They loved me.

Some of them had followed my journey since I was a rookie with too much rage and not enough control. Tonight, they’d see me become a legend.

My fingers twitched.

This was it. My day. My legacy.

Most importantly, my family was here to witness the day. The same people who scoffed when I told them I’d turn hockey into my empire. They had spent most of their lives pretending hockey was a frostbitten phase. Just something I’d outgrow before I tucked my tie into a boardroom and became a “real man” like my father and brother. Just a frozen dream that wouldn’t survive the heat of adulthood.

There was a time—long ago—when I almost quit. When all this felt too heavy. Too impossible. But not tonight. Tonight, I owned it.

But tonight, they were here. Front row seats, in the VIP box, finally saw me not as the reckless son who traded Armani for armor, but as the man who turned frost into fire.

Well—not all of them.

There was one exception. One man who never asked me to change.

The door creaked open behind me, and I turned to face that man. He always walked into every room, like he already owned it.

Vaughan.

“Goddamn, you made it,” I muttered, but it came out choked.

He leaned against the wall, dressed in a dark coat over a steel-grey shirt that brought out the sharpness in his features. The man looked like every dream my father ever had. Groomed. Grounded. The kind of man who had built a name in the family’s business and didn’t flinch when the world bowed. But even with all that, his eyes—warm, proud, unwavering—were on me.

Not the captain. Not the record-breaker. Just Thane, his younger brother.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” he said with a smirk.

“I might.”

Vaughan laughed, deep and smooth, and crossed the room in two strides. His arms wrapped around me in those short, brotherly squeeze—rough hands on my back, solid like iron. “You’re going to break that ice in half tonight. And they’ll never forget your name. I’m proud of you, man.”

That was all the encouragement I needed to reignite that blazing fire that pushed me to always win.

Coming from him? It felt like everything I never knew I was waiting to hear. He didn’t just support me. He believed in me when nobody else did. While I was chasing pucks and bruises, Vaughan had run our father’s empire like he was born for it. Married at thirty-three, two beautiful kids—Zoey and Max—who thought I hung the moon. His wife, Elise, was grace incarnate. And then there was me—twenty-eight, allergic to commitment, married only to my skates.

But Vaughan never judged me for it. Never asked me to be more like him.

Maybe that’s why I loved him like hell.

“I’ll see you after you make history,” he said, squeezing my shoulder before heading for the door.

“Hey, Vaughan,” I called, just before he stepped out.

He turned.

“Thanks. For always being in my corner.”

His smile was soft. “Where else would I be?”

And just like that, he was gone. Taking a bit of my nerves with him.

I let the silence settle for a breath before tightening the laces on my skates, grabbing my helmet—and pausing. Just for a second. My chest felt tight. Not pain exactly, just... compressed. Like the air wasn’t sitting right in my lungs.

I shook it off. Nerves, maybe. Too much adrenaline too early. I stood, rolled my shoulders back, and pushed through the door to the locker room.

When I pushed the door open, the atmosphere changed.

My team looked up the second I walked in. Conversations died. Postures straightened. They saw the fire in my eyes. They felt it.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” I said.

We gathered near the whiteboard, heads bowed in. The dry-erase board still held tonight’s game plan, marker lines snaking like battle maps. Every detail has been studied, dissected, and absorbed.

Tape rustled. Sticks clacked. Someone dropped a water bottle. I reviewed the game plan—pointing to the weaknesses we knew the other team carried, the blind spots we’d worked weeks to exploit. Everyone was focused. Locked in.

No one fidgeted. No nervous twitching. We were past nerves. This was the purpose now.

Then came the circle — the final huddle. Each of us reached in, fists layered like bricks.

“Together.”

“Always."

“Bleed.”

“Blue.”

We broke. Shouted. Roared.

Helmet in hand, I turned on my heel. The tunnel glowed ahead, leading straight to the rink. And I ran toward it. Because history wasn’t going to wait—and neither was the man I’d fought like hell to become.

The atmosphere buzzed, blades scratching faintly against the ice, fans vibrating the seats with their cheers.

I was just about to step onto the rink, skates poised on the edge, when my throat burned with a sudden, dry tightness. I couldn’t ignore it. I turned, scanning for water. That was when I saw her.

One of the medics near the bench, maybe twenty-three, with her hair sticking out from beneath her cap, clutching a plastic water bottle. Her eyes locked on mine. She didn’t move at first. Just stared—like she’d seen a ghost.

Then she exploded.

“Oh my God—OH MY GOD IT’S REALLY YOU!” she shrieked, her voice already struggling to keep up with her excitement. “Thane Slade. The hockey King!” she bellowed, clutching her chest, hopping up and down. Her cap flew off her head, but she didn’t care. “You’re gonna destroy them, I swear! I can’t believe I’m about to witness this greatness,” she breathed out, almost like she’d been holding her excitement in for too long.

Swallowing hard, she extended a slightly trembling hand. “I’m Madison Wallace. One of your biggest fans.”

I’ve met dozens like her before—wide-eyed, breathless, claiming to be lifelong supporters. Most of them weren’t. By the end of the night, they'd end up tangled in my sheets, their so-called admiration just a way in.

I didn’t take her hand. Didn’t even acknowledge the introduction before she completely combusted from whatever fire was building in her chest. Instead, I stepped past her, snatched the bottle from her trembling grip, and downed it like I’d just staggered in from the Sahara.

Cold. Rushed. The water hit my throat fast. Too fast.

Something in the back of my mind pricked—

Bad etiquette. Off routine. I knew it.

I ignored it. My body had felt weird all day. Maybe this would help. I wiped my mouth with the back of my glove, exhaling through my nose. Madison was still trembling like she’d just brushed against a god. Her eyes were practically shimmering with tears, probably not believing that I was standing in front of her as she lowered her hands.

“Thanks,” I muttered, waving her off with a crooked smile and the smallest tilt of my chin. She squealed and spun in a circle like she’d just touched the sun.

My teammates glanced at me, but no one said anything because they wouldn't dare.

I skated onto the ice.

The world slowed for a heartbeat.

The lights hit me. The roaring crowd turned into a wall of sound. The air in the rink turned electric—like it was waiting. I circled once, stretching out my limbs, feeling the way the blades gripped the surface. My name echoed somewhere in the distance.

The puck dropped.

First face-off.

We lunged.

Stick. Body. Contact. Cold air burst against my neck. The boards shook. I surged forward, eyes on the goalie’s blind spot, winding up for the shot.

But then the rink tilted.

My vision doubled for a blink. My chest clenched, not from the hit, but from something inside.

I staggered.

My breath caught, like my lungs had forgotten how to pull.

No.

I heard my name being called somewhere in the distance, but it sounded... warped.

I was lightheaded.

Off-balance.

Like gravity had shifted under my blades. Something was wrong.