Chapter 140: Front Row Secrets

Micah’s POV

"Huh? Food?"

I tilted my head, widening my eyes and forcing the most innocent, confused expression I could muster onto my face.

My heart was pounding against my ribs. If Noah found out that Jennifer Riley had kicked his dinner across the courtyard pavement, he would march straight out of this rink and tear her apart with his bare hands. And if Damon found out I had brought a meal intended specifically for him while my brother had nothing, the awkwardness would suffocate me on the spot.

"I only brought mine," I lied smoothly. "I packed a quick dinner for myself before coming over because I knew I would be staying late for the department meeting."

Noah looked at me, his dark eyebrows pulling together.

"You brought food just for yourself?" Damon asked, leaning further over the plexiglass barrier, his eyes dropping straight to the warm thermal container in my hands.

"Well... yes," I said, clearing my throat and looking between the two of them. "But if you two are really that hungry, you can share it. I don’t mind."

I unzipped the top of the carrier bag, reached inside, and lifted the warm container over the barrier.

Damon didn’t hesitate for a single second. Before Noah could even reach out his hand, Damon snatched the box right out of my grip.

"Dibs!" Damon grinned, clutching the food against his chest like a stolen treasure. He turned his head toward Noah, giving him a lazy, mocking two-finger salute. "I’m going to eat my fair share first and leave whatever scraps are left for you, Captain!"

Noah’s face turned completely deadpan. "Put that down, Silver."

"Not a chance!" Damon laughed, already pushing off the barrier and skating backward across the smooth ice toward the team bench. "A starving defender is a useless defender! I need my protein for tomorrow!"

Noah glared at Damon’s retreating back with murderous intent, looking ready to throw his hockey stick across the rink to impale him. But instead of chasing him down, Noah let out a low, irritated breath and turned his attention back to me.

His sharp blue eyes dropped immediately to the second bag resting at my feet.

"What is that?" Noah asked, nodding toward the heavy black canvas strap.

"Oh, it’s a camera," I replied, feeling a small spark of relief that we were moving away from the topic of food. "Raven called an urgent meeting to hand out tomorrow’s tournament assignments. She told me to take the primary action shots for the championship game tomorrow evening."

Noah’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Where are they stationing you?"

"Right at the rinkside press deck," I said, a faint smile touching my lips. "She said I take clear shots, so I’ll be sitting right at the front row against the glass, right where all the high-speed action happens—"

"No."

The word came out of Noah’s mouth like a gunshot. Cold, sharp, and absolute.

I paused, lowering my brows in confusion.

"No?" I repeated, blinking at him. "Why are you saying no?"

"You’re not sitting in the front row," Noah stated flatly.

Irritation instantly flared in my chest. I pressed my lips tightly together as old, familiar bitterness rushed back into my head.

Ever since Noah started playing varsity hockey, I had never been allowed to sit near the ice. Not once. Every single time our university hosted a home game, Noah personally handled the family ticket allocations. He always gave Bernard Miller the front-row VIP box right behind the team bench. But whenever Noah handed me an envelope with my ticket, it was always for the highest, furthest row in the upper rafters... surrounded by screaming strangers, miles away from the rink.

I had spent years quietly hating him for that. I had convinced myself that he was ashamed of me. I thought he didn’t want his teammates or his fans seeing his quiet, timid younger brother sitting anywhere near him.

"Why, Noah?" I asked, my voice rising with stubborn frustration. I clenched my fists tightly at my sides, feeling my fingernails dig sharp and deep into my palms. "I’m not going to interfere with the game! I’m just there to do my job for the media department! Why can’t I ever sit in the front row like everyone else?!"

Noah didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t snap back at me.

Instead, he stepped closer to the barrier, his posture softening as he looked directly down into my eyes.

"Because it gets dangerous, Micah," Noah said softly. "Especially tomorrow."

I froze, caught completely off guard by the quiet warmth in his tone.

"Those Jenson bastards are coming onto this ice tomorrow with the sole intention of starting a riot," Noah continued, his voice dropping into a low, serious rumble. "They will shoot high. They will check players brutally into the boards. If a stray puck flies over the glass at a hundred miles an hour and hits you in the face... I will murder someone right on that ice."

My breath locked tight in my throat.

The anger that had been boiling in my chest instantly vanished, completely replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of heat that rushed straight to my cheeks.

My hands slowly uncurled, my fingers relaxing against the fabric of my trousers.

I looked away from his intense gaze, staring down at my shoes, my heart beating in a strange, chaotic rhythm.

"Wait..." I muttered softly, glancing back up at him through my eyelashes. "So... all this time, throughout all those tournaments... you only gave me the back-row seats because it was safer?"

Noah lifted a dark brow, looking at me like I had just asked the stupidest question in the world.

"Of course," Noah answered flatly. "Did you honestly have another thought in that head of yours?"

