Fake Engaged to My Hockey Rival

[POV: Lanaya Roux]

The arena smelled like blood, crushed ice, and Zamboni exhaust.

It smelled like losing.

Lanaya Roux pushed her burning lungs past the point of reason, her skates carving parallel gashes into the fresh sheet. Five minutes on the clock. Down by one.

The scoreboard glared a neon threat: Thornhill 2, Redstone 3.

Her fault. She'd missed a wide-open shot in the second period, and the missed opportunity had been gnawing at her ribs ever since.

"Roux! Left side!" Rip's voice cut through the deafening roar of eight thousand screaming fans.

She pivoted hard. The puck hit her stick blade with a sharp, satisfying snap. For a fraction of a second, victory tasted metallic and real at the back of her throat.

Then the shadow dropped over her.

Maverick Hayden.

Six-foot-four of pure suffocating pressure dressed in black and crimson. He came into her peripheral vision and she heard the exact moment his skates slowed — that particular drag and reset of a body that had been moving at full speed and then simply stopped. She almost didn't look up. When she did, he was already watching her. His grip on his stick had gone loose. Not relaxed. Loose, the way a fist goes loose when something surprises the muscles into forgetting themselves.

It lasted less than a second. Long enough for something old and nameless to surface in his face, something that had no business being on a hockey rink, something that looked almost like recognition before it curdled into something harder. Then his grey-blue eyes locked on hers and the coldness slid back into place. Hard. Deliberate. Like something he had to do, not something he was.

"Huntress." His voice was a low, rough rasp that scraped directly down her spine.

"Move, Hayden."

"Make me."

"Gladly." Lanaya feinted right, then dropped her shoulder left.

He didn't bite. His stick flashed out, hooking her ankle in a blatantly illegal move.

She went down hard. Her shoulder slammed into the boards, the impact rattling her teeth, sending a sharp familiar spike of pain through her collarbone.

She waited for the whistle. It didn't come.

She scrambled up, blood thundering in her ears. Maverick was already skating away, his broad back turned to her.

"Coward," she hissed.

Twenty seconds left. Rip won the face-off. The puck found her stick again. She didn't think. She just drove.

Maverick swerved to cut her off. This time she didn't try to go around him. She dropped her shoulder and plowed straight into his chest, used the momentum to fire the shot.

Top shelf.

The goal lamp flared red. The horn blared so loud the ice vibrated beneath her blades.

3-3.

Her teammates swarmed her, shouting, but Lanaya shoved through the mass of blue and silver jerseys and skated straight to center ice, stopping inches from Maverick's chest.

"Still bitter, Reaper?" she sneered over the crowd chanting her name.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Lucky shot."

"Luck had nothing to do with it." She stepped closer, tilting her head up to glare at him. "But you wouldn't know actual skill if it high-sticked you in the teeth."

He leaned down. She could smell cedar and dark musk mixing with the sharp scent of his sweat. "You celebrate in my face again, Roux, and we're going to have a real problem."

"We already have one." She shoved him hard in the chest. "You're breathing my air."

His hand snapped up. She didn't wait to see what he intended.

Lanaya swung.

Her heavy leather glove caught him flush across the jaw with a sickening crack.

The referee's whistle screamed.

"Penalties! Both of you! Box! Now!"

The penalty box smelled like stale sweat and terrible decisions. Lanaya dropped onto the wooden bench, her chest heaving, her shoulder throbbing a vicious rhythm.

The glass door slammed shut behind them.

Maverick sat at the far end, putting as much distance between them as the cramped space allowed. He stared straight ahead at the ice, jaw rigid, a faint red mark already blooming where she'd hit him.

The silence stretched tight enough to snap.

"Still playing dirty, Huntress?" His tone was bored. His eyes were not.

"Still hiding behind daddy's money, Reaper?" she shot back without missing a beat.

His hands flexed on his knees. "Eight years, and your trash talk hasn't evolved past high school."

"It doesn't need to for you. You're not worth the effort."

"I was worth a punch to the face."

"That was charity."

Eight years. The number choked her. Eight years since Crew drowned. Since her brother died and took everything good in her life with him. Since the last time she and Maverick had been anything other than this.

Her eyes dropped to the number stitched on his chest. 29. Crew's birthday.

"Take that number off," she whispered.

Something moved through Maverick's face when he looked down at it. Not just guilt. Something older than guilt, more private, the expression of a man who had been tending a grave for years without being asked to, without being thanked, without being seen. His right hand moved — barely, almost nothing — and then stopped itself and dropped back to his knee.

"No."

"You don't deserve to wear it."

"He was my best friend. The only one I had."

"You lost the right to call him that the day you let him drown."

He flinched. The mask cracked, something utterly broken flickering beneath it before it slammed back into place.

"You think I don't know that?" His voice was a lethal, quiet rasp. "You think I don't wake up every night seeing him go under?"

"Good. You should."

The final horn blared before she could weaponize another word. 4-4. A tie. Neither of them won. Both of them lost.

The box door swung open. Lanaya was on her feet instantly, desperate to get out of his orbit. But Maverick moved first, shifting his massive frame to block the narrow exit.

"Move," she ordered.

He didn't. He stared down at her — no smirk, no performance. Just the raw expression of a decision that had already been made without her input.

"We need to talk." His voice dropped so low only she could hear it. "About Crew. And about Hargrove's offer."

The name landed like a blade between her ribs.

She didn't know the terms yet, didn't know what it would cost her or how far it would reach. But the way Maverick said it — careful, watching, already braced for her reaction — told her enough. Whatever the offer was, it had been built around her. Engineered for a version of her life where running out of options was the whole point.

Like a trap that had been waiting patiently for her to stop moving.

"No." Lanaya wrenched free and threw her weight against his shoulder, forcing past him. She hit the ice fast, desperate to escape the arena, the flashing cameras, and him.

But his voice chased her into the dark mouth of the tunnel. Hard and absolute, layered with a consuming promise.

"You can't keep running from me, Lanaya. And I'm done letting you try."