Chapter 152: The Seventh Name

Damon’s POV

I had sworn I saw Micah packing up his camera up on the second-tier press deck.

It had been over ten minutes since the final buzzer sounded, but he still hadn’t come down to the ice. I kept glancing toward the player tunnel, fully expecting him to jog out with that oversized jacket slipping off his shoulder, ready to throw his arms around me and tell me congratulations.

Or at least throw his arms around his brother.

He wasn’t here.

The ice was emptying out. The spectators were shuffling toward the exits, and the remaining home fans were crowding against the plexiglass with markers and jerseys.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, my chest tightening with a sharp, ugly spike of anxiety.

I whipped around, scanning the center of the rink.

Noah was standing directly in front of the tournament backdrop, clutching the heavy golden championship trophy in his left hand. A regional sports reporter was holding a microphone right in front of his face, flanked by a cameraman with a blinding spotlight.

Noah’s dark jersey was drenched in sweat, his face pale, but he held himself with that terrifying, untouchable calm that made everyone look up to him.

"...as people always say, ice hockey is a brutal game," Noah was saying into the microphone, his deep voice carrying clearly over the arena sound system. "Most players hardly get out of a championship match without broken bones or concussions. But Jenson University chose to cross the line into outright assault today. We didn’t just play to win a trophy. We played to show this entire state that intimidation doesn’t work on our ice."

"Captain Miller, rumors are already circulating about George Jenson’s injuries—"

I didn’t let the reporter finish the question.

I skated straight across the red line, shoved my way past the cameraman’s shoulder, and aggressively pointed my finger right at the reporter’s chest.

"Interview is over," I snapped.

"Hey! What do you think you’re doing, Silver?" the reporter gasped, lowering his microphone in shock.

Noah frowned, turning his cold blue eyes onto me. "What is your problem, Damon?"

I didn’t answer the reporter. I stepped into Noah’s space, leaned my head close to his ear, and kept my voice low.

"I haven’t seen Micah."

Noah’s eyes instantly widened.

The cold, composed mask on his face cracked in half. His eyebrows drew together into a fierce, violent scowl.

"What do you mean, you haven’t seen Micah?" Noah demanded. He didn’t wait for my answer. He grabbed me roughly by the elbow, hauling me away from the bright TV lights and the bewildered news crew toward the home bench.

"I was watching him from the rink after the brawl," I explained quickly, my words tumbling out fast. "I saw him packing his lenses into that black bag. I assumed he was coming down the stairs to meet us by the locker room doors. I stood by the tunnel for ten minutes. He never showed up."

Noah didn’t waste another second listening.

He practically hurled the heavy championship trophy onto the padded bench, not caring as the gold metal clattered against the wood. He vaulted over the dasher boards on his skates, hit the rubber mats, and sprinted straight up the concrete arena stairs toward the upper media deck.

I took off after him, my skate guards clicking violently against the steps.

Noah reached the second-tier photo deck in three seconds flat.

It was completely empty.

The tripod was gone. The heavy camera bag was gone. There was nothing left on the concrete floor except a discarded bottle cap and a few stray strips of gaffer tape.

Noah spun around on his heel. His chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths, his right arm instinctively pressing against his bandaged ribs where his stitches were tearing.

Sitting in the first row of seats just behind the media deck was a group of four college girls wearing home jerseys. They were giggling, holding up their phones, and taking photos of Noah and me standing in front of them.

Noah marched right up to them, planting his hands on the seat dividers.

His fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles were stark white. He was trying with everything inside him not to reach out and grab them by the collars.

"Where did the photographer who was stationed here go?" Noah asked, his voice shaking with contained fury.

The girls froze, their smiles instantly dying as they realized Noah wasn’t approaching them for an autograph.

"U-um..." the girl in the center stammered, lowering her phone with trembling fingers. "A man in a navy suit came up here to speak to him right after the fight ended."

Noah’s jaw locked tight. "What man? Did they leave together?"

"N-no!" the girl answered, intimidated by the darkness in Noah’s eyes. "The man left first! They were arguing about something... the man told him they had to leave right away, but the photographer refused. He said no, that he wanted to stay with Noah."

The girl gasped, clapping both hands over her mouth as her eyes darted between Noah’s face and mine. "Oh my God... is he your brother?"

I stepped in front of Noah before he could terrify her into silence. "What happened after that? Did Micah leave?"

