Cross The Line

“Barakat SUCKS! Barakat SUCKS!” The chant rolled through the Bell Centre like a war cry, twenty thousand voices united in their hatred.

Jace fucking loved it.

He skated past the Montreal bench with his stick resting casually across his shoulders, grinning like he’d just been told a particularly good joke. Which, in a way, he had—they were down 4-1 with eight minutes left in the third, and the best they could do was chant his name like he was the only thing that mattered in the building.

They weren’t wrong.

“Nice backcheck, Beaumont!” he called over his shoulder to Montreal’s captain, who’d just watched him burn past for the third time tonight. “Your defensive zone coverage looks like a fucking yard sale!”

Beaumont’s jaw clenched so tight Jace could practically hear his teeth grinding from fifteen feet away.

Perfect.

This was the good shit. This was what he lived for—not just the winning, though that helped. It was the getting under their skin part. The way grown men making millions of dollars lost their composure because some cocky bastard with brown skin and better hands wouldn’t shut his mouth.

The ref dropped the puck for the faceoff.

Jace won it clean—of course he did—and then, just because he could, tapped his stick blade against the shin pads of Montreal’s center as he skated past. Light. Playful. Just hard enough to be fucking annoying.

“Come on, Klarsson, keep up! I know you’re tired, but Jesus—”

“Fuck off, Barakat.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jace called back, already wheeling toward the offensive zone.

Twenty-six years old. Career-high season. Forty-three goals and counting. Face of the franchise, whether the old guard liked it or not. “Generational scorer” when the media felt poetic, “cocky piece of shit” when they were being honest.

Both were accurate.

Vicente Martinez caught his eye from the left circle, and Jace threaded a pass through two defenders that had no business making it through. Tape to tape. Surgical. Vicente buried it glove side, and the goal horn wailed like a funeral dirge for Montreal’s playoff hopes.

5-1 Nashville Reapers.

The music kicked in—some generic arena rock meant to pump up a crowd that had nothing left to pump for—and Jace did what he always did when he was having this much fun.

He danced.

Not just a dance. A full production. He skated straight to center ice, dropped into an exaggerated bow—arms wide, head down like he was accepting a fucking Oscar—then popped back up and blew kisses to all four corners of the rink.

Right in front of Montreal’s bench.

Where every player could see him.

Where the cameras would catch it.

Where tomorrow’s sports shows would play it on loop with commentary about “sportsmanship” and “respect for the game.”

“Barakat, you fucking—”

“Merci, Montreal!” Jace called in his terrible high school French, hand over his heart like he was truly moved. “You’ve been a wonderful audience!”

Someone on the bench slammed a stick against the boards hard enough that it echoed. Someone else was yelling, probably at their coach, probably about why nobody had run Jace through the glass yet.

They’d tried. Twice in the second period, once in the first. He was too fast, too slippery, and by the time they lined up the hit, he was already gone, puck on his stick or passed away, leaving them stumbling into each other like kids in their first skating lesson.

“You’re going to get murdered one of these days,” Vicente said as they regrouped at the bench, both breathing hard but grinning.

“They have to catch me first.” Jace took the water bottle, squirted some in his mouth, some over his head. The cold felt good. Everything felt good. His legs were humming with that perfect burn that meant he’d worked but hadn’t emptied the tank. His hands were on tonight, every pass crisp, every shot exactly where he wanted it.

This was the zone. The place where hockey stopped being a job and became something close to religion, where his body knew what to do before his brain caught up, where he could feel the play developing three steps ahead like reading a book he’d already memorized.

“Keep chirping like that and they’re going to target you next game,” Coach Barnes said as Jace came off his shift.

“Good. Means they’re not focused on scoring.” He winked and dropped onto the bench.

Barnes shook his head but didn’t argue. Couldn’t argue. Jace’s plus-minus was pristine, his defensive game was solid despite what people wanted to believe, and more importantly—he produced. You didn’t tell a racehorse to stop running fast just because it made the other horses feel bad.

On the ice, Montreal pulled their goalie. Desperation time. Last-ditch effort to salvage something from a game that had been over since the second period, when Jace had scored his second of the night on a wraparound that had made their defenseman look like he was skating in concrete.

On the ice, Montreal pulled their goalie. Desperation time.

Jace watched, calculating.

He tapped Barnes on the shoulder. “Put me out there.”

Barnes raised an eyebrow. “You’ve played twenty-two minutes already.”

“And I want twenty-three.” Jace’s grin was sharp. Feral. “Come on, Coach. Let me twist the knife.”