I nodded slowly, feeling a sudden surge of childish embarrassment. "I... I thought you hated having me around. I thought you only gave the front seats to Father because you cared about his approval more than mine."

Noah rolled his eyes with so much disgust that I almost laughed out loud.

"Don’t be an idiot," Noah scoffed, leaning his forearms on the dasher board. "The athletic board requires every starting captain to hand the official VIP box passes to their legal guardians. It’s mandatory protocol. And since I have never cared whether Bernard lives or dies, I couldn’t give a single damn if a puck flies into the VIP box and shatters all of his teeth."

A laugh bubbled out of my chest.

All those years of feeling unwanted, discarded, and hidden away in the cheap seats... it was never about shame. Noah was just shielding me from stray impacts, while happily using our abusive father as human target practice.

Noah reached his bare hand over the glass, his fingers lightly brushing across my forehead, pushing a loose strand of hair out of my eyes.

The unexpected gentleness of his touch made my skin tingle.

"We need to order something else to eat," Noah said, retracting his hand and glancing toward the bench where Damon was aggressively shoveling rice into his mouth with a plastic spoon. "I highly doubt that selfish bastard is going to leave a single grain of rice in that container."

"I can order something on my phone right now," I offered quickly.

"Do it," Noah nodded. "Get whatever you want from the diner down the avenue. Use my card."

"Okay," I said.

Before the delivery driver could even confirm the order, the sharp sound of heavy leather shoes echoed down the concrete tunnel.

Coach Miller marched out of his office, slamming the door behind him, the metal whistle already clamped between his teeth.

TWEEEEEEET!

"Break is over, ladies!" the coach bellowed, clapping his hands with thunderous cracks. "Back on the ice! I want line changes at thirty-second intervals! Move your asses!"

Ladies? What a way to insult the players.

The entire team let out a collective groan of misery. Damon hastily snapped the lid back onto the half-empty container, shoved it onto the bench, and grabbed his stick, skating back toward center ice while muttering filthy curses.

Noah pulled his helmet back on, securing the chinstrap with a sharp click.

"Stay on the bleachers," Noah ordered me, pointing a gloved finger toward the heated seats behind the home bench. "Don’t wander around the complex alone."

"I won’t," I promised.

Noah turned on his skates and glided back into the center circle, instantly taking command of the offensive drills.

I climbed up the short concrete steps and sat down on the second row of the team bleachers. I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my chin against my sweater, and watched them practice.

The training was relentless. Noah pushed everyone like a ruthless drill sergeant. He ran offensive cycles over and over, demanding perfection on every pass, every zone entry, and every defensive clear. Damon was right beside him, matching Noah’s brutal pace hit for hit, their sticks clashing violently as they simulated power-play scenarios against the reserves.

An hour passed. Then two.

The delivery food arrived, but neither Noah nor Damon had time to touch it. Coach Miller kept blowing his whistle, barking adjustments, running them through endless conditioned sprints until the players were literally gasping for air on their knees.

The sound of skate blades carving into the ice and pucks slamming against the boards became a dull, hypnotic hum in the background. My eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute. Between the terror of getting kidnapped three days ago, the stress of dealing with Jennifer Riley, and the overwhelming emotional exhaustion weighing down my chest, my body simply couldn’t stay awake any longer.

I leaned my head against the cold metal railing of the bleachers, pulled my jacket tighter around my shoulders, and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I finally opened my eyes, the freezing chill of the arena was completely gone.

Instead, a gentle, warm current of air was blowing across my face.

I blinked against the dim darkness, trying to clear the heavy fog from my brain. I shifted slightly, feeling the soft, expensive leather of a seat beneath me. Draped securely over my upper body was a thick, heavy black designer jacket that smelled faintly of expensive cologne, cedarwood, and mint.

Across my lap, a seatbelt was pulled tight and securely clicked into place.

I turned my head toward the driver’s side.

Sitting behind the wheel, was Damon.

He was wearing a clean grey hoodie, his dark hair still damp from a recent shower, one hand casually steering the car as we cruised through the empty, midnight streets of the city.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Damon?" I muttered, my voice thick and raspy from sleep.

I sat up straight, rubbing my eyes and looking frantically out the tinted passenger window. The sports arena was nowhere in sight.

Noah wasn’t in the car. The backseat was completely empty.

A sudden spike of panic flared in my chest.

"Where is Noah?" I asked, my voice rising as I turned my body toward him. "Why am I in your car? Don’t tell me..." I trailed off, staring at his calm profile in utter disbelief. "Did you kidnap me?!"

Damon slowly glanced over at me, taking his eyes off the road for a split second. A slow, wicked, terribly amused smirk spread across his handsome face, his dark eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated mischief.

"Kidnap you?" Damon purred smoothly, tapping his fingers against the leather steering wheel. "Now why would you accuse your favorite hero of a terrible crime like that, sweetheart?"

My stomach twisted into a tight, nervous knot.

What the hell kind of game was this bastard playing right now?