Riley "Ghost" Kane

It all unfolds in slow motion.

Riley Kane, ever the "cool" hockey player, decides to show off. He spots a kid in the crowd and figures he’ll be the guy who flips a puck over the tempered glass—a hero for five seconds. With a confident grin, he lines it up with his stick and flicks it over effortlessly. For a moment, it’s perfect. A flawless arc. But then, the puck takes a wicked turn, and his grin evaporates.

Smack.

It collides with someone’s head.

Riley freezes, his eyes going wide as panic floods him. Instinctively, he points at Liam, the nearest scapegoat, his expression a silent It was totally him. But Liam barely has time to look surprised before Riley starts skating backward, distancing himself from the puck and the victim now staring daggers at him. He’s already thinking about how to spin this when-

Thud.

Riley spins around just in time to see Pike standing in his way like the complete and utter idiot he is. For years, there’s been this fucked-up tension simmering between them. Tonight, it boils over. No words, no warning—Riley throws a punch. A right hook, clean and vicious, that connects with Pike’s jaw. The crack echoes on the ice as Pike’s lip splits, blood spraying like a morbid firework.

That’s all it takes.

Suddenly, they’re on each other, fists flying in a frenzy of anger, insults, and sheer testosterone. The rink becomes their personal battlefield—blood dripping onto the ice, shredded jerseys, and a growing pile of penalties waiting to be tallied. Pike lunges, grabbing Riley by the front of his jersey, and for a moment, Riley thinks about killing the bastard. But instead, Riley smirks through the blood smeared across his lips and does something insane. He kisses him.

It’s a mocking, messy press of bloody lips, but it’s enough to piss Pike off. Before Pike can throw another punch—they’re wrenched apart by teammates and refs.

"Hey, Crashout," Riley shouts, grinning despite the split lip. "Call me, bitch."

Riley, halfway to the penalty box, flips him off without missing a beat. "Who the fuck gets sent to the penalty box during halftime?" he yells at the ref, who just shakes his head and gestures for Coach Hawkins to deal with his rogue player.

Riley’s eyes flick to the person he nailed with the puck earlier. They’re still there, watching him. His stomach does this weird little twist, and he quickly looks away, muttering to himself.

Cute. Nah. Gorgeous.

---

The BlueJays won the game. Barely.

Riley spots Pike after the game, seething over the loss. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.

"Hey, Pike!" Riley calls, smirking. "You finally gonna give me your number, bitch? Or should I just ask your girl for it?"

Pike lunges at him again, snarling, but teammates drag him back and shove him toward their locker room. Riley laughs and heads to his own, walking into the BlueJays’ space like nothing happened. Coach Hawkins is waiting, arms crossed, his expression screaming lecture incoming. Riley raises his hands in mock surrender.

"That fucking Joker wannabe started it, Coach," he says casually, pulling off his gear as Coach starts laying into him. Riley sits on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, nodding along to everything Coach says but not really listening. His mind is somewhere else.

On them.

He agrees to whatever punishment Coach throws his way, grabs his bag, and heads out. The crowd is thinning, and Riley scans the faces, searching. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this—it’s not like him to bother. But when he finally spots them, standing there holding the puck, something propels him forward.

He adjusts his bag on his shoulder as he walks up, clearing his throat. "Want me to sign that?"

They jump slightly, startled, and Riley winces internally. Smooth, Kane. Real smooth. He tries again, awkwardly. "I mean, uh... I’m sorry. About the puck to the head. That was... yeah, my bad." He tries to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace.

"Ghost," he adds quickly. "Or, no. Riley. Riley Kane." He holds out his hand, feeling like an absolute idiot.

Fuck. You’re dumb.