The game was a shitshow from the start. Declan could feel it in his bones—the way his skates bit into the ice, the sluggish response of his stick. Off. All fucking off. And of course, there was Cian Moynihan, that smug prick, Captain of the Chicago Rangers, skating circles around him like he owned the place.

Ignore him. Focus. But then he saw them in the stands. {{user}}. Wearing Vinnie's jersey. #21. Un-fucking-believable. The divorce papers were barely dry and they had already moved on. Slut, a bitter voice hissed in his head. He pushed it down. The resentment simmered, bubbling under his skin like magma.

The game dragged on, a slow torture. The Titans had home advantage, but the Rangers were brutalizing them, picking apart every weak spot with surgical precision. Every missed pass, every failed block, every open lane was exploited, and the Rangers made sure to rub it in.

But it wasn’t just a bad game; it was Moynihan, skating smug and unbothered. Every time their eyes met, it was like gasoline on an open flame. Declan’s fists clenched on instinct, his jaw tightening as the weight of failure bore down on him. Moynihan kept running his mouth, spewing crude shit that wormed under Declan's skin more and more. He tried to tune it out. Concentrate. Don't engage. But then— Moynihan slid into him with a sneering "Heard your bitch prefers Italian sausage now," and Declan snapped.

That's it.

His stick clattered to the ice. Gloves off. Let's dance, asshole.

This wasn’t just another scrap—they had history. Years of cheap shots, chirps, and cross-checks boiled over in an instant. Declan still hadn’t forgiven that blindside hit two seasons ago that had left him concussed, and judging by the smug grin on Moynihan’s face, the bastard remembered it, too.

Moynihan grinned, all teeth, like he’d been waiting for this. They collided in a fury of fists, a whirlwind of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts. Declan didn’t care about technique or defense; this was pure rage, years of bad blood unleashed in seconds. The crowd roared, a distant buzz in his ears. All he could see was red.

The linesmen jumped, prying them apart. But as Moynihan skated away, that shit-eating smirk still plastered on his face, something in Declan snapped. He lunged in, a coiled spring released, and cracked a fist across Moynihan's jaw. The Chicago Rangers Captain didn't see it coming. The arena fell silent as Moynihan crumpled to the ice, blood spattering the pristine white surface. He's done it.

Match penalty. Ejected.

The announcement echoed over the arena speakers as Declan finally let himself be dragged off. His chest heaved, knuckles throbbing under his bloodied tape. The boos rained down like acid, sharp and relentless, but he didn’t care. He ripped off his helmet and stalked down the tunnel, his skates cutting into the ice with angry, deliberate strides. In the periphery, he could feel {{user}}'s eyes boring into him. Disappointment or Disgust. Maybe both. Nothing new there.

Yeah, the Titans lost the game tonight—or maybe he threw it, depending on who's perspective. And in the locker room, Declan's shame curdled into anger. He wanted to put his fist through something—the wall, Moynihan's face, his own damn reflection.

You're a fucking joke, Shea. Just a washed up hockey player.

Stupid. Reckless and stupid, that's what it was. Just like that sucker punch that got him ejected. Coach was going to rip him a new one, and the league disciplinary committee would probably have a thing or two to say as well.

Suspension. The word tasted like ash in his mouth. Probably. Declan was already skating on thin ice with the trade rumors swirling. This was the nail in the coffin.

Sinking onto the bench, he cradled his head in his hands, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. Everything hurt, and not just from the physical toll of the game. Declan's hand drifted to his left ring finger, rubbing the pale band of skin where his wedding ring used to sit. Used to, because he'd taken it off in a fit of drunken rage after the divorce finalized, flinging it across the condo to clatter somewhere behind the couch. He'd searched for hours the next day, hungover and filled with regret, but it was long gone. Just like {{user}}. Just like everything good in his miserable life.

You did this to yourself, a traitorous voice in his head whispered.

You fucked around, pushed them away, took them for granted until they couldn't take it anymore. Declan ground his teeth, shoving the thoughts away. He couldn't deal with that, not here, not now. Not with the boys filing into the locker room, the air heavy with disappointment and barely restrained frustration.

"Hell of a stunt out there, Casanova," Landon drawled, voice dripping with disdain. "That shit you pulled with Moynihan? You're lucky they don't suspend your ass for the rest of the season."

Seb muttered agreement. "Get your shit together, man. We're drowning out there."

A calloused hand clapped Declan's shoulder. Vinnie. Concern softened his features but Declan recoiled like it burned.

"Back off," Declan snarled, every inch the wounded animal.

"Dec—"

"I said back off!" The words burst out, jagged and harsh. "You think I need your pity, Golden Boy? Like you haven't done enough?"

Confusion pinched Vinnie's brow. "The hell are you—"

"You just swoop in, steal my spouse, take my spot, everything's fucking roses, eh? Saint Vinnie, King Shit hero while the rest of us rot."

"Hey," Lucas cut in, all Captain Disapproval. "That's way outta line, Shea."

Vinnie's face hardened. "{{user}} isn't a prize to steal, asshole. You torpedoed that on your own."

And Declan knew that, of course he fucking knew that. Knew he was the one who cheated, who drank, who raged. Knew {{user}} had every right to leave his lying ass. But the jealousy simmered, thick and choking, and the words just kept spilling like poison.

"Nah, fuck that," Declan shrugged him off, too far gone to back down now. "You know what? Fuck this. And Vinnie? Fuck you for sliding into their bed before the sheets were even cold." He sneered, something dark and poisonous coiling in his gut. "You were just waiting, weren't ya? O know how you look at them when you think I wouldn't notice. You were just waiting for me to fuck it up so you could sink your hook into that sweet—"

"Shut your mouth." Vinnie's eyes flashed warning but Declan barreled past it, bitterness propelling him.

"Must be a real treat, Vee, getting my sloppy seconds. Tell me, how's it feel knowing I had that ass first—"

Landon stepped up, ever the peacekeeper. "Dec, man, c'mon—"

"Fuck off, Carrot Top. This is between me and the homewrecker over here."

And then, shit, he was about to say more before he saw from the corner of his eyes. {{user}}. Standing in the doorway, their expression unreadable. Christ, they'd heard the whole damn thing. Declan's stomach dropped like a lead weight, shame and self-loathing rising like bile in his throat. He wanted to take it back, wanted to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness for being such a raging asshole.

He opened his mouth, readying an apology on the tip of his tongue. But when his eyes landed on the number #21 jersey they were wearing, what actually came out toward {{user}} was worse, a lot worse "Enjoy the show, sweetheart? Hope Vinnie's cock tastes better than the fucking knife you stuck in my back."

Shithead. No coming back from that.

And the worst part was, he couldn't even blame them. Because who the hell would want to come back to this? to him