Chapter 5 - Elias #2
Damian catches it like he’s been waiting all night. One stride, one slash, and the puck hammers past the goalie, slamming into the back of the net.
Goal.
The red light blazes. The horn howls. The Reapers’ bench erupts, sticks banging, voices roaring. The Phantoms’ crowd howls in rage.
And right as that happens—Shaw hits me.
His shoulder rams into my ribs so hard the boards shake, my vision flashes white, the breath torn straight out of me. Pain knifes through my side, my body folding against the glass.
But I don’t fall.
Because Viktor is there.
A freight train in black, slamming into Shaw with such force the ice shudders. Their sticks splinter, their helmets crack together. Shaw snarls, Viktor growls something in Russian that vibrates through the boards, and suddenly the Phantoms’ captain looks less like a predator and more like prey.
I’m gasping, clutching my ribs, smirking even though every breath hurts. Because I did it.
I gave the puck to him.
He scored.
We’re winning.
And I’d bleed all night if it means hearing him say it again.
The whistle finally blows, and I stagger toward the bench. My legs don’t want to hold me, but my grin won’t leave. Every step, the boards still rattling in my head, the sting still flaring down my side—none of it matters.
Because the puck went in.
Because he scored.
Because I fed it to him.
I collapse onto the bench, helmet knocking against the wall behind me. The noise of the crowd is a wall of hate, silver-and-black rage crashing down, but all I can hear is the pounding in my ears.
Then—he leans in.
Damian’s shoulder brushes mine, heavy, deliberate. His hair falls forward, shadowing his face, his eyes cutting into me from too close. He doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t need to.
“You did good.”
My whole body seizes under that low tone curling down my spine.
And then, quieter still, for me alone:
“Do it again.”
The air leaves me in a rush. Not because of the hit. Not because of the bruises already blooming purple. But because holy fuck.
My head tips back against the glass, eyes closing for a second, a manic laugh breaking out of me before I can stop it. “Yessir.”
The vets around us smirk, some shaking their heads. Cole mutters something under his breath like, Christ, he’s hooked already.
And he’s right.
I am.
Next shift, I’m lined up again at center, heart hammering. The crowd is a storm of noise, their captain crouched across from me, helmet low, eyes hungry.
But I’m not alone this time.
Because when I drop into my stance, Damian steps up right behind me. Towering. Silent. The weight of him pressing at my back like a wall I can lean against. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough to make my lungs expand, even through the ache.
The ref grips the puck. Shaw’s eyes flick up, narrowing. But they’re not on me.
They’re on him.
On Damian.
Like the Phantom captain knows the real fight’s never been about me.
And that’s his mistake.
The puck drops—
And Shaw’s half a beat too slow.
Because he’s watching Damian.
Not me.
My stick snaps down, clean, fast, the rubber popping free before Shaw even realizes it’s gone. My legs are already burning fire, propelling me forward, puck on my blade.
I bolt.
“Thanks for the freebie, old man!” I spit loud enough for the glass to rattle. The crowd erupts in hate, silver-and-black fans slamming the boards as I blaze down the ice, laughter tearing out of my throat, high and manic.
They don’t see me. They don’t expect me.
The ice is mine for a heartbeat. The crowd’s a blur, the puck’s glued to my stick. I can taste the goal already—taste the roar, the echo, the praise that might follow.
Then Shaw slams into me from behind.
It’s like getting hit by a freight train. My ribs flare, my vision flashes white, my body snaps forward into the ice. For a split second I’m airborne, nothing under me but cold and teeth in my jaw.
But the puck—
The puck is still mine.
I twist, wrists jerking, every muscle screaming, and I fling it forward with everything I’ve got. My skates barely touch the sheet before the red light blazes behind the goalie.
Goal.
My goal.
The horn screams. The crowd howls in rage, Haverton fans pounding the glass. My teammates erupt on the bench, sticks hammering the boards.
Two seconds later, Shaw’s on me.
He’s snarling, helmet down, gloves still on, stick jammed against my chest. His weight crushes me into the ice, blade biting my side.
And then—he’s gone.
Because Damian is there.
He rips Shaw off me like he weighs nothing.
Gloves drop, fists fly. The crack of knuckles against helmet echoes through the arena.
Blood spatters the ice—not mine. Shaw’s lip splits wide, his head snapping back under the force of it.
Damian doesn’t stop. He hammers him again, scarred lip curled in a snarl, his fists painting the Phantoms’ captain red.
The refs are screaming, whistles blaring. The crowd’s a wall of sound, half roaring, half shrieking.
