Epilogue - Elias
I should probably check on the rookie shoebox at some point.
The little apartment the team gave me when I signed.
I bet it’s full of dust bunnies by now, probably smells like mold, probably has a fridge full of science experiments I forgot to throw out.
But I haven’t slept there in months. Not since the night Damian dragged me up to his place and never let me leave.
And right now? I don’t care if that shoebox burns down. Because I’ve got something better.
I’ve got him.
I’m standing in his doorway, laces tight, gear bag slung over my shoulder, playoff nerves clawing up my throat so sharp I can barely breathe. And then—his jacket lands heavy on my shoulders.
Not the one he gave me months ago that I drowned in. Not the one I looked like a kid playing dress-up in. This one’s different—thicker, heavier, leather worn soft at the edges, shoulders stretched from years of his frame filling it.
And I fill it now.
Christ.
I blink down as his big hands tug it into place, brushing the collar flat like he’s dressing me for war. My curls brush against his knuckles, my throat works, and my pulse goes wild when his mouth dips to my ear.
“Look at you,” he rasps. His scar brushes my cheek as his lips graze the shell of my ear. “My center. My pup. My good boy.”
My breath shudders out, knees threatening to fold under me right here in the doorway.
“Sir—” I gasp, already trembling.
“Playoffs,” he murmurs, calm as death, growl steady as stone. “You know what that means?”
“Yes, sir.”
His smirk curves against my ear. “Say it.”
“Win every draw.” My voice cracks, wrecked already. “Make them bleed.”
“That’s right.” His hand fists in my curls, pulling my head back until my throat’s bare.
His eyes burn down into me, steady, final.
“You’re going to win me every fucking faceoff.
You’re going to break every bastard who dares touch you.
You’re going to humiliate them shift after shift until they know your name like prayer. ”
I whimper, knees buckling. His jacket creaks under his grip where he holds me upright.
“And when you do—” his voice dips lower, filthier, promise sharp as a blade, “—I’ll reward you so slow you’ll cry. On your knees. On your back. Until you forget how to stand.”
Heat floods me. My hands claw at his sleeves, nails scraping leather, my breath ragged against his chest.
“Yes, sir,” I choke, trembling. “I swear—I’ll do it. I’ll win every draw. I’ll bleed for you. I’ll—”
His mouth crashes down on mine.
I gasp into it, caught between his jacket and his grip, kissed until my knees almost give for real. His tongue claims my mouth like he’s staking territory, his teeth scrape, and by the time he lets me breathe again, my lips are red and swollen.
“Good boy,” he rasps, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot. “Now go earn it.”
My chest heaves, my stomach’s full of fire and terror and devotion, and all I can think as I stumble after him down the hall is that I’d rather die than disappoint him.
The SUV rumbles low all the way to the arena, steady as his hand clamped on my thigh.
I keep staring out the window, trying not to chew through my mouthguard before we even hit the ice.
The city blurs by, red and black flags hanging from balconies, horns blaring as fans scream our name. Playoffs. The whole damn town feels it.
By the time we pull into the underground lot, my palms are slick, my stomach’s a pit. But Damian? He kills the engine, tilts his head once, and it’s enough to remind me—he’s here. I’m his. I’ll be fine.
The locker room hums different tonight. Not the usual chirping chaos.
Not Cole singing off-key or Tyler puking in the trash can.
It’s quiet. Tense. Helmets line the hooks, sticks stacked neat, tape rolls waiting like munitions before a war.
Even Coach is here, ghost in the corner with a cigar stub, but he doesn’t dare breathe wrong when Damian’s in the room.
Because this isn’t his team anymore. It’s ours.
Damian walks in like he owns the floor. Helmet tucked under one arm, eyes sweeping over us one by one. Every head lifts. Every chest tightens.
“Eyes on me.”
It cuts sharp, the only sound in the room. And we obey.
He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t need to. Just plants himself in the middle of the room, and the air bends around him.
