Chapter 21 - Elias
Damian’s fingers are heavy at the back of my neck, steady, unmovable, guiding me down the tunnel like I’m a dog on a leash. Which, let’s be real, I probably am. My legs don’t feel like mine after that kiss—my knees still jelly, my lips still bruised—but his grip keeps me upright, keeps me moving.
Until the press blocks the hallway.
Cameras. Mics. The swarm that always waits outside the locker room after a rivalry game. I’ve seen it a thousand times on TV, even dreamed about being the one walking through it—sweaty, victorious, fresh off a win. But not like this.
Not with his hand still on me.
Not with those mismatched eyes pinning me in place while flashbulbs pop.
My whole body goes rigid. The blood rushes so hot into my face I swear steam’s about to hiss out of my ears. I can feel it—my cheeks blazing, the red crawling down my throat, painting me cherry-tomato stupid under every light in the hallway.
“Captain Kade!” someone shouts. “Hell of a fight out there—was it about the late hit on Mercer?”
The question slams into my ribs harder than any Wranglers defenseman.
Because Damian doesn’t move his hand. Doesn’t loosen it, doesn’t drop it, doesn’t pretend for the cameras that I’m just another rookie trailing behind him.
His palm stays firm, hot against my nape, fingers curled steady like I belong right there.
And Christ—every lens in the hallway catches it.
My lungs seize. My mouth goes dry. The whole world feels like it’s narrowed down to that grip and the press leaning in, voices stacking sharp over each other.
“Captain, is Mercer your project?”
“Do you think the rookie’s ready for a bigger role?”
“Mercer—how does it feel to have the captain in your corner like that?”
My brain short-circuits. I can’t. I can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t think of a single word that doesn’t sound like I’ve just been fucked up against a wall. Which—well.
Damian moves. Not much. Just enough. His thumb drags once against the side of my throat—subtle, quiet, but it feels like a brand under my skin.
“Mercer earned his spot tonight,” he says. Every mic tips closer like it’s gospel. “Faceoffs. Assists. Goal. He got up when they tried to bury him. That’s what makes a Reaper.”
The air catches in my chest. My pulse stutters so hard I almost sway into him. He didn’t have to say my name. Didn’t have to say anything. But he did. And now the whole hallway is buzzing with the weight of it, cameras flashing like fireworks while my captain keeps his hand steady on my neck.
“Mercer!” a reporter calls, louder this time, aimed straight at me. “What’s it like playing on a line under Kade? He pushes you harder than anyone else—what’s your reaction to that?”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Just a strangled little wheeze that might as well be sir. My curls are damp, and every camera’s pointed right at me waiting for an answer that doesn’t exist.
I glance up. Wrong move. Because the second I do, those mismatched eyes slice down into mine. Telling me without a word exactly what to say.
“Better than I deserve,” I blurt.
The whole hallway erupts—reporters laughing, scribbling, cameras flashing brighter. My stomach drops to the floor, heat flooding hotter down my neck. Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m actually going to die right here in the tunnel.
Damian doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t blink. Just steers me forward through the noise, his body a wall, his voice cutting the chaos to ribbons as he tells the press:
“No more questions.”
And the hallway parts.
Like the Red Sea. Like none of them would dare stand in his way when he sounds like that.
My knees nearly buckle again, but his hand keeps me upright, dragging me past cameras and shouts and straight into the safety of the locker room.
Except safety doesn’t exist here.
Because the second we step inside—Cole sees us.
And his grin could split the earth.
The locker room is already chaos—helmets clattering into stalls, gloves flung, tape snapping loud as gunfire. Cole’s voice ricochets off the walls like it owns the place, sunglasses somehow perched on his sweaty curls like he’s auditioning for a music video instead of peeling out of his gear.
And then his head swivels. His grin sharpens.
“Well, well, curls,” he crows, loud enough to cut through every other sound. “First press scrum and you’re plastered to Captain’s side like a lost puppy. Didn’t even need the PR team—just needed a leash.”
The boys howl. Mats nearly chokes on his water. Shane mutters, “Lord, give me strength,” and makes the sign of the cross with his towel. Even Tyler cracks a laugh before he remembers he’s still the bottom rung.
My face goes up in flames all over again and now my whole body burns hotter because yeah, okay, maybe Cole isn’t wrong. I was plastered to Captain’s side. With his hand on me like he owned every inch of my neck.
And the worst part? Every single camera caught it.
