Chapter 2 - Damian
Four days until the bloodbath. Four days until the Ravensburg Reapers face off against their oldest, ugliest rival—the Haverton Phantoms.
A team built from shadows and spite. Thirteen years in this league and I’ve bled more against those black-and-silver jerseys than anyone else.
They don’t just play dirty; they play to ruin.
Every time we line up against them, someone limps out broken.
Halloween night, packed arena, Haverton ice—it won’t be hockey. It’ll be slaughter.
Which is why I’m in Coach Harrow’s office now, instead of on the sheet.
The place reeks of burnt coffee and old leather, cluttered with clipboards and schedules.
A stack of scouting reports bleeds across his desk, half-buried under a whiteboard crowded with lines and scratches.
Harrow’s got his glasses perched low, pen between his teeth, chewing like he could grind steel.
“Flight’s a pain in the ass,” he mutters, raking a hand through thinning hair. “No direct to Haverton. We’ll fly out early the thirtieth—layover in Denver, then connect east. Land late, check into the Bellmare Hotel.”
I grunt, leaning back in a chair that creaks under my weight. Travel logistics never change: long flights, bad food, cramped hotels. You learn to make them your battlefield too.
“Two days’ recovery window?” I ask.
“One,” Harrow says, scribbling again. “Practice on the thirty-first, morning skate. Game that night. Phantoms will be waiting.”
I don’t need him to tell me that. Haverton never lets us walk in quiet. Their captain, Grayson Shaw, likes to greet us with fists before the puck even drops.
“Rooms are doubled,” Harrow goes on, flipping through a stack. “Standard assignments. Except you, as always.”
“Single.”
“Single,” he echoes, nodding like it’s law. It is. Nobody wants to room with me, and I prefer it that way. Silence doesn’t rattle me. Silence belongs to me.
Harrow sets his pen down, finally looking at me over the rims of his glasses. “And the rookies?”
Mercer. Brooks. The names sit different in my head.
“Brooks’ll fold before the week’s out,” I say flat. “He skates like he’s scared of the boards. You can’t teach spine.”
“And Mercer?” Harrow’s eyebrow ticks up.
My jaw works. Elias Mercer is…something else.
Loud, brash, cocky as hell. Mouth never shuts, even when his lungs are burning.
He fights like he wants to bleed, skates like the ice belongs to him.
I should write him off as reckless. But when I told him to move, he moved.
When I told him faster, he went until he broke himself in half.
I lean forward, elbows heavy on my knees. “Mercer’s an attack dog in a pup’s body. Doesn’t know when to quit. Dangerous—for himself, and for anyone dumb enough to stand in his way.”
Harrow hums, eyes narrowing like he hears more than I’m saying. “Take care of my rooks, Kade,” he says, sliding the itinerary across the desk like it weighs a ton.
I push to my feet, chair groaning behind me. “Always.”
The word leaves no room for argument.
The hallway outside is quiet, stripped of the usual chaos after practice. Boys cleared out an hour ago—gear bagged, showers run, chirps fading into nothing. By now they’re sprawled in cars, at bars, at home.
But as I make my way toward the rink, there’s sound.
The faint scrape of steel on ice. Sharp. Frantic. A muttered curse carried over cold air.
I step through the tunnel. Boards glow faint under dim night lights. And there he is. Elias Mercer.
Alone.
He doesn’t see me. Not yet. He’s too wrapped up in the fight he’s picked with himself.
His hair is plastered damp to his forehead, jersey clinging with sweat, chest rising like he hasn’t stopped since the final whistle. He skates hard, chasing his own shadow, stick slapping, shoulders tight with frustration.
He tries a move—a cutback, edge into a toe drag—and fumbles. The puck slides wide.
“Fucking piece of shit.” He snarls, whips his stick at the ice, circles back fast, snatches the puck like it insulted him.
The corner of my mouth twitches. Almost a smile. The rookie is out here chirping rubber.
He tries again. Quick hands, sharper feet. Fails again. Slams his stick flat, curses spilling like he’s at war with vulcanized rubber.
And I just stand there in the shadows, watching. Because this is Elias Mercer—spent, reckless, tearing himself apart long after everyone else has gone home. And he doesn’t even realize I’m here.
Elias fights the puck like it owes him money. Over and over. Faster, sloppier, more desperate. His frustration coils tighter, spilling out of him in snarls and curses.