“Wranglers play quick,” he says flat, calm, like he’s reading scripture. “They’ll try to skate through you like you’re not there. So you don’t let them.” His gaze snaps to Cole. “Hollywood, you’re on their wings like glue. They breathe, you choke them.”
Cole grins, taps his stick. “Yes, Captain.”
“Tyler.” Damian’s tone sharpens. The kid straightens like he just got called to court-martial. “You puke, you skate anyway. You puke again, you skate harder. You give me every ounce you’ve got or I’ll carve more out of you myself.”
Tyler nods so fast I think his helmet might fly off.
“Mats,” Damian rumbles. “You shadow their captain. Don’t give him an inch. Make him wish he retired last year.”
Mats smirks, lazy as hell. “Copy.”
“Viktor.”
The big man doesn’t even look up from his tape. Just grunts.
“You see orange, you crush it.”
Another grunt. Good enough.
“Shane.” Damian’s eyes cut like knives. “Wranglers will come for you early, try to rattle you in the crease. Don’t twitch. Don’t flinch. Don’t give them a goddamn thing.”
“Locked,” Shane mutters, tugging his mask down.
And then—me.
My throat closes when his eyes land on mine. His voice drops low, lethal, steady as death.
“Mercer. You win me every draw.”
My chest heaves. My hands tighten on my stick.
“You don’t fold. You don’t hesitate. You bleed and keep skating. You humiliate them shift after shift until they’re begging for the horn.” His mouth pulls with the faintest smirk. “You give me everything.”
“Yes, sir.” I say. “I swear it.”
The room goes still, the words hanging heavy.
And Damian nods once, final, before snapping his tape tight around his wrist.
The tunnel’s a heartbeat—steel humming under our skates, crowd roaring beyond the curtain, the smell of smoke and sweat and anticipation so sharp it could split bone.
The boys are loud in front of us, sticks banging against the cinderblock, Cole howling a war song, Mats laughing low, Shane muttering his prayers, Viktor silent as a tomb.
And then there’s me.
Right beside him.
My chest is a drum, my grip on the stick so tight my gloves creak. Every nerve in me is wired to blow. Playoffs. First round. First game. I’ve waited for this moment my whole goddamn life, and I think I might puke—
Until Damian moves.
One second I’m walking steady at his side, the next my back slams into the wall, stick clattering against concrete, his glove heavy on my chest. His body cages mine, broad shoulders blotting out the light at the tunnel mouth. His eyes burn down into me, steady and lethal.
“Cap—” I gasp, green eyes wide.
His voice rumbles low enough to scrape every bone in my spine.
“When you win me that Cup, baby, I’ll put that ring on your finger.” His hand fists merciless in my curls, tilting my head back, breath hot at my throat. “And that pretty collar on your pretty neck.”
My lungs lock.
“Until then…” His growl cuts deeper, lips brushing my jaw as the roar of the arena builds. “Show these bitches why you’re my favorite little pup.”
My mouth opens but nothing comes out, my chest heaving like I’ve been skating suicides for hours. His words carve through me, sharp and merciless, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
“Y…yes, sir,” I choke finally.
His smirk deepens. His thumb strokes once down my throat before he shoves off me, calm as death, striding into the light.
The anthem swallows us whole. Flags unfurl, voices echo, the entire arena rising as one. My hand clutches the shaft of my stick like it’s a lifeline, my chest a storm under the roar of voices singing. Damian’s shadow looms beside me, steady, unshaken, like a god carved in scar and steel.
Orange jersey across from me. Wrangler’s veteran center, scarred, grinning through his cage like he’s about to eat me alive.
He leans low. “Better hope Daddy Captain holds your hand out here, rookie.”
My lips twitch into a grin. Too wide for my own good. “Better hope he doesn’t bury you himself when I win this draw, old man.”
The linesman’s whistle shrieks. The crowd roars. Sticks drop to the ice.
And Damian’s words loop in my skull like a drumbeat:
Win me that Cup, baby, and I’ll put a ring on your finger.
Blackmail. Motivation. Both.
The puck falls.
My heart slams.
Fuck.