Chapter 5 - Elias
First game.
Not my first game ever—not by a long shot. I’ve played in barns that smelled like piss and popcorn, against boys who wanted to break my jaw just for grinning too wide. I’ve had scouts in the stands, fans screaming my name, blood dripping down my chin.
But this—this is different.
My first game as a Reaper.
My first game with him.
The locker room is buzzing, hot, packed tight with bodies and steam from the showers.
The smell of sweat and tape, of fresh jerseys, of adrenaline burning in our veins.
Gear’s clattering on, shin pads thudding, gloves flexing.
The sound of skates hitting the floor is like a heartbeat under all of it.
And there he is.
Damian Kade.
My captain.
He’s standing dead center, bigger than all of us, long hair damp, eyes sweeping over the room like he owns not just the sheet but every man in here. And he does.
Coach Harrow is at his side—when the fuck did he get here? Did he fly in with us? I didn’t even notice. My brain’s been locked on Damian, the way his voice cuts through everything.
“The Phantoms are going to come for you,” he says, calm, steady, lethal. “They’ll go for rookies first. Cheap shots, slashes, late hits. They’ll drag you into the boards and try to leave you there.”
He doesn’t have to look at me when he says it, but he does. Just a flicker, quick and sharp. My heart nearly blows out of my chest.
The vets nod. They’ve heard this speech before. Cole smirks like he’s already planning how to spin it into content. Viktor just cracks his knuckles, a wall waiting for war. Mats leans back, unreadable, but I catch the way his jaw tightens.
I can’t stop bouncing. My knees won’t quit under my pads, blades tapping the floor like they’ve got a mind of their own.
Because this is it.
This is what I’ve been dreaming of since I was twelve, staring up at a poster of him over my bed.
My first game in Reapers black. My first game under his command.
And I swear to God, I’ll bleed out on the ice if it means hearing him say good boy again.
Damian doesn’t pace. He doesn’t need to. He just stands there, huge and firm, voice like gravel ground smooth, laying it all out.
“Petrov—shut them down at the blue line. Don’t give Shaw an inch.”
Viktor nods once, calm as stone.
“Rivera—close gaps, make them pay if they cut low.”
Mats hums, lazy but sharp, like he’s already building the angles in his head.
“Vance—keep your stick down and your mouth open. You want to chirp, chirp their goalie, not their captain.”
Cole smirks like the devil, already loading material.
“O’Rourke—stay locked in. They’re going to crowd your crease, hack at you. You bite back.”
Shane mutters something about curses and blood.
He goes down the line, every word clean, specific. Every man here knows exactly what’s expected.
Then his eyes land on me.
My chest jerks, breath catching. I can’t keep still. My leg’s bouncing, stick tapping the floor.
And then he says it.
Flat. Final. Like a sentence being handed down.
“Mercer. You’ve got the leash tonight. You want to run your mouth? Run it. You want to burn yourself raw? Burn. Go feral. Make them come for you—and when they do, we’ll be there.”
My skin ignites. My blood howls. Permission. He just gave me permission.
I want to laugh, want to scream. My grin splits so wide it hurts. I’m twitching in my skates like I could burst through the boards right now, right this second, and tear Haverton apart piece by piece.
“Yessir,” I rasp, vibrating out of my own skin.
Cole’s staring at me like I just lost my mind. Tyler looks like he’s about to shit himself. The vets? They don’t even blink.
But I’m already gone.
Cole snorts, loud enough to cut through the buzz. He leans back in his stall, half-smirk, half-scoff. “Curls is gonna get himself killed out there…”
The room ripples—half a chuckle, half a hum of agreement. Tyler stiffens like Cole just voiced his worst nightmare.
And then Damian looks at him.
“That’s why we’re there,” he says. A pause, lethal. “To not let them kill him…no?”
Cole freezes. His smile falters just enough for the rest of the boys to notice. A couple of the vets smirk, Viktor grunts like that’s the end of it, Mats tilts his head with a knowing half-smile.
The weight of it hangs in the air, heavy as a blade.
Jesus Christ. My whole body jolts like I just took a hit to the chest. My heart’s sprinting, my blood’s on fire, and I can’t stop beaming like an idiot. He said it. He said it out loud. Not just to me. To them.
If Haverton wants me, they’ll have to go through him. Through all of them.
I bounce on my skates, tap my stick against the floor, and taunt Cole just to cover the way my ribs feel like they’re about to split open. “Hear that, Hollywood? You’re my bodyguard tonight. Better not let me down.”
Cole groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Christ, someone muzzle him before he chirps Shaw’s entire bloodline.”
Too late.
