Chapter 26 - Damian #2
The enforcer’s big, but big breaks slow. His swings turn sloppy fast, and I pin him against the glass, fists carving him apart until his head snaps back. Blood sprays across the ice, red against white.
Linesmen swarm. Whistles shriek. Doesn’t matter. I land one more.
Clean. Sharp.
He crumples.
They drag me toward the box, gloves off, knuckles split and burning. My breath is steady, calm, chest rising like I’ve just gone for a jog. The Wrath crowd boos loud enough to rattle the rafters. Our bench roars louder.
And Elias is grinning through his cage like he just watched God bleed.
Good pup.
The penalty box door slams shut behind me, glass humming with the roar of Wrath’s barn.
Blood stings my knuckles, sweat dripping hot down my spine, but my breath is steady.
The enforcer’s slumped against his bench, face leaking red, and I know every man in orange is thinking twice before coming near my pup again.
Elias skates by.
Curls plastered under his helmet, chest heaving, grin sharp through the cage. He doesn’t slow—just cuts tight against the box, blade hissing against the ice, stick tapping once against the glass in front of me.
I lean forward.
“How many goals can you get me while I’m here, pup?” My voice cuts low, sharp enough to pierce through the glass, for him and him alone.
His grin widens, reckless, buzzing like he’s lit from the inside. “As many as you want, sir.”
The words hit me harder than any Wrath fist ever could.
I smirk, leaning back against the bench, blood dripping down my taped hand. “Good boy.”
And Elias skates off, faster, hungrier, like I just lit the fire under his blades.
He doesn’t waste a second.
First shift after they drop me in the box, he’s back at center—mouth running filth at the Wrath’s vet across the dot. The puck drops, and he explodes like fire on steel.
One stride, one clean lift of the stick, and the puck’s his. He burns past the blue line before the Wrath even register they’ve lost. Goal horn tries to swallow him alive, but Elias buries the wrister top shelf like he’s been doing this his whole life.
Net ripples. Crowd boos. Our bench detonates.
And he skates right past the box. Grinning. Feral. Stick tapping the glass sharp in front of me as if to say one.
Good boy.
Next shift—he doesn’t bury it himself. Not yet. He dances the puck between two Wrath defensemen, grins wide as they slash his ribs, and still slips it through clean to Cole screaming down the wing. Wrister. Net. Horn.
Two.
Bench howls, Wrath snarl, refs useless—and Elias doesn’t slow. He’s back at the dot, back at center ice, chest heaving, mouth running faster than the Wrath can keep up. They slash him again, hook him, drive him hard into the boards—he just bounces back up grinning.
Threads another pass to Mats this time. Low, sharp, filthy. Net again.
Three.
By the time the second period horn blows, the scoreboard reads 4–1. Wrath bleeding. Reapers roaring. And Elias—Christ, Elias—he’s glowing through the cage.
Three goals. All mine.
The boys know it. They’re chirping him loud, banging helmets, Cole screaming he wants custody papers because “Cap’s already got the marriage license.”
I just sit back on the bench, blood dried on my knuckles, smirk sharp across my scar, eyes steady on my pup.
Because when the horn sounds again and we’re back in that hotel room—
I’m going to reward the shit out of him.
Third period.
Wrath come out swinging, desperate, orange jerseys snarling like they think they can claw back three goals on home ice. The crowd’s rabid, refs jittery, their bench barking orders that sound more like death rattles than strategy.
Doesn’t matter.
Because I’m back on the ice. And Elias is right beside me.
This isn’t about goals anymore. It’s about humiliation. About domination. About stripping Wrath bare in their own barn and leaving them bleeding in front of their fans.
And for me—for us—it’s foreplay.
First shift, Elias crouches at the dot. The Wrath center across from him looks rattled, stick tapping too fast, mouth tight behind the cage. Elias just grins. Sharp. Reckless. Full teeth.
The puck drops. He wins it clean, flicks it back with a snap so smooth it makes the crowd groan. I’m already moving, scooping it up, hammering a pass straight to Cole—who buries it. Easy. Too easy.
The barn erupts in boos. Our bench howls. Elias looks at me, grinning wild under the cage. One.
Next faceoff, he doesn’t just win it. He toys with them.
Lets the Wrath center think he’s got it for half a heartbeat, then snaps it clean away with a flick of his wrists.
I body the winger who tries to chase him down, slam him hard into the boards, and Elias skates past free, curls flying, mouth running chirps so filthy I almost laugh.
The Wrath are unraveling. Their crowd’s silent now, their bench sagging. Elias doesn’t stop. He wins every draw, threads passes sharp as blades, feeds our wings like it’s nothing. And I—
I can’t take my eyes off him.
Every snap of his stick. Every reckless taunt. Every grin he shoots me after another humiliating faceoff win. It’s all mine. All fire he burns out for me.
By the halfway mark, Wrath aren’t even playing hockey anymore. They’re chasing ghosts. Every shift Elias humiliates them is another nail in their coffin.
And me?
Every time he wins, every time he grins, every time he mouths off like he’s untouchable—I get harder. This isn’t just hockey. It’s foreplay. Public. Sharp. Dangerous.
I skate up behind him after another clean win, gloves heavy on his shoulders, eyes cutting into the Wrath bench as I murmur low enough for only him to hear:
“Good boy. You keep playing like that, pup, and I’ll ruin you slow tonight.”
His breath catches, sharp, chest heaving under his jersey. He doesn’t look back. Just grins sharper through the cage and digs in harder for the next draw.
