Chapter 4
The locker room in Vancouver buzzes with pre-game energy, but it feels muted tonight.
The team is still dragging from the travel and the restless night.
I sit in my stall, methodically taping my stick with slow, precise movements, trying to ignore the heavy exhaustion pulling at my eyes.
I barely slept. Every time Cole shifted beside me, every quiet sigh, every memory of his words in the dark kept dragging me back to the surface.
But I hide it well. Years of practice have taught me how to lock everything down.
Cole, on the other hand, is failing spectacularly.
He is slumped in front of his stall, half-dressed, his skin looking pale under the harsh lights.
His movements are sluggish as he pulls on his pads, like his body is still fighting to wake up.
He has not chirped anyone once. Not a single joke.
Not even at the rookies. That alone tells me how bad last night was for him.
Damian limps through the room on his cane, scanning everyone with that sharp gaze.
When he reaches Cole, he stops. Without warning, his hand comes down in a firm slap to the back of Cole’s head.
“Wake the fuck up, Vance,” Damian growls.
“This is not nap time. We’re playing Vancouver tonight. Get your head in the game.”
Cole jolts upright, blinking rapidly. “Ow—Jesus, Coach. I’m awake. Mostly.”
I watch silently from across the room as Cole rubs the back of his head, still looking half-dead. My chest tightens. I know exactly why he looks like this. Because of me. Because I could not give him the one thing he needed last night—peace.
Elias appears a moment later, holding a bright, ridiculous-looking coffee cup covered in colorful swirls and whipped cream. He drops it into Cole’s hands with a smug little grin.
Cole’s entire face lights up the second he sees it. The exhaustion cracks, replaced by genuine warmth as he wraps both hands around the cup like it is something precious. “Curls… my savior,” he mumbles. He takes a long sip and makes a happy little sound. “Though it’s your fault I look like this.”
Elias blinks innocently, green eyes wide with fake confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just being a supportive best friend bringing you sugar and caffeine. Pure selflessness.”
Cole snorts into the cup, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Yeah, sure. Supportive. You and your husband are menaces. Both of you.”
I keep my head down, continuing to tape my stick, but I cannot stop listening. The easy banter between them is familiar. Comforting, even. But underneath it, I hear the exhaustion in Cole’s voice. The way he is still performing—smiling, teasing—while running on empty.
My hands tighten on the tape. I want to say something. I want to pull him aside and tell him to stop pretending. But I stay quiet. Because saying anything would mean admitting how badly I wanted to pull him closer last night instead of letting him suffer on the other side of the bed.
Damian claps his hands once, drawing everyone’s attention. “Listen up. Vancouver is fast and cocky. They want to make this personal. Stay sharp. Vance—get some more of that sugar in you and wake the hell up. We need our playmaker tonight.”
Cole gives a lazy salute with the colorful cup. “Yes, sir.”
I study him one more time. He still looks tired, but there is a small, real smile on his face as he sips the coffee Elias brought him. For a second, our eyes meet across the locker room. I look away first.
The warm-ups are sloppy, and the game itself starts even worse.
Vancouver is fast, loud, and playing with something to prove.
Their crowd is already roaring, black and silver jerseys filling the stands like a storm.
I stay focused on the ice, reading plays before they happen, but my attention keeps drifting to Cole.
He is sluggish.
Not terrible—not enough that the casual observer would notice—but I see it.
His usual explosive speed is half a beat slow.
His hands are not as quick on the puck. He misses a simple pass during warm-ups and laughs it off, but I catch the frustration in the set of his shoulders.
The lack of sleep from last night is weighing on him like chains. Because of me.
I skate closer than I should during shifts, positioning myself like a shield every time a Vanguard player drifts toward him.
One of their forwards tries to pin him against the boards early in the first period.
I am there before the hit lands, stepping into the lane and driving the guy back with a clean but firm check.
Cole cuts me a quick look as he regains the puck, something unreadable flickering across his face before he takes off again.
I stay on him like a shadow for the rest of the period.
When Luca Moreau, their flashy center, starts chirping during a faceoff, I step in close behind my right winger, my presence alone enough to make the kid shut his mouth.
