Chapter 149: The Whistle’s Edge

Micah’s POV

The opening ceremony dragged on.

First came a performance by some low-tier pop singer nobody in the stadium cared about, his voice drowning beneath the restless roar of the crowd. Then the university cheerleaders took the ice, waving pom-poms and performing choreographed routines while the arena speakers blasted fight songs.

I didn’t take a single photo of them.

My fingers were resting on the camera grip, my eyes fixed entirely on the home team tunnel. My stomach was churning with sharp, relentless knots. Noah was out there with torn stitches and a bullet wound numbed only by high-potency painkillers. Damon had bruised ribs from catching me off that ledge three days ago. And Bernard Miller was sitting in the VIP box above, watching his sons like a hawk waiting for prey.

HWOOOOOON!

The stadium buzzer tore through the noise.

The crowd erupted into an ear-splitting roar as the lights flooded the ice.

"Starting for your varsity squad! At defense, number forty-four, Damon Silver! And at center, team captain, number nine, Noah Miller!"

The roar from our student section shook the concrete beneath my sneakers.

Noah and Damon skated out from the dark mouth of the tunnel. Damon took the ice with his usual swagger, flashing a sharp, confident grin toward the cameras before circling back to our defensive zone. Right behind him came Noah. He glided across the blue line with precision, his dark jersey pulled tight over his protective pads, his posture so steady that no one in that building could ever guess he had taken lead to the ribs twelve hours ago.

Across the center line, Jenson University’s starting lineup took their positions.

Their center planted his skates, glaring viciously at Noah. Noah didn’t even look him in the eye. He just lowered his stick, tapped the blade against the white ice, and bent his knees.

The referee blew the whistle and dropped the black rubber puck.

Noah’s stick flashed forward in a blur of black carbon fiber.

He won the faceoff cleanly, snapping the puck straight back between his own skates directly onto Damon’s waiting stick.

"Let’s go!" Damon yelled, his voice cutting through the arena sound as he immediately accelerated along the right boards.

Two Jenson forwards charged at Damon, trying to pinch him against the plexiglass with a crushing body check. Damon anticipated the hit, slamming his brakes, spinning smoothly on his edges, and firing a laser-straight saucer pass across the neutral zone.

The puck landed flat on Noah’s blade.

Noah didn’t slow down. He caught the pass in full stride, cutting aggressively between both of Jenson’s defensemen. They tried to cross-check him, extending their sticks to trip his skates, but Noah lowered his shoulder, absorbed the collision without flinching, and drove straight into the slot.

With a lightning-fast flick of his wrists, Noah sent the puck rocketing into the top right corner of the net.

CLANG-PING!

The red goal light flashed violently behind the glass.

BZZZZZZZZT!

"GOAL! Scored by number nine, Noah Miller!"

The student section exploded. Drinks splashed in the air, banners waved wildly, and the home crowd roared at the top of their lungs.

I raised the heavy telephoto lens to my eye, pressing the shutter button rapidly.

Click-click-click-click.

The frame captured Noah skating backward, his expression completely blank, offering Damon a quick fist bump as they reset for the center faceoff. It was barely two minutes into the first period, and we were already up 1-0.

Play resumed, and our momentum didn’t stop.

Noah and Damon were playing with terrifying coordination. Every pass was crisp, every defensive clear was flawless, and every offensive zone entry ripped right through Jenson’s formation. Even when Jenson’s defensemen tried to crowd Noah, stacking three players against the crease to block his shots, Noah simply dropped the puck back to Damon at the point.

Damon wound up and blasted a thunderous slapshot straight through the goalie’s five-hole.

BZZZZZZZZT!

Two to zero.

Ten minutes later, Noah intercepted an errant breakout pass, executed a filthy deke around the opposing netminder, and tucked the puck into the open net on a breakaway.

Three to zero.

The entire arena was bouncing with pure euphoria. The home fans were already singing victory chants, taunting the silent, humiliated visiting section.

Yet, looking through my camera lens, a cold, heavy knot tightened in my gut.

The game was going way too smoothly.

It felt completely wrong.

Where were the dirty hits? Where were the intentional high sticks? Where was the ruthless, bloodthirsty aggression George Jenson had promised?

Three days ago, four of their guys had tried to throw me off a building. This morning, their hired mercenaries had fired live ammunition at our car on the highway. Now, they were out on the ice playing completely clean, passive, standard hockey. They were letting Noah and Damon walk all over them without throwing a single elbow.

I adjusted the manual focus ring, zooming straight into Noah’s face as he lined up for another faceoff.

Noah wasn’t celebrating. His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed in sharp, suspicious calculation.

Beside him, Damon was tapping his stick against his shin pads, his eyes darting across Jenson’s bench with visible confusion. Both of them knew something was terribly off.

HWOOOOOON!