We’re lined up at the door to the tunnel, the roar of the Haverton crowd vibrating through the concrete. The walls shake with boos, chants, that ugly silver-and-black energy leaking in from the other side. My blood is fire in my veins, my skin too tight to hold me in.
One last thing before we storm the ice.
Every single guy in the room reaches into his stall, into bags, into pockets. Mouthguards snap between teeth, plastic squeaks, jaws clench—
And then twenty sets of fangs flash back at Damian.
Vampire fangs. White plastic molded sharp, dripping Halloween.
The boys are tapping sticks against shin pads, laughter spilling through the noise of the crowd outside. Cole beams the brightest, mouth full of pointed teeth.
“You said no capes,” he says, triumphant, his voice muffled by fake fangs.
The room loses it. Mats smirks, Viktor rumbles low, Shane cackles like he’s hexing the Phantoms before puck drop. Even Tyler cracks a nervous smile, flashing cheap plastic like it might save him.
Damian just stands there, deadpan, eyes sweeping the room once, slow. His face doesn’t move, not even a twitch.
The silence is enough to cut the laughter in half.
And then, finally, he exhales through his nose. “Go.”
We go.
The tunnel explodes with the sound of blades hitting concrete, sticks slamming against walls.
Our chant rips through the air, deep, brutal, carried on the beat of twenty hearts about to bleed for the same ice.
The light at the end of the tunnel glows sickly red, flashing, smoke machines spilling out like fog.
The crowd is on fire. Haverton’s arena shakes, boos crashing over us like thunder.
I smile through my fangs, twitching in my gear. This is it. Halloween night. Phantoms’ barn. My first game in Reapers black.
And beside me—Captain Damian Kade.
No cape. No mask. Just blood in his eyes and a war in his chest.
We step onto the ice.
Opening faceoff.
I crouch low at center ice, blade angled, sweat dripping down my neck even though the game hasn’t started.
Across from me is Grayson Shaw—Phantoms captain, monster in human skin.
He’s bigger than me, heavier, built from twelve years of punishment in this league.
His helmet hides most of him, but I can see the scar across his chin, the sneer in his mouth.
He leans in. “You’ll be crawling back to juniors after tonight, rookie.”
I grin wide, fangs flashing. “At least I won’t be crawling to a retirement home, grandpa.”
The crowd hasn’t even stopped booing yet.
And I’ve already gone for the jugular.
The ref hasn’t dropped the puck when Cole’s groan drifts from the wing, muffled through his mouthguard. “He didn’t waste a second…”
The ref’s hand flicks down, the puck drops—
And it’s mine.
My stick snaps quick, blade cutting under Shaw’s, and I rip the puck back clean. I blast forward, legs pumping fire, the crowd screaming louder. My first touch, my first play, against the man they sent to crush me.
I tear through neutral ice, Shaw’s shadow at my back, his stick slashing, his breath hot behind me. Let him chase. Let him break his lungs on me.
I hit the blue line, two defenders closing fast. I should shoot. God, I want to. But Cole’s already there, streaking wide on the wing, his teeth flashing plastic fangs under his cage.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.
The puck slides clean off my blade, sharp, fast, threading through Phantoms sticks like they weren’t even there. Straight onto Cole’s tape.
He fires without breaking stride.
The shot cracks like a gunshot, hammering against the goalie’s pads. It doesn’t go in—but it rattles him. Rebound spits loose, chaos erupts in the crease, Haverton scrambling. The crowd roars, half in rage, half in fear.
Cole’s laugh cuts through it, wild and triumphant. “Not bad, curls!”
First shift, first pass, and we’ve already tested them. Already made them scramble.
And when I glance to the bench, I see him.
Damian.
Watching me.
Unmoving, unreadable, ice and void in his eyes.
Second shift.
The crowd’s louder now, the boards rattling with boos and claws scratching against glass, but none of it matters. Because this time—he’s on the ice with me.
Damian Kade. Captain. God. Predator in black.
And somehow—don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why—the puck ends up on my stick again.
I swear the whole Phantom bench moves at once. Suddenly it’s not just Shaw, it’s everyone. Like the puck’s glued to me, like I painted a target on my chest. Their sticks stab at the ice, their bodies crash forward. It’s me against all of them.
I yelp.
Actually yelp.
“Jesus fuck—do you all want my autograph or what?” I poke, legs pumping. I cut left, cut right, my blades screaming against the ice. Every Phantom jersey is a shadow at my back, a wall in my face.
And right before Shaw closes in, shoulders braced, about to drive me so deep into the boards I’ll leave a dent in Haverton’s barn—
I send it.
The puck screams off my blade, sharp, clean, slicing straight across the slot. Onto his tape.