In The Cold

Chapter 4 Tactical Duels

Her life exists to burn.

To burn for a game.

“Goal!”

Her figure tears across the ice like a starved mako shark, ravenous for the sound of the puck crashing into the net.The roar of the crowd is her fuel. Her eyes sweep across the stands—hope, heat, hatred.

She drives an opposing player into the boards.

Hard.

Greedily.

The collision tastes almost as good as blood.

“Another confrontation breaks out in the Toronto zone! Brooks sends the opposing player crashing into the boards again—”

The impact is violent. Anger catches fire. Only half of her face is visible beneath the shadow of her helmet, her eyes burning through the darkness at the player in front of her.

Sometimes, the dizziness of a collision feels almost identical to victory.

Iris opens her locker. The private-message screen on her phone is still sitting on that same gesture from days ago. She scrolls down twice. The signal is fine. No new messages.

“Iris.”

She looks back. Pelivar stands in the locker-room doorway, motioning for her to come outside.

“What the hell was that?”

His voice is almost urgent, though he keeps it low.

“I don’t need you charging into fights right now. We were already up 3–1. What were you thinking?”

Iris runs her tongue over her canine. Why is this tooth so damn sharp?

“It won’t happen again.”

Her answer is cold.

Pelivar pauses, clearly not expecting that.

“Listen. I don’t want Ryder Hart affecting your performance. You’re worth more than that.”

Iris looks at him.

“As long as we keep winning.”

Pelivar pats her shoulder.

“The first half of the season is going to decide a lot. Put your energy where it belongs.”

Iris removes the rest of her gear and returns to her locker.

Chris walks over.

“What did he say?”

Iris glances at him.

“I got chewed out.”

Chris laughs.

“He only does that to players he cares about. You’ll get used to it.”

“I remember you went to Harvard?”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t mean much. Sometimes it’s more of a burden.”

Iris frowns.

“Why?”

Chris leans closer.

“Because it weighs a lot.”

His gaze shifts toward Gavin Cross, who is taking off his knee pads.

“Especially when you come from Michigan and spend an entire season in a scoring drought.”

There is something almost sympathetic in his voice.

Almost.

Iris studies the look in Cross’s eyes without giving anything away.

That look—

it is almost identical to something she sees in Ryder during one of her game replays. When Iris watches the full recording, including overtime, she notices something strange.

Ryder never gets into a collision.

Not once. No unnecessary contact. No reckless challenge.

Nothing.

And Iris has only one thought.

——What is she hiding?

Her phone screen lights up. Chris is already gone. She picks it up.

A reply from Ryder.

Only one word.

Guess.

Tampa Bay Turning Point of the First Half

“We’re live tonight from Tampa Bay, where Montreal takes on TBL. The final game of the first half of the regular season could prove decisive. If Montreal takes the two points, they move to the top of the overall standings. If TBL wins, they climb to third and move into playoff position.”

“For both teams, this is a crucial game. But based on last season’s numbers, Montreal finished second overall, so they come in with the clear statistical advantage.”

The commentator’s voice drifts through the room like sound carried in from a winter night, beneath the soft hiss of snow swallowing everything outside.

Ryder opens her eyes.

Bends.

Tightens her grip on her stick.

Scramble. Pass. Into the zone.

She is a predator lying in wait beneath the snow. Her stick cuts through the air.

“This is absolutely not what Montreal fans expected!” the commentator cries. “Despite coming in with overwhelming odds, Montreal has somehow fallen behind 2–1!”

The post denies Ryder Hart.

“I don’t think anyone watching tonight saw this coming.”

Cameras swarm around Ryder’s silent face. Her blue eyes, so often gentle enough to make strangers feel seen, have gone dark. Like snow so deep it can no longer reflect a human shape.

The screen burns white in the center of the dark room.

Iris stands before the enormous television, one hand beneath her chin, thumb pressed against the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes never leave Ryder.

Laura stares at Ryder’s back. The adrenaline from the violent game still courses through her veins. She quickens her pace and moves in front of Ryder as they stride down the players’ tunnel. Sure enough, reporters are already waiting around the corner.

“What do you want to ask?”

Laura’s tone is aggressive.

“Avery, are you satisfied with your team’s performance tonight?”

It is the same reporter as last time. Kate Glory.

Ryder frowns. She steps forward and quietly blocks half of Laura’s body.

“We did everything we could, even if the result isn’t what we wanted.”

“But do you really think 1–2 is the best Montreal can do?”

Kate presses.

“You can’t—”

Laura angrily steps forward again. Ryder catches her by the shoulder.

“We accept the result. Thank you.”

She pulls Laura toward the visitors’ locker room.

“Can you explain what you mean by that? Did you expect this result?”

The reporter raises her voice after them.

Ryder hears her.

She looks back.

A faint crease appears between her brows. Her eyes are as sharp as ever. The camera catches her face. A tiny red reflection from the recording light burns inside her pupils. It hits Iris instantly.

Alive.

Moving.

A look that has absolutely no reason to exist.

Guess.

Iris shoots to her feet. She pulls open the white curtain behind the television. TML still has the advantage— for now. The schedule is already fixed, so regardless of whether Montreal wins or loses, tonight changes nothing immediately. But playoff matchups are determined by the standings. And there are two teams TML wants to avoid above all others:

Montreal.

Edmonton.

If TML wants Edmonton waiting for them in the first round of the playoffs, Montreal has only one choice tonight.

Lose.

Iris stops writing.

The entire wall of tactical boards is a maze of intersecting lines, mirroring the thoughts surging through her head. Her fingertip presses against the sharp edge of her canine.

Yes.

She loses.

She is one step too late, and that costs her a game.

But how is she supposed to describe this feeling? It is like a tsunami rising inside her, washing away everything she has ever known— and leaving her to stare straight into the wave.

She looks at the result. Ryder looks at the tactics.

Iris’s eyes darken. Meeting Montreal or Edmonton is going to be a headache.

But—

she is here now, isn’t she?