The horn sounded, signaling the end of the first period.

The score was 3-0. Jenson University had zero goals, zero power plays, and barely four shots on target.

Our players bumped gloves, laughing and cheering as they skated toward the player tunnel.

I didn’t watch our team celebrate. I swung the long lens across the ice, aiming directly at Jenson’s bench.

George Jenson was standing right behind the glass, his bandaged hands resting casually on the dasher boards. Jennifer Riley was glued to his side, her hands wrapped possessively around his forearm, whispering into his ear.

I zoomed in tight on George’s face.

His team was getting slaughtered 3-0 on statewide television. He should have been furious. He should have been screaming at his coach, slamming water bottles, or kicking the boards in frustration.

Instead, George Jenson was smiling.

It was a wide, grotesque, utterly confident grin that made every single hair on my neck stand straight up. He was watching Noah walk down the tunnel, his eyes glowing with sickening anticipation.

"This fucker is definitely up to something," I muttered to myself, lowering the camera. "No... all of them are."

The ice resurfacing machine rumbled onto the rink, smoothing the scarred white surface.

Both teams disappeared into their respective locker rooms for the twenty-minute intermission.

I couldn’t leave my media post... department rules strictly stated that credentialed press had to stay at their assigned stations during breaks. But I didn’t need to be in the home locker room to know exactly what was happening inside.

Noah was probably barking at the entire team right now, shutting down their laughter and telling them not to celebrate like arrogant fools. He would be reminding Damon to keep his guard up, warning everyone that Jenson was cooking up a trap.

Fuck, I cursed internally, gripping the metal railing of the photo deck with white knuckles. I wish I knew what they were planning.

The twenty-minute break felt like an eternity.

Finally, the arena lights flared bright again, and the horn blasted for the start of the second period.

Both teams emerged from the tunnels, taking their positions across the fresh ice.

Noah skated to center ice, his eyes narrowed, scanning every single player across from him. The game resumed with a quick faceoff, Noah winning the puck and cycling it back to Damon.

For the first two minutes, play continued normally.

Then, the trap sprung.

The puck was dumped into the far corner of our zone. Damon chased it down, shielding the puck with his body behind the net. A Jenson forward rushed in to contest possession, initiating a standard board battle.

The lead referee... a veteran official who had been calling penalties strictly and fairly all evening... skated in close along the goal line to monitor the puck against the dasher boards.

Right as the referee stopped three feet from the play, a second Jenson player barreled into the corner at full speed.

He didn’t aim for Damon. He didn’t even look at the puck.

The Jenson player violently swung his stick in a wild, unhinged arc, bringing the heavy wooden shaft straight upward!

CRACK!

The composite blade smashed directly into the side of the referee’s helmet and jaw!

The sickening crack of plastic and bone echoed through the glass.

The referee collapsed onto the ice like a cut puppet, clutching his face as bright red blood instantly splattered across the fresh white surface. He didn’t get up. He lay completely motionless, convulsing in pain.

Whistles blew frantically from the linesmen.

"Medic! Get the medical staff out here now!" someone screamed over the arena intercom.

The game screeched to a halt. Within seconds, a team of emergency paramedics sprinted onto the ice with a hard backboard, a neck brace, and a medical kit. The entire stadium went dead silent, students standing on their toes to peer over the glass.

The Jenson player who threw the strike dropped to his knees, clutching his head, putting on a sickening performance of fake remorse. "It was an accident! My stick slipped! I lost my balance!"

Noah skated over to the referee, his face carved from pure ice, watching the paramedics strap the unconscious official to the gurney and wheel him toward the ambulance bay.

The head referee was gone.

According to tournament rules, if an official was incapacitated, a designated alternate provided by the host committee had to step in immediately, or the game would be delayed.

Before the arena director could even announce an emergency pause, the door to the officials’ tunnel swung wide open.

A replacement referee skated onto the ice.

He was already fully dressed in pristine striped gear, his whistle clamped between his teeth, his helmet strapped tight, moving forward with absolute, eager haste.

He hadn’t been in the lounge. He had been standing right behind that door, waiting.

I raised my camera lens, zooming straight into the new referee’s face as he glided past Jenson’s bench.

Through the high-resolution viewfinder, I caught it.

A tiny, subtle, fraction-of-a-second nod between the replacement referee and George Jenson.

George’s grin widened into something triumphant and disgusting.

A dark, venomous smirk pulled at the corner of my lips as I lowered the camera from my eye.

"So this is what you’re up to, huh?" I whispered into the cold arena air.

A bought referee. A planted official brought in to call phantom penalties, toss Damon into the penalty box, and disqualify Noah the second a fight started.

I looked down at Noah standing near center ice, watching his cold blue eyes lock onto the replacement official.

"Well," I muttered, my heart steadying into a calm, dangerous rhythm, "my brother will figure it out immediately."