Chapter 20 - Damian #2
Second period ends 3–1. Barn’s a riot of smoke, red lights, fans banging on the glass like they’ll tear it down. Wranglers look wrecked, our bench rides high, and Elias—he’s grinning through the cage like he hasn’t been nailed into the boards once already.
I don’t buy it.
Locker room reeks of sweat, tape, Gatorade. Helmets hit hooks, gloves tossed, boys barking over each other, Cole narrating like there’s a camera crew following him. Mats chirps back, Viktor grunts, Tyler wheezes like he’s on his last lung.
I don’t say a word.
I don’t need to.
Elias drops onto the bench, chest heaving, hair plastered to his forehead. He’s still mouthing off to Cole about who set up the prettier goal. The boys howl. But when I step in front of him, the noise dulls.
I don’t ask.
I don’t warn.
I just grip the hem of his jersey, shove it up.
He freezes, grin dying on his lips, eyes darting up to mine like I just stripped him naked in front of the team. His ribs are a mess—bruises blooming ugly where that Wranglers bastard touched him.
I press my thumb against one, steady, testing. Not soft. Never soft.
He hisses through his teeth. Stares at me like I’ve hung the moon and set it on fire for him.
The room erupts.
“OHHH,” Cole howls from across the stalls, smirk sharp. “Look at that bedside manner! Real gentle, Cap. Bet he’s a fantastic nurse.”
Shane cackles, clutching his water bottle. “Careful, Mercer, next he’ll be checking your temperature.”
Mats grins slow, wicked. “With a fist.”
Laughter ricochets off the walls, the boys drumming their sticks against the floor like hyenas. Elias doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. His chest heaves under my hand, eyes locked on me like none of them exist.
The chirps are deafening.
Cole’s cackling like he’s on late-night television, Mats is leaning back like he’s got popcorn, Shane’s half-praying, half-laughing, and Tyler’s red in the face just trying to keep up with the noise.
But Elias?
He doesn’t say a word.
Doesn’t snap back, doesn’t hide.
He just grins.
Wide, teeth flashing under the cage still half-clipped to his helmet. His ribs are bruised, his lungs are raw, his body is wrecked—and still, he’s glowing. Eating up my attention like it’s the only thing on the planet that matters.
The boys howl louder at his silence. Cole actually throws his head back, smacks his stick against the wall. “Ohhh my GOD, he LIKES it!”
Shane crosses himself like he’s witnessing blasphemy. “Lord have mercy, the rookie’s gone full martyr.”
Mats snorts. “Not martyr. Disciple.”
The room breaks into howls again, laughter ricocheting sharp off steel and cinderblock. Water bottles spray, sticks clap, voices pitch higher like they can break the roof down with the sound of it.
And through it all—Elias just keeps grinning.
Right at me.
I drop his jersey back down, slow, calm, never breaking eye contact. The boys are still barking, but he’s steady, glowing like he’s drunk on it. Like the only thing that matters in this whole room is my hand on his ribs.
Good pup.
Third period.
Barn still howling, lights bright enough to blind, the Wranglers desperate, clawing for a comeback.
Doesn’t matter.
Because Elias Mercer is loose on my ice.
Kid explodes out of the faceoff like he’s been lit on fire. Curls flying, mouth running, mouthing off so loud I can hear it from the blue line. Wranglers try to pin him—shoulders, sticks, hooks—but he won’t fold. He cuts through checks like they’re nothing.
I see it in the way he carries himself.
Every stride is for me.
Every cut, every hit, every scrap of speed—mine.
He throws himself at Cole’s size just to win a battle on the boards, pops out with the puck like it’s a prize he earned bleeding, and wings it to Mats who buries it in the net. 4–1.
The barn detonates. Sticks slam the boards, fans scream his name, and Elias—he doesn’t look at the crowd. He doesn’t celebrate with the boys.
He skates straight across center ice and locks eyes with me.
Grin feral, like he’s daring me to say he’s not good enough. Like every reckless second out here is him begging me to watch.
I smirk through the cage. Just enough. Just for him.
And he plays harder.
He teases Wranglers until they snap, drops into scrums twice his size, takes crosschecks to the ribs and bounces back up like he’s unbreakable. The refs are screaming, the benches are howling, and I don’t move an inch.
Because this is what I’ve been drilling into him.
Not just skill.
Obedience.
Devotion.
And he’s giving me all of it.
By the time the horn sounds, Wranglers are wrecked and the scoreboard reads 5–2. Reapers storm the ice, Cole whooping, Shane dropping to his knees like he’s seen God, Mats chirping the bench into silence.
Handshake line’s a mess of taunts and grudges. Wranglers grip too hard, spit too much, Cole mouths off until Mats elbows him into silence. Viktor nearly crushes a man’s hand. The crowd’s still buzzing, our barn dripping with victory.
By the time we break, the boys thunder toward the tunnel—sticks clattering, helmets half-off, jerseys soaked through with sweat. Cole’s already narrating post-game like he’s on SportsCenter, Tyler wheezing beside him, Shane muttering prayers about miracles on ice.
Elias lags.
Not much—just enough.
Those eyes still sharp under his cage, cheeks flushed. The kid’s glowing. Grinning like he just carved his name into the ice.
I wait.
One stride. Two.
The tunnel swallows us in shadows, the roar of the barn fading behind concrete and steel. Boys’ voices echo further ahead, too loud, too careless. Elias turns just enough to glance back—
And I’m there.
My glove fists the bars of his cage, jerks him into the wall. His back hits concrete, hard. My other hand rips the helmet off clean, tossing it down the tunnel where it clatters against the floor.
He gasps.
Doesn’t even have time to mouth off.
Because my mouth crushes his.
The taste of him is sweat and blood and victory. His lips part on instinct, his moan muffled against my tongue when I drive it deep, claiming every desperate sound he makes. His body melts against mine, grin gone slack, hands clutching at my jersey like he’ll drown if he lets go.
“For assisting three goals,” I growl against his mouth, words hot, “for burying one yourself, for being my good pup—”
I slam him deeper into the wall, kiss him harder, teeth catching his lip until he whimpers, raw and desperate.
“—for getting back up.”
He shudders. Melts. Every nerve in him sparks against me, his eyes fluttering, his chest heaving like I’ve stolen the last of his air. He doesn’t care the boys are just ahead, doesn’t care anyone could look back—he just clings.