The Wrath never recover.
Every shift of the third, Elias plants himself at the dot like it’s his altar and he’s there to worship. Stick down, grin sharp. And every single time—the puck’s his.
Clean. Sharp. No mercy.
Their veteran centers try. Their rookies try. Hell, even their captain takes a run at him just to shut him up. Doesn’t matter. Elias rips the puck away like it belongs to him alone and dishes it off before they can even blink.
The crowd grows quieter with each win. Their stomps turn to mutters, their boos fade, until the only sound left in this mausoleum is the roar of my boys on the bench.
Cole howls every draw like it’s a Cup win, Mats bangs his stick against the boards until the glass shakes, Shane’s muttering prayers like he’s watching a miracle.
And Viktor—stone silent, mouth curved just barely at the corner like he’s seen the second coming.
Elias feeds Cole another. Buried. 5–1.
He wins the draw, slings it to Mats, who hammers it from the blue line. Net again. 6–1.
The Wrath slump. Their bench is silent, helmets sagging, sticks tapping weakly. They’re done.
And my pup?
He’s glowing. Grin feral, chest heaving with every reckless, perfect win. He skates straight back to the circle after every goal like it’s foreplay, like humiliating them over and over is the only thing keeping his blood hot.
By the time the horn blows, Wrath are wrecked. Final score: 6–1.
Reapers storm the ice, gloves flying, Cole tackling Elias with a shout of “MY CENTER!” Mats laughing sharp, Shane dropping to his knees in gratitude, Viktor nodding once like it’s holy.
I don’t celebrate. I don’t raise my stick.
I just skate slow toward Elias, scar pulling into a smirk.
The Wrath’s barn is still echoing boos when we file off the ice, Reapers loud as thunder.
Helmets bang hooks, gloves slap benches, water bottles fly.
Cole’s narrating the entire game like he’s already clipped it for TikTok.
Mats chirps him back. Shane mutters about divine intervention.
Viktor doesn’t say a word—just smirks like he saw all this coming.
Elias sits buzzing,cheeks flushed scarlet under the cage still half-clipped to his helmet. He hasn’t shut up since the horn—poking Cole about his shooting percentage, teasing Tyler about missing every backcheck. He’s glowing.
And then Coach finally moves.
Harrow pushes off the wall where he’s been a silent ghost the entire night, cigar stub smoldering between his fingers, clipboard under one arm. His eyes sweep the room once, sharp, like he’s peeling skin. The vets go quiet. Tyler nearly chokes on his water. Even Cole shuts his mouth mid-sentence.
Coach’s gaze lands on Elias.
“Mercer,” he says, voice flat, rough with smoke. “That was the best center work I’ve seen in this barn in a decade. You just humiliated the Wrath in their own house.”
Elias freezes.
Before he can answer, Harrow’s gaze cuts to me.
“And you, Kade.” His mouth curls around the cigar. “You trained a pup into an attack dog. Good work.”
Elias goes nuclear.
Tomato red. Hands fumbling at the strap of his helmet like he might actually crawl into it for cover. His hair dripping, face burning scarlet all the way down his throat.
Cole can’t help himself.
He barks.
A loud, sharp, ridiculous bark that ricochets off concrete. “Woof, woof, Cap’s attack dog!”
The locker room erupts. Mats nearly doubles over, Shane crosses himself like he’s not laughing but he is, Tyler shrieks, Viktor actually snorts.
Elias covers his face with both hands, whining into his palms, “Oh my god—”
And I just smirk. Slow. Sharp. Scar tugging.
Because Coach is right.
He’s my pup. My attack dog. And tonight, after the noise dies and the doors close, I’ll reward him for every single second of it.
The smoke clears when Harrow ghosts out, leaving the room loud again—water bottles hissing, tape ripping, helmets clattering against the floor. But not him. Not Elias.
He’s still in front of me, gear half-shed, sweat dripping down his forehead, chest heaving like he’s not sure if he’s breathing or burning. His gloves hit the floor with a thud. His helmet clangs against the bench. And then his fingers—shaking, reckless—curl tight in the front of my jersey.
Green eyes locked on mine, wide, buzzing, pleading.
“When you retire from the ice…” His voice cracks, rough, small, and wild all at once. “Will you be my coach?”
The room goes silent again. Boys freezing like someone cut the sound.
I peel off my gloves. Slow. Deliberate. Helmet dropped onto the bench beside his. My hand lifts, slides into his curls—wet, heavy—and I tug until he tilts his head up.
“Yes, baby.”
The word leaves me steady, low, certain.
And he freezes.
Mouth falling open, whole body locking like he’s never heard me say it—because I haven’t. I’ve never called anyone that. Not a single soul in my life.
“Baby,” he repeats. His lips tremble around it, his throat works like he can’t swallow the sound.
I lean down. Close enough he can feel my breath scrape his ear.
“But I already am your coach. And your captain. And your enforcer.”
His lashes flutter. His breath catches. His voice comes back wrecked, wrecking me in turn.
“And my everything.”
Christ.
Before I can even answer, Cole gasps.
Not subtle. Not quiet. Sharp enough to snap the room in half. “Oh my god—you guys—” The crazy bastard looks like he’s watching his favorite rom-com play out live.
I glance over just long enough to see it—his grin splitting his face, his shades tipped down, his eyes practically heart-shaped as he stares at us like he’s about to faint.
Elias goes scarlet. I smirk.
And the room erupts again.