I let it ride longer than I should, let him burn down to the wire. Let him keep proving what I already know—that he’ll grind himself into dust just to feel like he’s worthy of my attention.
Then I move.
The soles of my shoes click against the boards as I push the gate open. I step onto the ice without skates, weight steady like I’ve done it a thousand times. His head jerks up, green eyes wide, sweat streaking his face. He looks caught, but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t quit.
“Not like that,” I say.
He freezes mid-motion, panting, chest heaving under the damp cling of his shirt. “What—”
I tilt my chin at the puck. “You’re rushing. Watch your hands. Slow down. Pull the drag tighter, keep your shoulders loose. Again.”
He nods quick, like instinct, like he can’t do anything else when I give an order. His hands shake as he sets up, legs trembling, but he tries. Fails. The puck skitters wide.
His jaw snaps tight, curse caught between his teeth.
“You’re tired,” I tell him, calm as stone. “Should’ve gone home an hour ago.”
“I can do it,” he snaps.
I step closer, shoes squeaking against the ice. He stares at me like I’ve walked off the poster above his bed.
“Your stance is wrong.”
Before he can argue, I close the last distance. My hands drop heavy on his shoulders, firm, grounding. He goes rigid instantly, breath catching.
“Loosen here.” I adjust the line of his shoulders. My palm drags down his arm, shifting his grip. I press against the bend of his knee, nudging it wider. “There. Now drag slow. Don’t force it. Control the puck—don’t fight it.”
He swallows hard, vibrating under my hands, but he listens. And that makes me smirk.
He steadies. His shoulders loosen, his knees bend where I want them, his grip shifts to fit my hand.
“Now,” I murmur, almost a growl. “Slow. Control. Don’t chase it—make it follow you.”
Elias drags the puck.
This time it clicks. Smooth, tight. The move slides clean, the puck rolling with him like it was waiting.
He gasps, a small sound, like he can’t believe it worked.
I let the silence stretch until he risks a look up—eyes wide, chest heaving, hair plastered to his forehead. Waiting.
“Good boy.”
The words drop like a blade.
And he breaks.
Not with tears or noise, but with a stumble so violent he nearly eats the ice. Knees buckle, edges scrape, stick clatters as he flails. He barely saves it.
I smirk wider. Watching him crumble under two words and my gaze—it’s better than the goal he scored two days ago.
He’s flushed, eyes darting anywhere but me. But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t try. He just stands there, vibrating, waiting for more.
“Again,” I say.
He jerks like a wire pulled taut, grabs his stick, sets up. The puck moves smoother, but it slips at the end. I don’t touch him this time.
“Again.”
He stumbles, mutters curses, tries harder. Edges bite into the ice, shoulders locking, knees shaking.
“Again.”
The word hammers him down. Each time I say it, he obeys, no matter how badly his arms tremble or how hard he pants. Sweat drips down his temples, off his jaw, but he keeps going.
Until finally—finally—he pulls the drag tight, clean, perfect. No stumble, no slip.
I don’t say a thing.
He keeps going anyway. Again. Again. Like he’s forgotten I exist, like all that matters is mastering this one move until the ice itself remembers his edges.
And then his legs give out.
He collapses on his back, stick falling from limp fingers. His chest heaves, muscles wrecked.
And he’s grinning.
Flat on the ice grinning like he just won the Cup. Like bleeding himself dry under my gaze is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
“Fuck you, puck,” he wheezes, voice cracking into a laugh. “Knew I’d get you.” Then louder, throwing his arms wide: “Somebody tell that rubber bastard I own him now!”
He’s delirious, chirping into an empty rink like the whole team’s there to hear. And I let him.
Because he’s wrong—he doesn’t own the puck. He doesn’t even own himself.
Good.
I step closer and look down at him—this rookie center, this reckless little bastard sprawled out like he belongs here.
“Go home, pup.”
The words cut through his manic laughter like a blade. His head snaps toward me, eyes wide, mouth still open around another tease he forgets to finish.
And then he scrambles.
Not graceful. Not smooth. He fumbles to his knees, pushes up, grabs his stick like he’s been caught stealing. He stumbles, nearly drops it twice, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes, sir,” he breathes.
The grin is still carved into his face, wild and sharp. He’s panting, skating toward the gate on legs that might give out—but smiling like I just handed him the world.