Chapter 24 - Damian #2
“Good,” I growl.
He snaps a look at me through the cage, sweat dripping into his eyes, lips curled into something reckless. “Not done yet, Captain.”
Then he’s gone again.
Skates bite ice, body twists, and he wheels the puck back across the slot like he was born for this. My chest rumbles with a laugh—low, feral, pleased—and I tear after him, shoulders colliding, sticks clashing, weight and speed slamming until the whole rink shakes with us.
The bench is losing it. Cole howling, Tyler gaping, Mats muttering holy shit under his breath. But I don’t hear them.
I only hear him. The scrape of his blades, the grunt of his breath, the snarl that rips out of him when he bodies me right back into the glass.
And my cock twitches hard again, because Christ—he’s fighting me. For real.
Every stride is desperate, sharp, reckless—every shove against my chest is wild with fury. He claws the puck down the wall, slams it off the boards, shoulders into me again and again like he really thinks he can topple me.
And God, it’s perfect.
Because I don’t need him to win. Not yet. I just need him to try.
At the crease, he finally makes his move. Cuts inside, stick flashing fast.. For one second—for one single second—he thinks he has me.
I crush him.
My shoulder drives into him, weight slamming him flat to the ice. His stick clatters away, the puck skittering useless behind the net, forgotten. The sound rattles across the rink, the boards shaking, his grunt tearing through the air.
And still—he doesn’t fold.
His ribs saw under me, curls plastered damp to his forehead, lips curled in a snarl even as my glove pins his cage to the ice.
Perfect.
I lean down, close enough that only he can hear over the roar of the bench losing their goddamn minds. My breath fogs his cage.
“Good boy.”
His body trembles under mine. And then—Christ—his mouth splits into the smallest grin, wrecked and reckless, like he just won anyway.
Because he did.
Not the puck. Not the point. But the fight.
The bench is howling—sticks banging, helmets slamming against the boards, Cole cackling so hard he sounds half–possessed. Tyler’s got his jaw on the floor, Shane’s muttering a prayer like he just watched a man rise from the dead.
But Elias only sees me.
Flat on the ice, eyes staring straight into mine. He’s grinning—wrecked and wild—even though I’ve got him pinned like prey.
Good pup.
I shove myself upright first. Plant my skates, roll my shoulders, and reach down. Not fast. Not gentle. Just one heavy glove hooking the cage of his helmet and hauling him back onto his feet.
He stumbles, legs shaking, but he doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t fold.
My hand drops from his cage to his hip.
Just for a second. Just long enough for him to feel the weight of it. Just long enough for the vets on the boards to notice, their chirps dying in their throats.
Then I let go. Step back. Calm. Collected. Like nothing just passed between us.
But Elias—he’s still glowing.
And every man on this ice knows it.
The rink stills. The boys are catching their breath, sweat dripping, helmets half–off, when the sound of boots echoes sharp off the tunnel.
Coach Harrow.
Like a ghost. Like he always does—shows up when no one’s expecting him, cigar clamped between his teeth, clipboard tucked under his arm. He hasn’t touched these rookies more than five minutes since the season started, but here he is, watching me put Elias through hell.
His words cuts across the ice.
“You training my rookies for playoffs or yourself, Kade?”
My rookies. The words almost make me laugh. He hasn’t bled with them. Hasn’t broken them down and rebuilt them until they can barely breathe but still keep skating. Hasn’t pulled them up off the ice when they collapsed and shoved them back in for more. No—those aren’t his rookies. They’re mine.
“Both,” I answer flat, meeting his stare across the sheet. My voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t waver. Calm. Final. Daring him to push.
The air goes heavy.
Elias almost moves—almost steps closer, almost folds behind me like a kid hiding from the storm. But he doesn’t. He remembers. Remembers who’s scarier. Remembers who he belongs to. He stays rooted where I put him.
Tyler, though—kid’s white as a ghost. His gloves twitch on his stick, sweat dripping down his temple like Harrow just asked him to confess to a murder.
The vets? They know better. They don’t move, don’t poke, don’t breathe wrong. They just stare, waiting, watching the standoff in the middle of the rink like it’s a fight they’ve all bet money on.
Coach’s eyes narrow, smoke curling out the side of his mouth.
My scar pulls with the smile I don’t bother to hide.
Let him push.
See how far he gets.
Coach squints at me, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. The silence stretches long enough that the rookies start shifting on their skates, Tyler about two seconds from fainting.
Then Harrow barks a laugh. “Making killers out of them,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, and turns on his heel. Clipboard tucked, boots echoing, cigar smoke trailing behind him as he vanishes the same way he came—like a ghost crawling back into the crypt.
The second the tunnel swallows him, Elias lets out a breath. Like he’d been holding it since Harrow walked in.
My gaze cuts to him. One brow lifts. “Scared, pup?”
