I woke up in my rival team’s locker room, my jersey torn, my body aching, and my fiancé holding a gun to my forehead.

How is this even possible?

The room smelled of sweat and antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood lingering in the air. My wrists ached where they’d been tied, and panic clawed at my chest. Every instinct screamed at me to move, but the gun followed my smallest twitch.

Adrian Cross. My fiancé. My coach. The man who could make or break my career with a single glance. And right now… he was holding me hostage.

“Morning,” he said, calm, measured. Calm like the apocalypse was just a Tuesday.

I swallowed hard. “What… what is happening?” My voice cracked.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, and the heat of his body pressed against mine. “You have one choice,” he said softly, almost lazily. “Play tonight. Win. Or…” His lips curved faintly. “…everything you care about dies. Including your career.”

I tried to laugh. Tried to make it sound brave. “You’re insane.”

He smirked. “Maybe. But right now, you’re the one who’s not thinking straight.”

I scanned the room. My hockey bag. My skates. My gloves. My stick. All waiting. All useless unless I got free, and fast. Somewhere, the roar of the crowd reached me through the walls, a reminder that the finals of the championship had already started. I was supposed to be out there. On the ice. Winning. Fulfilling every dream I’d trained for since I could walk.

And instead, I was tied to a bench like a rookie in a rookie mistake.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I hissed, jerking slightly against the ropes.

Adrian’s gaze was sharp, predatory. “Do you?” he countered. “Because if you fail to play tonight… it won’t just be your career. Your mother, your reputation, everything you love, depends on me letting you survive. And I can assure you, I will not be merciful if you resist.”

My stomach knotted. His words weren’t empty threats. I knew he had the influence to ruin me with a single decision. And somewhere deep, a cold fire of defiance flared in my chest.

I was Aria Blackwood. I didn’t lose. Not ever.

I tore my gaze away from him and grabbed my bag. My fingers shook as I opened it, pulling out my skates. The familiar leather felt grounding, like an anchor in a storm. I flexed my fingers and gritted my teeth.

“You’re insane,” I muttered again, trying to sound angry instead of terrified.

“I like it when you fight,” he said, voice low, almost approving. “But remember, the ice won’t forgive you. And neither will I.”

I shivered, not from fear, but from something I couldn’t name. The tension between us was magnetic, suffocating, dangerous. I hated it. And yet… I couldn’t ignore it.

I tugged my skates on, the cold leather biting at my ankles, and strapped them tight. The sound of the blades scraping against the floor echoed in the empty locker room like a countdown. Every tick, every click, was a reminder: I had ten minutes to survive this. Ten minutes to reclaim my life.

The locker room door opened, and the roar of the arena spilled in, deafening. Cameras flashed. Fans screamed for the finals. Every eye was on me. And yet, I could only see him, Adrian. His sharp gaze, cold and calculating, followed my every move.

I adjusted my torn jersey, squared my shoulders, and stepped toward the door. He followed silently, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, but far enough to remind me I was free… barely.

The ice hit me like a shock. The arena lights blinded me for a moment, the cold seeping into my bones, and the smell of sweat and fresh polish filled my nose. The puck dropped somewhere in the distance. My rival opponent skated toward me, confident, smirking.

I clenched my stick and let instinct take over. Years of training, discipline, and obsession with victory surged through me. Every step, every pivot, every heartbeat carried the weight of survival and pride. My eyes darted to the stands. My mother. Safe. Cheering. My anchor.

Adrian’s presence was a shadow behind me, a constant, suffocating weight. His eyes burned into my back, tracking me, daring me, threatening me. I hated him for holding me, for controlling me. And yet, some impossible, infuriating part of me felt… alive in his scrutiny.

The whistle blew sharply, and my opponent lunged. I dodged, pivoted, struck, my muscles remembering every motion from years of drills, blood, and sweat. I was a warrior. I was unstoppable. And yet, the true fight, the one for my freedom, my heart, my future, had only just begun.

Adrian leaned close enough that I could feel his breath. “Remember,” he whispered, low and dangerous, “I’m watching. Every move. Every mistake.”

I exhaled slowly, blocking him out. I had one rule: survive. Win. And show him I was more than his pawn.

The crowd roared again. My pulse raced. The ice beneath me was unforgiving. The finals, the championship, had begun.

And I wasn’t going down without a fight.

Not tonight. Not ever.