EPILOGUE
RAFE
The ice is still white—not clean, not pure, just new and untouched, a blank page begging to be written on in blood and broken teeth.
It won’t stay that way for long; it never does with this team, this family.
The boards still shine under the lights, the plexi holds firm without a single crack—yet—and the goalposts stand unbent, pristine for now.
But they will be soon enough. Because this isn’t just a rink anymore. It’s ours.
We took it, won it, burned the past to ash so we could build something filthier on the ruins.
The new compound—once NHL regulation, once a church of capitalism—is now a cathedral to chaos: syndicate-funded, renovated with blood money, erected on bones no one dares count.
I sit on the bench half in shadow, elbow propped on my knee, watching it all unfold like a war I already won.
Beside me, Kai has his med kit open across one thigh and a thermos balanced on the other—black coffee, probably spiked with something that would get us all arrested if anyone cared enough to check.
He’s stitching his own palm with the calm focus of someone who treats self-surgery like a hobby, the result of smashing through a glass door because Bishop thought lassoing a Zamboni was a good idea. Again.
Out on the ice, my boys are feral in the best way.
Luca skates backward in nothing but a jockstrap, chirping Finn so loud the sound carries clear through the boards: “COME GET DADDY, YOU LIMPING WHORE!” Finn screams something incoherent, swings his stick wildly, misses entirely, and crashes ass-first to the ice.
Bishop is trying—and failing—to ride Misha like a human sled, both of them laughing like lunatics.
Vlad sits cross-legged near the boards, sharpening a skate blade with an actual hunting knife, the metallic rasp cutting through the chaos like a promise. And Julian?
Julian stands at center ice—captain, king, chaos given human shape.
He isn’t skating. He’s commanding. Stick loose in one hand, whistle dangling from the other, he wears a jersey with no name stitched on the back—just black tape covering where it should be.
He hasn’t replaced it. He won’t. He likes what the blank space means now: unnamed, untouchable, a void that dares anyone to try filling it.
“Tell me again why we’re not dead,” Kai mutters beside me, not looking up from the neat line of stitches he’s pulling through his own skin.
I glance over at him. “Because they’re more afraid of Julian than they are of us.”
Kai hums, low and thoughtful, tying off the thread. “Fair.”
Julian’s laughing now. That full-body, no-apology laugh that makes you forget he ever came to us broken.
That he ever bled out in my arms. That his heart ever stopped.
Because now he’s the one breaking things.
Laughing while Finn climbs his back. Shouting orders that sound like war cries disguised as inside jokes.
He’s not healed. He’s not clean. He’s alive. And this—this unholy rink, this fucked-up team, this compound of violence stitched together with hockey tape and syndicate threats—is his kingdom now.
And I’m the monster guarding the gate.
Julian and Luca are at center ice, chirping like they’ve got microphones stitched into their fucking ribs. "You skate like you were raised by toddlers and tape, Reaver!" Luca yells, spinning into a crouch like he’s about to pounce.
Julian just cackles—loud and feral. “Says the man who called me Captain Daddy on national syndicate broadcast.”
“I said Chaos Daddy! There’s a difference!”
They collide. There’s no puck. No purpose. Just two overgrown children slamming into each other at full speed until—“SHIT—” Luca flies. Ass over skates directly into the bench, crashing into Kai's lap with the kind of force that makes both of them topple backward.
“Hi daddy,” Luca squeals. Squeals.
Kai doesn’t blink. “If you piss yourself, I’ll euthanize you.”
I shake my head and push up off the bench.
Skates slice the ice as I glide toward center.
Julian’s waiting there, standing like he owns it.
He does. The rink, the team, me. He’s wearing his jersey like a crown, black tape wrapped around his wrists, one glove off so his fingers can tease through his curls.
“Mmm,” he says when I stop in front of him, smirking like sin. “The hot king arrives. Your Majesty.” He bows. Actually fucking bows.
I don’t answer. I just grab the front of his jersey and yank him in—chest to chest, blades toe to toe, the cold of the rink crawling up my pads as his body heat hits me like a fucking homecoming. “You done playing?” I growl.
Julian grins. “Not even close.” Julian grabs my hand like he owns it—and he does. Doesn’t say a word. Just pulls. Off the ice. Down the tunnel. Away from the noise, the team, the chaos.
The new compound used to be a pro locker room, but now it’s everything—bedrooms carved into the old weight room, a kitchen where the team lounge once stood, the med bay occupying the space that used to be the drug-testing station (ironic as fuck, but fitting). None of it matters right now, though.
Because the second we slip into shadow, I slam Julian against the wall.
His laugh comes out sharp and breathy, like he knew exactly what was coming. “Fuck, finally,” he pants, already arching into the hold.
I don’t waste time. I pull the gun from the back of my jeans—the one he doesn’t know is empty. He thinks it’s loaded. He wants it loaded. That’s the entire point.
His eyes go wide, then soften, then glaze over completely as I run the barrel under his jersey, tracing slow, deliberate lines up his ribs until he shivers so hard his back bows off the wall.
I drag it down again—past his stomach, into his waistband, under—until the cold steel presses against him where he’s already aching.
Julian moans like I’ve already shot him, the sound raw and wrecked. “Rafe,” he whimpers, breath hitching, hips grinding shamelessly against the unyielding metal. “Please…”
I lean in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Please what?”
He’s too far gone to form a coherent answer.
I click the safety off and he screams into my neck.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He grinds against the barrel like a lunatic, like it isn’t a weapon but a lover he’s been starving for.
His thighs tremble violently. His mouth falls open on another gasp.
I kiss him hard enough to choke him—open-mouthed, tongue-first, swallowing his groan whole.
My free hand fists his hair and yanks his head back so I can watch his eyes roll when the barrel nudges deeper.
He has no idea it’s empty. I keep another for real violence. This one? This one is only for him.
“Fucking junkie,” I growl against his lips.
“Yours,” he gasps, voice cracking on the word.
“You better be.”