He blinks at me. Then his lips twitch—half a grin, half a wince. “Of him?” His voice cracks, raw from the scrimmage. “Or you?”
The boys go dead quiet. Cole’s grin wobbles like he doesn’t know if he should chirp or get out of firing range. Tyler looks like he might puke again. Mats smirks faint behind his glove, and Viktor doesn’t move an inch.
I take one slow stride toward Elias, blade biting into the ice, and watch his throat work as I close the space.
I step into his space, blade cutting ice, my shadow falling over him.
“You should be scared of both,” I say. “But only one of us owns you.”
The words hang heavy in the air. The bench goes silent. Even Cole shuts up, sunglasses sliding down his sweaty nose as he waits for the fallout.
Elias huffs, lips quirking like he can’t help himself. “Why would I be scared of him? He doesn’t even know my middle name.”
Nathaniel.
Elias Nathaniel Mercer.
I think it immediately, sharp as a blade. Because of course I know. I know every detail of every man who laces up under my banner. Blood types. Birthdays. Every scar, every weak spot. They’re my responsibility. And Elias—he’s more than that.
But I don’t say it. I never will. That’s mine.
“Because he has the power to kick you off the team, pup,” I answer instead, calm, steady.
Elias doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fold. He just tilts his chin higher, defiant, reckless, his eyes blazing like he’s daring me to cut him down.
“He might have the power to kick me off this ice,” he says, loud enough for the whole team to hear. “But you have the power to make me irreplaceable.”
The bench erupts.
Sticks slam against the boards, helmets rattle, Cole howls like he just saw the second coming. Mats actually lets out a sharp laugh, Viktor grunts something low, Shane mutters holy shit under his breath. Tyler just gawks, pale and wide-eyed, like he’s watching a man climb into a lion’s cage.
Elias doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t look at anyone but me.
And Christ—he’s glowing.
I don’t answer him.
Not with words.
Instead, I reach up and unclip his helmet right there on center ice. The snap echoes, loud in the hush of the rink.
The boys go dead quiet. They’re watching like this is the only show they’ve ever cared about.
I let the helmet drop into my glove, toss it to the ice, and grip his chin in my hand. Tilt his face up higher. His lips part, breath caught.
My thumb drags slow across his jaw, rough against skin that’s flushed from the scrimmage. His pulse hammers under it.
“Yes, pup,” I murmur. “I do.”
Elias stares up at me without breathing. I stare down at him without moving. The air is heavy, charged, the whole rink caught in it.
And then—
“Goddamn it, Cap!” Cole’s voice cracks, loud enough to rattle the glass. “Kiss him already, you’re killing me!!”
Tyler shrieks like someone just lit him on fire. Viktor’s glove comes down hard across both their helmets with a crack, sending them staggering like chastised children.
But Elias—Christ, Elias—he goes scarlet. Tomato red, ears, neck, everything.
I smirk. Sharp. Predatory.
Then I kiss him.
Right there. Center ice. In front of every man on my roster. My mouth crashes down on his, hard, filthy, final, claiming him without apology. His gasp tears against my tongue, his hands twitch on his stick, his whole body melting into mine.
The boys erupt—howling, banging sticks, Cole cackling like he just won the lottery.
And I don’t let him go.
The kiss breaks, my hand still heavy on his jaw, my scar pulling with a smirk as I let him breathe again. Elias is red down to his collar, lips parted like I just stripped him bare in front of the world.
The team’s still losing their shit—sticks slamming, helmets banging, Cole howling like a hyena—but I don’t indulge them.
I just reach for my whistle.
The shriek slices the air, sharp as a guillotine. The noise dies instantly, the boys choking back laughter, eyes still wide but bodies scrambling back into line.
“Drill,” I bark, calm, final. Like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just kiss my rookie center in front of all of them.
They obey.
Cole is the last to move, of course. He’s grinning so wide it’s a wonder his face doesn’t split. He skates lazy toward the dot, and scoops Elias’s gear off the ice. Helmet in one hand, stick in the other, smirk carved across his face.
He coasts up to Elias, shoves the helmet hard against his chest. “Here you go, curls. Might wanna strap it tighter next time—you know, in case Cap kisses you so hard your brain falls out.”
The bench howls.
Elias turns red again, ears burning, lips pressed tight. His fingers clutch the helmet against his chest like he doesn’t know whether to throw it or hide behind it.
Then he snaps.
He lunges straight for Cole, shoulder slamming into him with all the pent-up fire of the last five minutes. Cole yelps, staggering, sunglasses flying off his helmet as he cackles loud enough to echo.
“Atta boy, curls!” Cole wheezes, half-laughing, half-fighting him back. “Don’t let me chirp you without at least buying me dinner first!”
The vets are pounding their sticks again, Tyler shrieking like a banshee, Shane muttering about holy water. The whole rink is chaos—exactly the way I like it.
And Elias is glowing.
My pup.