Elias wins the draw cleanly and sends the puck to Cole, but Cole is breathing harder than he should be.
By the time we hit the bench for a line change, I can feel the tension rolling off him. He drops down beside me, helmet pushed back, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. For a moment he just sits there, catching his breath.
Then, after a solid shift where he threads a beautiful pass to Elias for a near-goal, Cole leans slightly toward me on the bench, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the crowd.
“Easy there, big guy,” he murmurs, that familiar teasing edge fighting through the exhaustion. “You gonna tuck me into bed after the game too? Or just keep playing human shield all night?”
The words are light, but I hear what is underneath—the attempt to shake off the tension from last night, the careful distance we kept in that hotel bed, the way he tried so hard not to take up space. He is trying to be Hollywood again. Loud. Funny. Untouchable.
I turn my head slightly, keeping my voice low. “You were slow. Someone had to make sure you did not get killed out there.”
Cole snickers, bumping his shoulder against mine for half a second before pulling back. “Yeah, yeah. My hero. Don’t worry, I’ll wake up eventually. Probably right after I drink another one of Elias’s sugar bombs.”
He is still performing. Still trying. But the smile does not quite reach his eyes, and the exhaustion clings to him like fog. I want to tell him to stop. To sit down. To let me handle the physical stuff so he does not have to push through this on no sleep.
Instead, I just grunt and tap my stick against his once. “Focus, Vance.”
He nods, but as we hop back over the boards for the next shift, I stay closer than usual. Vancouver wants blood tonight, and I will not let them have his.
The first intermission is a blur of sweat, barked instructions, and the smell of menthol and adrenaline.
We are down 2-1, but the mood in the locker room is still focused.
Damian is limping more than usual as he moves between stalls, cane tapping against the floor while he gives adjustments in that low, commanding voice.
Elias stays close to him like always, green eyes sharp and attentive.
I sit in my stall, wiping my face with a towel, watching Cole across the room. He still looks drained, moving like his body is running on fumes. Until Elias appears with another ridiculous coffee—this one even more colorful than the last, piled high with whipped cream and some bright blue syrup.
“Here, Hollywood,” Elias says, shoving the cup into Cole’s hands with a wicked grin. “Extra shot. Drink up.”
Cole’s eyes light up like someone flipped a switch. He takes the cup with both hands and downs half of it in one go, letting out a pleased groan. “Curls, I love you. Marry me instead of Coach.”
“Fuck off,” Damian growls from nearby, but there is no real heat in it. Elias just laughs and ruffles Cole’s damp hair before heading back to his husband.
By the time we hit the ice for the second period, the caffeine and sugar have done their job. Cole is awake again. More than awake—he is vibrating. That familiar chaotic energy is back, bouncing on his skates, stick loose in his gloves, mouth already running.
The shift starts and within thirty seconds he and Elias click like they were built for this.
Cole streaks down the right wing, dekes one Vanguard defender, then threads a perfect no-look pass to Elias cutting through the slot.
Elias buries it top shelf, bar down. The red light flashes. The horn blares. 2-2.
Cole crashes into Elias at the boards, helmet to helmet, both of them yelling like idiots. I skate past them, tapping my stick against Cole’s once. He flashes me that bright, dangerous grin as he pulls away.
The game tightens after that. Vancouver pushes back hard, but Cole is everywhere now—chirping their captain, flying down the wing, setting up plays with that electric vision that makes him worth every headache.
By the end of the second period we have clawed our way back, and as we head into the third the scoreboard is tied at 3-3.
“Yo, Moreau!” Cole yells across the ice during a stoppage, voice carrying over the crowd. “You skating or just posing for the cameras? My grandma moves faster and she’s been dead six years!”
On the bench he is back to his usual chaos, chirping everyone within earshot—rookies, vets, even me.
“You gonna keep babysitting me all night, Petrov?” he mutters as he drops down beside me between shifts, still breathing hard but eyes bright. “Not that I mind the view, but I think the fans are starting to notice you’re glued to my ass out there.”
I grunt, tapping my stick against his shin guard. “Focus on the game, Vance.”
But I cannot hide the way my eyes keep tracking him every time he jumps back over the boards. The sugar and caffeine have him flying now, and the team feeds off it. Elias is feral beside him. Even Damian looks satisfied behind the bench.