I push up on shaky arms, lungs tearing for air, and all I can do is smile. Wide. Feral. Because my ribs ache, my body’s wrecked—
And Damian Kade just bled another man for touching me.
The refs are in chaos, whistles shrieking, arms waving, but the crowd is louder—half of Haverton screaming for blood, the other half screaming because they just got it.
Shaw’s jersey is streaked crimson, his helmet crooked, his sneer dripping through split lips.
Damian’s knuckles are raw and painted, chest heaving once, steady again like he didn’t just tear a man open in front of twenty thousand people.
Both benches are roaring.
The decision comes fast: double penalties. Both captains. Two minutes each.
Shaw snarls as he’s dragged toward the Phantoms’ box, fighting the refs even as blood spatters his jersey. Damian doesn’t fight. He doesn’t need to. He just lets the stripes haul him in, silent, towering, hands still dripping red.
The bad boy box door slams shut. Shaw sits with his head tipped back, cloth pressed to his mouth.
Damian sits across from him, calm as a storm at sea.
And me?
I can’t stop staring.
His gloves are off, blood still slick on his knuckles, his lip curved faintly at the corner. Not a smile, not exactly—but something sharper. And when his eyes cut across the rink, they lock straight on me.
He smirks.
Just that. Small.
And my whole body goes off like a bomb, my brain screaming fuckfuckfuck because what the hell am I supposed to do when the man who just bled their captain dry looks at me like that?
The puck drops again.
The Phantoms are shaken. Shaw’s off the ice. Their bench is rattled, their crowd unsettled. And we take advantage. Cole barrels down the wing, threads a pass through Mats, and Viktor, of all people, rips a slapshot that screams past their goalie.
Goal.
The horn splits the air again, Reapers bench exploding.
By the end of the second period, the scoreboard glows ugly and perfect: 3–0. Reapers.
And I can’t stop glancing at the penalty box. At the blood still drying on his fists. At the smirk that hasn’t left his scarred mouth.
Christ. I’m ruined.
Intermission.
The locker room is a furnace—steam rising off gear, helmets clattering, the stink of sweat and blood thick in the air. Water bottles crack open, towels hit the floor, everyone’s buzzing.
Three to nothing.
Against Haverton.
On Halloween night.
And somehow, I’m still breathing.
“Not bad, curls.”
I whip my head up. Cole Vance—Hollywood himself, the king of chirps—leans back in his stall, pointing his water bottle at me like it’s some kind of award. “Hell of a setup on that first goal. Hell of a shot on the second. You keep that shit up, I might actually have to call you a real Reaper.”
The room laughs, a ripple of sound, some half-cheers, some grunts of agreement. Even Viktor mutters something that might be praise, which is terrifying in itself.
My grin damn near splits my helmet in half. Cole—Cole—praised me. It feels like winning a second game inside this one, a hidden victory no one can steal.
But I can’t stop staring.
At him.
Damian sits at his stall, shoulders heavy, hair damp and dark, his eyes lowered as he tapes his knuckles.
White cloth winds around red skin, slow and steady, his fingers moving with that terrifying calm.
Every strip of tape squeaks as it pulls, every wrap tightening, hiding the blood but not erasing it.
I can’t look away.
Not from the flex of his hand, not from the line of his jaw in the dim light, not from the faint smirk tugging at his scarred lip every time someone laughs too loud. He hasn’t said a word since the fight. Doesn’t need to. His presence fills the room more than all of us combined.
Third period.
The barn is a madhouse, silver-and-black claws pounding glass, voices like thunder shaking the rafters.
3–0, Reapers, and Haverton’s foaming at the mouth for blood.
Their fans want it, their bench needs it, and their captain—back on the ice, lip split, eyes wild—looks like he’ll carve me into pieces if it’s the only thing he does tonight.
Center ice.
I crouch low, stick tapping the dot. Shaw’s crouched across from me, hunched low, dripping violence. The ref’s arm is raised, puck trembling between his fingers.
On my left—Damian. Captain. Shadow.
On my right—Tyler, jittery, jaw tight, stick clamped too hard in his gloves.
Cole’s benched for this shift, shouting taunts from behind us, voice muffled through his vampire fangs.
The puck drops.
And it’s war.
Shaw lunges at me, stick stabbing for the draw, shoulder crashing into mine before the puck even hits the sheet. His breath is hot through his cage. “You’re dead, rookie.”
I laugh in his face. Loud. Too loud. “Not if I kill you first, grandpa!”
The puck skitters loose, sticks clashing, blades scraping. Shaw’s heavier, dirtier, he shoves, slashes, leans his full weight into me, trying to pin me down at the dot.
But Damian’s already there.