I open my mouth—ready to chirp back, ready to at least pretend I’m not seconds away from curling up and dying on the spot—but then Damian looks up.
Just looks.
Not a word. Not a growl. Just those mismatched eyes cutting across the room until they lock on Cole.
Silence detonates.
Cole’s mouth snaps shut. His grin stutters for half a second—then comes back, slower, more dangerous, like he knows exactly how close he just came to skating on thin ice.
“Not a leash,” he mutters under his breath, throwing his sunglasses into his stall. “More like…a custom collar.”
The boys laugh again, softer this time. Nervous. Nobody dares push further, not with the weight of the captain’s stare still pinning the room down.
And Cole’s still grinning.
That wicked, reckless grin that says he’s not scared, not really. That maybe he’s the only man alive stupid enough to poke the reaper’s beast and walk away with his head still attached.
“You’re off the ice tomorrow,” Captain says.
It lands like a puck to the throat.
I choke on absolutely nothing, coughing on air, my whole body snapping up like I’ve just been told my dog died. “Excuse me?!” The whine rips out of me before I can stop it, sharp and high, echoing too loud against cinderblock walls.
Even Cole hisses through his teeth at the tone, sunglasses sliding down his nose like he’s shielding his eyes from the fallout. Mats goes still mid-tape, Shane mutters something that might actually be Latin, and Tyler looks like he wants to crawl inside his own stall.
Captain doesn’t twitch. Just raises one dark eyebrow at me.
My mouth snaps shut so fast I nearly bite my own tongue. “I mean…” I swallow, cheeks flaming. “…with all due respect, sir… I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. My ribs are throbbing like a war drum, purple already bruising deep, but I’d skate through hell if it meant I got to stay on the ice. And he knows it. He has to know it.
But those mismatched eyes don’t budge. One glacier, one void. Carving me open.
“Fine?” he repeats, slow. Dangerous.
“Yes, sir.” The words squeak out, half-defiant, half-pleading. I brace, waiting for the snap, for the hand on my throat, for the humiliation that’ll scorch me alive in front of the whole team.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, his thumb presses harder into the bruise.
White-hot pain sparks down my side, rips a hiss through my teeth. My knees jerk like I might fold right there on the rubber mats, but I don’t move. Can’t. Not with his hand steady at my ribs, pinning me upright, not with the weight of his stare slicing me down the middle.
I can hear it—Cole sucking in a breath like he’s watching a car crash happen in slow motion. Every other man in the room has gone silent, waiting, watching.
Captain leans down, close enough that his breath brushes the shell of my ear.
“You’re off the ice tomorrow,” he says again. No growl. No shout. Just final.
And I know—I know—I can’t fight him on this. Not here. Not with the whole team watching, not with his hand already on my body like I belong to him in front of everyone.
So I nod, quick, words torn raw out of my throat. “Yes, sir.”
The silence after is deafening.
Captain drops my jersey back into place, calm as if he didn’t just strip me bare in front of the Reapers, then turns toward his own stall like the conversation never happened.
The boys scatter their gazes fast, helmets suddenly fascinating, tape tearing louder than necessary. Nobody wants to be caught staring.
Except Cole.
The second Captain pushes off the stall and stalks toward the showers, I’m on my feet.
My jersey sticks damp to my skin, ribs screaming when I peel it over my head. The hiss slips out before I can bite it back, sharp and raw. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t stop me. My body feels wrecked, bruises blooming every time I breathe, but it doesn’t matter. Not compared to this.
Because I can’t let him sideline me. Not for one day.
Not when it’ll look like he’s giving me special treatment. Like I get to skip drills and suicides and hell just because I’m letting him put me on my knees after lights out.
I shove my gear down, pads clattering into my stall, and follow him into the showers.
Steam curls up immediately, hot and wet, fogging the tile. He’s already under the spray, water beating down his shoulders, dark hair plastered slick to his jaw. He doesn’t look at me when I slip in—doesn’t even twitch—but I can feel it. The weight of him filling the whole room.
“Sir—” The word cracks out of me before I can breathe it back.
His head tilts. Just barely.
I’m already moving. Pushing closer, water soaking my curls flat, chest heaving like I’m still on the ice. “Please. Don’t bench me tomorrow. It’s just practice. I’m fine. I can skate. I need to skate.”
He doesn’t answer. Not right away. His shoulders stay turned, water sluicing down his back, muscles flexing slow as stone.
My throat closes. My pulse slams. And I hear myself keep going, the words tumbling out frantic, shameless, begging like it’s gospel.