Damian leans on his cane, his gaze fixed on the ice where Elias and Cole are circling near center ice during a stoppage. Elias is saying something that makes Cole throw his head back and laugh, loud enough to carry over the noise of the arena.
“You good?” Damian asks me, without looking away from the ice.
I turn my head slowly to glare at him. The smug bastard. He knows exactly what he did with the room assignment. “Kade… you are the worst,” I mutter, exhausted.
Damian’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “Mhm… Bed too small?”
The words hit exactly where he wanted them to. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I do not even think. I rip off one of my gloves and throw it at his chest. It hits him square in the sternum with a dull thud.
Damian catches it easily, chuckling low as I stand up.
I jump over the boards for the next line change without another word, skates hitting the ice hard.
Behind me, I can feel Damian smirking on the bench like the smug, meddling asshole he has become since marrying Elias.
The worst part is he is not even wrong. The bed was not too small. The problem was much bigger than that.
Elias wins the faceoff cleanly and taps the puck to Cole, who explodes up the wing, curls flying under his helmet.
I follow him like a shadow, clearing space, making sure no Vanguard idiot gets near him.
Cole threads a pass back to Elias, who rifles it toward net.
The goalie makes a desperate save, but the rebound comes right back to Cole and he buries it. We take the lead, 4-3.
Cole crashes into Elias near the net, both of them screaming like idiots. As he skates past the bench on the way back to position, his eyes find mine for half a second. That bright, dangerous grin flashes across his face—the same one that has been ruining me for years.
I tap my stick against his as he passes. He does not say anything, but the look he gives me says enough.
The final horn sounds with the scoreboard reading 5-3 in our favor. Elias and Cole crash together near the boards one last time, screaming and laughing like idiots while the rest of the team piles on. Even with the exhaustion still clinging to all of us, the victory feels good.
Back in the visitor locker room, the energy is chaotic.
Gear flies into stalls, showers turn on, guys are shouting over each other.
Cole is practically vibrating. The ridiculous amounts of sugar and caffeine Elias kept feeding him have him bouncing on his heels, eyes bright and manic as he peels off his pads.
“Curls, please,” he begs, already half-undressed and gesturing wildly. “We have to go out. Just one night. Two nights away from home, we deserve it. I need noise. I need lights. I need something other than hotel sheets and Viktor’s judgmental staring.”
Elias laughs, his eyes sparkling as he looks toward Damian, who is leaning against the wall near the coach’s area. Elias turns on the full puppy eyes—wide, pleading, disgustingly effective.
Damian pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long-suffering sound before rolling his eyes. “Fine. Go out. But stay together. And behave.”
Cole whoops like he just scored the overtime winner. Elias grins victoriously and leans in to kiss Damian’s scarred cheek in thanks.
Damian’s voice drops into that low, dangerous tone as he points at both of them. “If I have to come find your drunk asses in an unknown bar, Hollywood, I’m benching you for the rest of the season.”
Cole clutches his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Coach. I am a responsible adult.”
“Bullshit,” Damian deadpans.
Then Zara’s voice cuts through the noise from where she’s standing near the door, tablet in hand, her eyeliner still perfect despite the long night. “And no TikToks,” she says firmly, not even looking up from her screen.
The entire room goes quiet for half a second before Cole gasps, offended. “You’re killing me, Reyes. You’re actually killing me.”
I sit in my stall, unlacing my skates, watching the whole circus unfold.
Cole is still buzzing, loud and chaotic, but I can see the edges of exhaustion creeping back in now that the adrenaline is fading.
He keeps glancing my way every few seconds, like he is not sure what to do with the leftover tension from last night.
I do not say anything. I just watch him—watch the way he laughs too loud, the way he moves like he is trying to outrun whatever is still sitting between us in that hotel room.
Damian claps his hands once. “Showers. Then behave. Or don’t. Just don’t make me regret saying yes.”
Cole flashes Elias a wicked grin and they both head toward the showers, still chirping each other like overgrown children. I stay seated a moment longer, rolling my shoulders, feeling the weight of too little sleep and too many unsaid things pressing down on me.