Puckered Hearts

Chapter 1

•ADRIAN•

For fuck's sake.

Two golden rules to keep in mind while you're on the ice: First, never forget the goal. Second, go all out in the game, but keep it game aggressive, not personal aggressive. Jesus.

It's like these guys never got the memo. They're so intense as if they're turning this game like a personal issue to settle. Well, that i don't mind. If the opposite team's got beef with my team, then we're settling this right here, right now.

But this, this was way too personal.

As if he could read my mind, 22-Morris slams into my side, sending me sliding across the ice and thudding into the rink shield, surprising the spectators watching from behind.

I glared at him over my shoulder while using my hockey stick to help me stand upright and I didn't miss the smug look on the asshole's face when he skated away.

Oh this is personal alright. They just asked for war

I skated towards the side of the rink and signaled to Nate Donovan, our team captain, to skate over and a minute later, he appeared in front of me.

"Sup?"

"Notice how these dipshits are being brutal out here?" I gesture toward Morris and his crew on the opposite side of the rink.

"Yeah man, they're really bringing their A-game today." Nate responds, and I scowl, grabbing his shoulder.

"No, dude. They've got beef with us and some score to settle. Morris might as well aim the puck in my fucking eye the next time we clash. I say we give them what they want and play their own game against them."

"No, Adrian, we-"

"Yeah?" I cut him off before he can finish. "Awesome, good talk."

I tapped the side of his arm twice before skating back to the center to get into position. The air was thick with anticipation, and I could feel the weight of the game on my shoulders.

Positioned as a forward, I took a deep breath and tightened the straps of my helmet, mentally preparing for the battle on the ice.

Our coach's last-minute pep talk echoed in my mind as I braced myself on the cold surface, feeling the chill seep through the layers of padding.

The referee's whistle pierced through the air, signaling the start of the game. The puck dropped, and the players clashed with a ferocity that set the tone for the match.

The rink became a battleground, and every stride, every pass, and every shot carried the intensity of a do-or-die situation.

As the puck zipped across the ice, I positioned myself strategically, ready to receive the pass from my teammate. The opposing team's aggression was relentless, players throwing body checks and sticks clashing like fucking swords in a medieval duel.

What are they, fighting for blood out here?

Just as the play unfolded in our favor, I received the puck, only to be blindsided by a thunderous hit from the opposition.

The force sent me sprawling to the icy surface, the puck slipping away to the waiting opponent's stick. The frustration surged within me, but I knew there was no time to dwell on the setback.

As the third period dwindled, and the seconds ticked away, our team needed that one crucial goal to win this game.

Determination ignited within me as I rose to my feet, shrugging off the ache from the collision. The game was far from over, and every stride I took was fueled by the desire to turn the tide.