Page 19 of Checks & Bonds

"Then why the hell is she saying otherwise?" I demanded.

"Because she wants to get under your skin," he replied, taking a step closer. His presence loomed over me, suffocating yet intoxicating all at once. "And it's working."

I took a step back, needing space to breathe. My mind whirled with everything that had happened and everything still left unsaid.

"You don't get to control me," I whispered fiercely. "Not now, not ever."

Henry's gaze softened just a fraction as if he were considering my words for the first time. But the moment passed quickly and his expression hardened once more.

"We'll see about that," he said quietly.

The wind picked up around us, carrying away the last of our heated words as we stood there in silence. The battle lines had been drawn and neither of us was willing to back down.

"Don't go, Freya," he said. "For your own sake, you better not show up."

"And if I do?" I asked.

He said nothing.

I clenched my jaw and turned. He was going to see just how much I meant what I said.

Fuck him.

Fuck all of this.

This was my life, and I needed to remind Henry fucking Mathers of that.

6

Henry

The ice rink buzzed with electric energy. My skates carved the ice as I coasted into position. The scent of sweat and adrenaline hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint chill that seeped through my gear. The puck dropped, and a roar erupted from the crowd, a tidal wave of sound crashing against the boards.

I tightened my grip on my stick, the smooth tape familiar under my gloved fingers. The cold bit at my exposed neck, but I welcomed it—it kept me sharp. I watched as our center won the faceoff, sending the puck back to me. The rubber disc slid over the ice, its frictionless glide almost musical.

A forward from Ann Arbor barreled toward me, his eyes predatory. My muscles coiled, ready for impact. He came in hard, shoulder first. Our collision sent vibrations up my arm and echoed through my chest plate. But I held firm, pivoting just enough to keep control of the puck.

I scanned the ice quickly, noting Sawyer breaking free on the right wing. A quick flick of my wrist sent the puck flying towardhim, slicing through air and space with a whispering hiss. He caught it cleanly and charged down the ice.

My breath came fast and visible in little clouds as I raced to join the rush. The arena lights glared down, casting stark shadows that danced with our movements. My ears rang with the scrape of blades and the dull thud of bodies against glass.

Then a whistle cut through the chaos—a penalty against them. Relief washed over me like a cool drink of water on a scorching day. We gathered for a quick huddle near our bench, Coach barking orders we all knew by heart but needed to hear.

The ref dropped the puck again for our power play. This time, I hung back near our blue line, watching for any breakaway threats while still engaging in offensive maneuvers when necessary. The puck zipped between sticks like a pinball until it found its way back to me at the point.

I wound up for a slapshot, feeling every muscle in my legs and core tense as I unleashed it. The sound of stick meeting puck was a satisfying crack that echoed around the rink. It soared past their goalie’s glove, clinking off the post before finding twine.

A roar erupted from our bench and echoed from every corner of the stands. Victory was within our grasp; I could almost taste it—sharp and metallic like blood on my lip after taking a high stick.

I skated back to the bench, the thrill of the goal still coursing through my veins. The guys slapped me on the back, their faces split with grins. But as I sat down, my eyes drifted to the stands. Searching.

But no.

Freya wouldn't be here.

I shook my head, trying to banish her from my thoughts. She had no reason to come. And even if she did, why should I care? It wasn't like we knew each other well, even if we were engaged. Besides, she hated me.

Still, my gaze wandered over the sea of faces. The other guys' girlfriends and wives stood out easily, their bright smiles and team jerseys marked with last names proclaiming their loyalty. They cheered, their voices piercing through the crowd noise, a sweet contrast to the roughness of the game.

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