Page 77 of Fractured Faceoff

The ice shimmered under the arena lights as I stepped onto the rink, the familiar chill wrapping around me like an old friend. My teammates lined up along the boards, stretching their legs and shaking off the jitters. I took a deep breath, inhaling that sharp, cold scent of frozen rubber and sweat.

The energy in the building buzzed like a live wire, and I could feel it thrumming beneath my skin.

I loved the feeling the familiar bite of the blades against the ice. The rest of the guys moved in sync, warming up with tight circles and quick stops, their laughter ringing out over the low hum of chatter. I pushed off hard, gliding smoothly across the rink.

Kellan stood at one end, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp as he watched us. Even when he wasn’t playing, he commanded attention—an enforcer, despite being a goalie, even during practice. He shifted slightly, readying himself as we split into two lines.

The energy surged through me as I took my place in line, anticipation prickling at my skin. One by one, playersshot down the ice, taking turns firing pucks at Kellan. Each shot thudded against his pads or clanged off his stick with a satisfying echo.

I followed behind the guy ahead of me, skating hard and fast. The world blurred past—ice flying beneath my feet, a rhythm pulsing in my veins. My heart raced as I closed in on Kellan, the net shimmering behind him like a promise.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I sent the puck sailing toward him. It flew straight and true but met Kellan's glove with a loud smack. He snatched it out of mid-air like it was nothing more than an afterthought.

“C’mon, Crowder! You can do better than that!” Kellan called out with a smirk that betrayed nothing but confidence.

I couldn’t help but grin back as I returned to the line. “Just warming up!”

Weston Cole sped down the ice and unleashed a wicked slap shot that caught Kellan off guard for a moment. The puck ricocheted off his pads and skittered into the corner behind him.

Kellan’s brow furrowed slightly—a crack in his stoic façade—as he turned to retrieve it. I could see why they called him Venom; he had this sharp way of turning tension into performance that made even practice feel like game day.

As we cycled through our shots, each moment built on adrenaline and rivalry. Kellan thrived under pressure; you could almost see gears turning in his head as he strategized how to handle each attempt thrown at him.

I took another deep breath and prepared for my next turn.

I circled back to the line, adrenaline still pumpingthrough me. Each time I shot the puck, I felt a little more like myself. The pucks soared off my stick, hitting Kellan’s pads with a satisfying thud.

“Come on, hick! Let’s see some heat!” Kellan barked as he readied himself again.

I smirked and nodded, drawing back for another shot. I focused, visualizing the puck slipping past his defenses. With one swift motion, I sent it rocketing toward him. Kellan caught it easily and tossed it back with a lazy flick of his wrist.

I finished my round and glided toward the side of the rink to stretch out on the ice. My muscles burned from exertion as I leaned forward, reaching for my toes while trying to catch my breath. The rhythm of practice settled into something comforting.

My gaze drifted up toward the stands where I got Isla tickets. But the seat remained empty. A knot tightened in my stomach as I scanned the crowd.

The noise from the fans buzzed around me—kids pressed against the glass while a couple of veteran players tossed pucks their way. Laughter rang out as they cheered for every small victory; their joy cut through my concern for Isla's absence.

But she should have been here.

I forced myself to concentrate on stretching but couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling clawing at my insides. What if she wasn’t coming? What if she decided she’d rather stay away? The thought gnawed at me as I flexed my calves and stretched out my arms.

“Crowder! Quit slacking!” Weston’s voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. He skated past me with an easy grin, but there was something in his eyes thatmade me uneasy.

I pushed aside my worries for a moment longer and focused on what lay ahead—a game soon to come and what came after that. Still, I couldn't help stealing glances at the stands every few seconds, hoping to catch sight of her familiar figure sliding through the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” Nikolai Volkov’s voice broke through my thoughts. He stood there, a tall figure with a striking resemblance to a fucking warrior. His dark hair framed a face that carried an air of danger and allure, accentuated by his thick Russian accent.

“Just my girl,” I replied, forcing a casual tone despite the growing unease.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “She's not here?”

“Nope.” I shrugged, trying to shake off the worry that settled like a weight on my chest. “You got one of those?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as if I’d told him a joke. “I got three of those.”

“Three?"

Nikolai leaned against the boards, crossing his arms with that cool confidence that seemed second nature to him. “Settling with one goes against basic nature,” he said matter-of-factly.

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