Barnes shook his head but couldn’t quite hide his smile. “Sixty seconds. Don’t get killed.”

Jace vaulted over the boards.

The crowd was still chanting. Still booing. Still screaming his name like a curse, like if they said it enough times he’d disappear or spontaneously combust.

He loved them for it.

Last year, this building had watched him hoist the Cup. Had watched him rain down hellfire on their favorite team in the playoffs, game after game, until there was nothing left but ashes and heartbreak and Jace Barakat’s name etched on silver.

This year, they’d gotten their revenge fantasy destroyed in regular season too.

Some cities held grudges. Montreal held them like scripture.

The puck came to him thirty seconds later—a gift from the hockey gods, really—and he took off down the ice with it. No defenders between him and the empty net. Just open ice and opportunity.

He could’ve scored from the blue line. Could’ve made it clean and professional.

Instead, he skated all the way to the goal line.

Spun mid-stride to face the Canadiens bench, puck still on his stick.

And then—with twenty thousand people screaming, with Montreal’s players shouting threats, with the cameras zoomed in tight—he tapped the puck backward into the net without even looking.

No-look, between-the-legs, disrespectful as fuck.

6-1.

The building erupted.

Pure, unfiltered hockey rage.

Jace raised both arms like he’d just won the Stanley Cup, skating backward away from the net, soaking it in—the boos, the hatred, the beautiful symphony of fury.

Beaumont was off the bench now, skating straight toward him, face like a thundercloud.

“You arrogant fucking—”

“Problem, Captain?” Jace’s smile was all teeth. “Because it looked like you wanted me to score there. Your defense basically gave me a fucking escort.”

“I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” Jace skated closer, into his space, eyes bright with manic energy. “Score on us? Because buddy, I’ve got news—”

Beaumont shoved him.

Not hard. Not a real fight. Just a two-handed push to the chest that said back the fuck off before I make you.

Jace laughed. Laughed. “That’s what I thought.”

The linesman got between them before it escalated, but the damage was done.

Montreal’s bench was screaming. The crowd was screaming. Somewhere, a water bottle sailed onto the ice.

And Jace Barakat skated back to his bench like a king returning from conquest, grinning so wide his face hurt. He had three goals, two assists, and a highlight reel’s worth of agitating that would make the rounds on hockey Twitter for the next week.

In the tunnel, he was still buzzing. Energy crackling under his skin like electricity with nowhere to ground. The win felt good—winning always felt good—but it was more than that. It was the performance. The dominance. The way he’d controlled the game like a conductor with a baton, dictating tempo, creating chaos, making twenty thousand people focus on him and only him.

“Fucking beauty, J,” Vicente said, slamming his gloves down in his stall. “You were unreal tonight.”

“I know.” Not arrogance. Just fact.

He stripped his gear piece by piece, methodical despite the adrenaline still singing in his veins. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Jersey heavy with sweat and victory. His body thrummed with leftover energy, the kind that came from a game like that—total control, total domination, total fun.

His phone was already lighting up. Messages stacking like always. Highlights tagged. Reporters wanting quotes about the dance, about the final goal, about whether he thought Montreal deserved more respect.

He scrolled past most of it. Paused on one from his mother: Very impressive, habibi. Also, you’re going to give me a heart attack one day. Call me.

He smiled. Texted back a heart emoji and a promise to call tomorrow.

Someone cracked a joke behind him—Martinez doing an impression of Beaumont’s rage face—and the room erupted. Jace laughed, genuine and loud, because yeah, they’d fucking earned this. Six-one in the Bell Centre. On the road. Against a team that hated them specifically because they were that good.

But even as he laughed, even as he showered and dressed and boarded the plane home, that energy didn’t fade. It hummed. Vibrated. Demanded an outlet.

This was the thing about nights like tonight, the high didn’t just end when the game did. It lingered. Crawled under his skin and nested there, making him restless, making him want.

By the time they landed in Nashville, he’d already made his decision.

Not going home to watch highlights. Not going to text his buddies and rehash every moment. Not going to sit alone in his too-big house and let the adrenaline drain away into nothing.

He was going out.

Someone who could match his energy. Someone who didn’t care about the points or the dance or the headlines. Someone who’d grab onto this high with him and ride it until they both crashed.

Tomorrow, he’d do it all over again. Tomorrow, he’d be sharp and focused and ready to wreck another team’s night.

Tonight?

Tonight, Jace Barakat was riding a high that needed company, and he knew exactly where to find it.