chapter twenty-nine

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Lorenzo's text came out of the blue.

Lorenzo: "Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to come to one of Landon's games tomorrow night? Front row seats on me."

I stared at the message, conflicted. I hadn't been to a hockey game in a while, let alone one of Landon's. I couldn't shake the image of his frustrated face the last time we talked. The way he'd stormed out of my apartment, leaving me more confused than ever. Seeing him at a game, where he'd be all fire and intensity on the ice, might make things worse. But at the same time, I'd never been the type to back down. Plus, Lorenzo was trying to be nice. Right?

After a long pause, I texted back.

Me: "Sure. I'll come."

Lorenzo sent a quick response, saying he'd leave my ticket at the box office, along with a winking emoji.

The next day, I made my way to the rink, clutching the ticket in my hand. The stadium buzzed with energy as fans crowded the entrance, wearing the Hawthorne Valley hockey team's colors. My heart thudded with a mix of anticipation and nervousness, unsure how this was going to go.

When I found my seat, front row, just behind the bench, I realized this wasn't just a friendly favor. Lorenzo had given me a prime view, and there was no way Landon wasn't going to notice.

As the teams skated onto the ice, my eyes immediately sought him out. There he was, number seventeen, Landon Kingston, the captain. His movements were sharp, controlled, his eyes locked on the ice as he warmed up. But then, as if sensing my presence, he glanced up.

Our eyes met, and I swear, for a split second, he faltered. A flash of surprise crossed his face, followed by something darker. Anger. His eyes slid to the seat next to me—Lorenzo's seat—and I knew he understood.

This wasn't going to end well.

Lorenzo arrived a few minutes later, flashing me a charming grin as he sat down. "Glad you could make it," he said, his voice warm as always. "You're in for a good game."

I tried to relax, leaning back in my seat as the puck dropped. The crowd roared, the game fast and physical from the start. But my attention kept drifting to Landon, watching the way he moved, the way his anger seemed to leak into every stride. He played with an edge, more aggressive than usual. His hits were harder, his passes sharper, and every now and then, he'd glance my way, his expression hard as stone.

It was like he couldn't help it. Like seeing me here, with his brother, was setting him off in ways he couldn't control.

The game was brutal—fast-paced, with bodies slamming against the boards. And Landon was in the thick of it, throwing his weight around like he had something to prove. Every hit seemed to be driven by the anger I'd seen in his eyes earlier, the frustration radiating off him in waves.

By the second period, it was clear that Landon wasn't playing his usual controlled game. He was reckless, taking risks that put him in dangerous positions. I could see the tension in his teammates as they tried to reel him in, but he wasn't listening.

And then it happened.

One of the guys from the other team, some big bruiser with more muscle than skill, took a cheap shot at Landon. It was a hard hit, knocking him off balance, and for a second, I held my breath, waiting to see if he'd get up.

He did. But instead of skating away, Landon turned, his eyes locked on the guy who'd hit him, and dropped his gloves.

The crowd went wild as the fight broke out, fists flying. Landon's punches were fast and vicious, landing blow after blow on the other guy's face. Blood smeared across the ice, and I could hear the sickening thud of fists connecting with flesh.

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