His Father Bought Me

The hours blurred together, slipping past faster than Roman could keep track of. Before he knew it, the Avatar team was lining up at the tunnel, the cold air from the rink spilling toward them in sharp, icy breaths.

One by one, they stepped onto the ice, and Roman was the last. He moved forward, just about to cross through the doors, when a firm hand clamped onto his arm, jerking him back hard enough to almost throw him off balance.

He turned sharply. It was Jim. Roman’s brows drew together, irritation flashing in his eyes.

"Remember," Jim said, his voice low but pointed. "One mistake, and you’re off." He paused, his gaze shifting past Roman’s shoulder. "And that would make a lot of people very happy."

Roman followed the direction of his gaze.

Across the arena, behind the glass, Magnus stood watching, still and composed. Vance stood just behind him, his posture relaxed, his attention fixed on the ice like he was waiting for something to unfold.

Roman’s jaw tightened. He looked back at Jim, gave a short, curt nod, then pulled free. He took in a slow breath, and then he stepped onto the ice.

The reaction was immediate. "BOOOOOOO!!!"

The sound crashed over him, loud and unified, echoing through the arena like a wave. It vibrated through the ice, through his bones.

Roman’s head snapped toward the stands. Faces blurred together, jeering, shouting, hands raised with thumbs turned down. Some waved for him to leave, others shouted words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

His grip tightened around his stick, and his gaze shifted again. This time to Magnus and their eyes met. There it was, a faint twitch at the corner of Magnus’s lips.

Roman saw it, and without a word, he tore his gaze away and pushed forward, skating toward center ice where his teammates had already gathered. His blades cut sharply across the surface as he slid into the circle.

Then his eyes caught hers. Lena. For a brief second, their gazes met before she looked away.

Roman’s expression hardened, and he shifted his focus elsewhere. Just finish the game and get out.

"Are you alright, man?" The voice cut through his thoughts.

Roman turned and saw Nathan looking at him. For a second, Lena’s earlier words during the live session echoed faintly in his mind. Ask his best friend, Nathan. He told me.

Roman’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking past Nathan to the rest of the team.

"Are you sure you’re in the headspace for this?" another teammate asked, concern threading through his tone.

Roman looked at him, then slowly at each of them, one after the other. Then he forced his voice steady. "What matters is that we go out there and win this match," he said, drawing in a breath, steadying himself. "Not for me. Not for you. For this badge."

His gaze dropped briefly to the emblem on his jersey before lifting again. "For this arena, and to shut them up."

A second of silence passed and then—

"It’s a friendly, Roman," Lena said quietly. "You don’t need to prove anything."

Roman didn’t even glance at her. "Friendly or not," he replied, firm, "they came to our home. We show them how it’s done." He extended his hand into the center. "Avatar team?"

There was a brief pause and then, "We rule!" Hands collided in the middle before breaking apart as everyone moved into position.

Roman skated to his spot, the cold air biting lightly at his face through the helmet. His heart hammered hard against his ribs as he tightened his grip on his stick, flexing his fingers once, then again, trying to steady the tension running through him.

Across from him, his opponent watched, poised, waiting. Then the whistle shrieked and the puck dropped. It slid cleanly and landed on Roman’s stick.

He moved instantly. Fast. Controlled.

The world narrowed to the ice beneath him, the puck gliding with each precise touch as he pushed forward, weaving past one opponent, then another, his focus locked on the goal ahead.

The noise of the crowd blurred into the background. All he could think of was speed, control, focus, and her.

Then, sudden impact. A body slammed into him from the side, knocking the puck loose as it skidded away across the ice. Roman’s eyes widened slightly as he stumbled, catching himself just in time.

The opponent who took it from him skated past, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. "I hope I won’t get a beating for that," he called out, voice laced with mockery.

Roman’s gaze locked onto him, his jaw tightening until it ached. Heat surged through his chest as he pushed off, skating hard, closing the distance in a few sharp strides. He went for the puck, stick snapping into position, but he was a fraction too late.

The opponent slipped past him with ease, and a second later, the puck slammed into the net. The sound rang out, clean, decisive. Goal.

Roman slowed, his breath heavy, his chest rising and falling as he watched the player turn back toward him. That smirk, small, sharp, deliberate. It was enough.

And everything else, Estelle, the game, the warnings, fell away in an instant. No one mocks Roman Whitehall. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He drove forward and slammed into the opponent, the force of the hit sending him crashing onto the ice.

The impact echoed, sharp and violent, drawing a roar from the crowd, some shocked, some thrilled.

"Roman!" Lena’s voice cut through the air, sharp with alarm.

He didn’t hear it. Or maybe he just didn’t care. The rush hadn’t faded. If anything, it burned hotter.

Roman grabbed the front of the opponent’s jersey, hauling him up just enough, his fist already drawing back, but hands grabbed him from behind.

"Hey! That’s enough!" His teammates said as they pulled at him, dragging him back, their grips firm as he struggled against them.

The opponent, sprawled on the ice, laughed, a low, mocking sound that only made Roman’s chest heave harder.

Then the whistle shrieked, loud and final, and the moment snapped. The referee skated in, arm raised, then pointed sharply toward the exit.

Roman frowned, his breath still uneven, his pulse roaring in his ears. For a second, he didn’t understand, then he saw it. His number, up on the board. For a second, he just stared at it, and then it sank in. Substitution.

His gaze shifted, searching, until it landed on Jim. The coach didn’t say a word, he just shook his head slowly. That was when it hit.

Roman’s shoulders tensed as the noise from the stands came rushing back, louder now, harsher. Boos. Thumbs turned down. Disappointment, anger, every bit of it aimed at him.

"Oh, damn it," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

He turned and skated off without another word, the sound of jeers trailing behind him like a shadow. He didn’t look back. He just kept moving until he disappeared down the tunnel and into the locker room.

The door swung shut behind him, and then silence, thick and heavy, wrapped around the space.

Roman didn’t hesitate, he threw his stick aside, the leftover anger still burning through him. It clattered loudly against the floor. His hand slammed into the metal locker with a sharp bang, the impact rattling through the row.

"Damn it!" he barked, voice raw, strained. "Why did you just disappear like that?!" His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. "Aaah!" The sound tore out of him, more frustration than words.

The sound of slow, measured footsteps broke through the silence. Roman turned sharply. Magnus was standing there, composed as ever.

Roman’s fists clenched at his sides, his breathing still rough as he stared at him. "Did you come here to mock me?" he spat.

Magnus studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You seem to have forgotten," he said calmly. "So I came to remind you of what’s at stake."

The contrast in their tones only made the tension snap tighter.