"Yes," the girl nodded rapidly. "The older man told him to stay safe and said he would see him very soon. Then the man walked down the concourse toward the exits. A few minutes later, your brother finished packing his camera bag and headed down toward the stairs."

"It’s Bernard," Noah hissed under his breath, his eyes turning wild and bloodshot. "He saw the way I beat George Jenson into the dirt. He knows I have David’s network ready to dismantle him, so he—"

I lunged forward, grabbing Noah’s forearm and squeezing it brutally hard.

"Shut up," I whispered sharply into his ear, my eyes darting toward the girls who were listening to every single syllable. "Not here."

Noah caught himself, snapping his mouth shut.

I turned back to the students, giving them a quick, polite nod. "Thanks for your help."

I dragged Noah away from the railing and headed back down the stairs toward the ice tunnel.

As we walked, Noah brought a hand up to his chin, pacing with rapid, erratic strides.

"That was Bernard," Noah muttered, talking to himself as his mind calculated the worst possible outcomes. "There is no way in hell that old bastard would just walk away and let Micah stay with me. He was giving him an illusion of choice. What the fuck is he doing?"

"You don’t think he actually took Micah, do you?" I asked, a sick, cold dread pooling in the bottom of my stomach.

"I’m certain he did," Noah answered coldly. "Bernard is a high-ranking assassin in the syndicate. George Jenson’s father is one of their primary financial backers. After what I did to George on that ice tonight, the syndicate isn’t going to wait for Plan Mayor to finish. They are going to speed up my execution. And Bernard knows that holding Micah is the only leverage that can force me to my knees."

"Does that mean..."

Before I could finish the thought, heavy footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway.

Coach Miller rounded the corner, holding a clipboard against his chest, looking stressed, sweaty, and completely overwhelmed.

"Miller! Silver!" Coach called out, waving his arm toward the arena doors. "You two need to clear your gear and leave the facility immediately. The police are locking down the entire campus."

Noah stopped dead in his tracks. "Why? What happened, Coach?"

"A mass abduction," Coach said grimly, rubbing his forehead. "The kidnapper struck the south parking lot and the lower transit tunnel during the third period. A total of seven students have been confirmed missing today."

My breath locked tight in my throat.

Seven.

"Coach," Noah stepped forward, his voice dropping into a desperate, razor-sharp whisper. "Do you have the list of the missing students?"

"No," Coach shook his head, turning toward the home locker room. "The police department and the university administration are still tallying the names from security sweeps. You can ask Detective Harris at the main perimeter once you get outside. But for now, get your bags and get out of this arena. The SWAT team is clearing every floor."

Coach disappeared into the locker room, slamming the door behind him to check on the remaining injured players.

I turned to Noah, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs.

"Let’s go find the cops," I urged. "My father was sitting in the lower box with Lucas and Levi. He has private security escorts, so he must have taken my brothers home already. We can use his police contacts to pull the names."

Noah didn’t look at me. He turned his body toward the emergency exit doors, pulling his hockey gloves off and tossing them onto the floor.

"Go home with them, Silver," Noah said flatly.

I blinked. "What?"

"You heard me," Noah replied, not breaking his stride as he marched down the service hallway. "Bernard is behind this. This is my family’s mess. This is my war. I will deal with that monster myself."

"Go home?!" I roared, jogging two fast steps until I was walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "Are you out of your psychotic mind?! We are doing this together, Captain!"

Noah didn’t slow down, but his jaw clenched tight.

"I’m not sitting in a luxury mansion while you play the lone-wolf hero," I continued, anger burning hot in my chest. "After all... my darling Micah is probably in danger. And unlike you, I actually know how to show him I care."

Noah stopped walking for a fraction of a second.

He slowly turned his head to look at me.

His eyes were still dark, dangerous, and burning with fury, but as he looked into my stubborn face, he didn’t threaten to break my legs.

Instead, Noah looked away, adjusting his heavy gear bag over his shoulder.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk curved across the corner of his lips before he picked up his pace, walking even faster toward the exit.

"Don’t slow me down, Silver," Noah muttered.

I smirked back, matching his long, aggressive strides toward the double glass doors.

Well, well, well.

Charging straight into a criminal syndicate’s slaughterhouse to rescue the boy we both wanted was a completely suicidal mission.

It was definitely a damn good way to get closer to my dear captain.