Chapter 17 - Elias
Coach Harrow showing up in the flesh is like spotting Bigfoot.
No one really believes it until he’s actually there—cigar clenched between his teeth, clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes sharp enough to peel the skin off your back.
He hasn’t been on the ice for months, not really.
That’s Damian’s kingdom now. But today? Apparently the crypt cracked open and the ghost decided to haunt us.
And guess who he points at the second drills start.
“Mercer. Vance. One-on-one. Now.”
The whole rink goes quiet.
Cole grins instantly, wicked as sin, tapping his stick against the ice like it’s a drumroll. “C’mere, curls. Time to learn what a real forward looks like.”
I don’t grin back. Not today.
Because my heart’s pounding too hard, my lungs already working double-time, and I know exactly who’s watching.
Damian.
He’s at the boards, arms crossed, jaw locked tight, eyes steady on me. He’s always steady. M Coach is watching, sure, but he doesn’t matter half as much. Not when Damian Kade expects me to bleed for him.
The whistle shrieks.
Cole lunges first. He’s bigger, heavier, skating straight through like a freight train, his grin flashing behind the cage.
He thinks I’ll fold. Everyone thinks I’ll fold.
Six feet, wiry frame, still filling out—I’m not supposed to stand against a man who outweighs me by thirty pounds of muscle and hair gel.
But I don’t.
Not while Damian’s watching. Not while I can still hear his voice in my head from last night, low against my ear—give me everything, pup, or you’re nothing.
So I drive forward.
My skates cut sharp, my body crashing into Cole’s with all the weight I’ve got. It’s not enough to knock him down—not yet—but it’s enough to stagger him. Enough to rip that smug grin off his face for one breath.
“Jesus Christ, curls,” he wheezes, shoving back, “you trying to break my ribs?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks raw in my throat, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t stop.
We battle—stick against stick, blade against blade, body against body. Every time he shoves me, I shove back harder. Every time I slip, I claw my way upright. My lungs burn, my thighs scream, my ribs ache where he slams me into the glass. But I don’t go down. I won’t.
Because I know what Damian will call me if I hold.
Good boy.
And I’d skate through hell just to hear it again.
The puck squirts free. I dive, slap it across the line before Cole can blink, and collapse hard into the boards on the follow-through. My chest heaves, vision tunneling, sweat stinging my eyes.
The whistle blows.
Silence stretches across the ice.
And then—Coach Harrow barks out a laugh. Low, mean. “Not bad, Mercer. Maybe you won’t be a waste of ice after all.”
Cole groans, dragging himself upright, muttering something about fucking rookies on steroids. Mats smirks behind his glove. Tyler looks like he just watched someone wrestle a bear.
But I don’t look at any of them.
I look at Damian.
And when his eyes cut into mine, unreadable to anyone else—I see it. Just a flicker. The curl at his scarred mouth, the faintest nod, the smallest reward only meant for me.
Coach doesn’t stay long. He never does.
He drills Tyler hard enough to make the kid wobble, grunts once when he manages to hold his ground, and then vanishes like smoke—clipboard tucked under his arm, cigar dangling, boots clicking off the ice. Just…gone. Like he only crawled out of his crypt to remind us he still exists.
And that’s when the real practice starts.
Because Damian doesn’t wait a second. The instant Coach’s shadow clears the tunnel, Captain Kade’s whistle cuts through the rink like a guillotine.
“Line up.”
Every man on the ice scrambles. Even the vets, who’ve been through this hell a thousand times, move quick. Because when Damian decides it’s time to work, you don’t stall. You don’t breathe wrong. You obey.
And me? My chest’s still on fire from battling Cole, my ribs bruised, my lungs scorched—but I move faster than I ever have. Because I know what happens if I don’t.
“Suicides,” Damian says, calm as stone.
The collective groan from the team sounds like death rattles. Cole mutters something about “sadist” under his breath, Mats smirks, Shane just makes the sign of the cross. Tyler looks like he’s going to puke before we even start.
Then we run.
Blue line, red line, back. Red line, far blue, back. Goal line, boards, back. Until my legs are jelly and my vision blurs. Until my chest is one raw ache and my throat tastes like blood.
Damian doesn’t skate with us. He doesn’t need to. He just plants himself at center ice, arms crossed, his stare cutting across every inch of us like he’s measuring which bone will snap first.
Tyler folds first. Always does. Kid’s lungs aren’t built for this yet, and Damian knows it. Which is why he keeps the whistle sharp every time Tyler stumbles, why he drills him harder than the rest.
By the fifth rep, Tyler’s hunched over his stick. By the seventh, he’s gagging. By the ninth—he pukes. Again. Right there at the blue line, knees buckling as he retches onto the ice.
Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t call a medic or cut him loose.
“Clean it up,” he says flat. “Then back in line.”
And Tyler obeys. Pale, shaking, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before skating slow back to the circle.
The vets don’t say shit. They’ve all been there. They know this is what it means to bleed for the Reapers. To bleed for Kade.
I’m still standing. Barely. Legs trembling, lungs torn, chest raw. But I haven’t gone down. I won’t. Not while Damian’s locked on me, not while every whistle sounds like it’s meant for me alone.
Because I know—every rep, every burn, every bruise is proof. Proof that I’ll give him everything. Proof that I’ll be his good pup, on and off the ice.
My chest is still heaving, Tyler’s still pale, Cole’s bent over his stick muttering “human rights violation” like he’s filing a complaint—but Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t sweat. Doesn’t bend. He just stands there at center ice, the whole rink in his grip.
“Mercer. Brooks. Line.”
My pulse spikes.
Tyler groans like a man walking to the gallows, dragging his ass toward the dot, sweat dripping down his face. I’m already there, stick in hand, lungs on fire but legs still holding.
Damian sweeps down the both of us.
“What’d I teach you last week?”
Tyler blinks, confused. I already know. My whole body knows, because I’ve been replaying every word, every drill, every yes sir since he drilled it into me.
“Show me,” Damian says.
No whistle. No countdown. Just that low command—and I’m gone.
I burst forward, blade snapping the puck off the dot before Tyler even realizes we’ve started. My shoulders drop, weight low, just like Damian barked at me a hundred times. My legs scream but I push harder, cutting fast across the blue line.
Tyler recovers, chasing, reaching with his stick. But I remember the spin Damian forced me through on repeat until I collapsed. I throw it out now, hips low, skates biting ice. Tyler bites on it hard. His stick whiffs empty space. I’m clear.
Shot—off the post.
The clang echoes through the arena, sharp as my ragged breath.
Damian doesn’t clap. Doesn’t nod. Just: “Again.”
Tyler tries harder the second time, shoulders braced, teeth grit. I feel the hit in my ribs when he slams into me—but I hold. Because Damian drilled it into me: don’t go down. Never go down. Take the hit, use the weight. I roll my shoulder, throw Tyler off-balance, snap the puck forward, fire.
This time—it’s in. Net ripples.
My lungs are fire, sweat stinging my eyes, but the only thing I see is Damian.
Watching.
Measuring.
Every nerve in me lights up when his lip curls faint.
“Good.”
It detonates through my chest. I’d skate suicides until my knees break just to hear it again.
“Brooks. Again.”
Tyler groans. The rest of the boys are leaning against the boards now, watching like it’s their favorite show.
And Damian keeps making us run it. Over and over. Every spin, every trick, every move he drilled into us last week—he wants it perfect now. Tyler pukes again. I keep skating.
Because I’ll prove it if it kills me.
“Stop.”
One word, and it shuts the rink down. My lungs are fire, Tyler’s doubled over with puke still burning his throat, and I swear Cole is seconds away from staging a dramatic faint on the blue line.
Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise his voice.
“Skates off. Gym. Now.”
Tyler actually whimpers. His helmet tilts forward like he’s about to cry. “Captain…please—”
“Now.”
That’s it. No room to argue. Tyler goes, stumbling toward the bench like his legs might fall off.
Me? I’m already grinning through the ache in my ribs, because I know what’s coming next. Hell. Torture. Obedience. And I’ll take every second of it.
Cole sidles up beside me, gasping for air like a dying fish, and still manages to chirp through it. “Christ, curls. You skate like that for me, I’d marry you.”
“Please,” I cough, dragging my ass toward the tunnel. “You couldn’t keep up with me on a date, Hollywood. You’d be crying before appetizers.”
Cole wheezes a laugh, helmet tipping back as he groans loud enough to echo. “Nah, I’d make it through appetizers. Dessert, though? I’d be on my knees.”
The boys laugh, groaning and muttering as we clatter down the tunnel toward the locker room. Even Viktor grunts like he might almost be amused. Tyler still looks like a condemned man.
By the time we hit the locker, sweat slick under our gear, the jabs are flying.
“Bet Cap’s gonna make us squat until we puke up lunch,” Cole moans, peeling his jersey off.
I grin, yanking at my pads. “You puked your lunch two drills ago, Hollywood. Nothing left but hair gel.”
The room howls. Cole flips me off with both hands, sweat dripping off his nose, still grinning.
And through it all—Damian doesn’t smile. Just peels off his own gear slow, deliberate, like he’s already planning how to break us all over again in the weight room.