Chapter 1 #2
I step in front of the stalls, plant my feet, and let my voice cut clean through the hum.
“We’re up two, and they’re bleeding for this win, which means they’re coming out in the third like dogs off a leash.
You let them bait you into stupid penalties and you’re benched, and if you let them touch our center, you answer to me. ”
A ripple moves through the room as Elias bites his lip, and he fucking glows.
“Play smart. Play fast. Keep your heads. And for fuck’s sake,” I growl, gaze slicing toward Cole, “keep your mouths shut.”
Cole throws both hands up. “I am the mouth! You knew this when you drafted me, Cap!”
Shane snorts and Mats groans while Elias, still red as hell, looks like he’s fighting for his life not to giggle again.
The horn blares and the third period starts, and the Wranglers come out swinging—not smart and not tactical, just rage strapped to skates.
Their sticks get looser, their hits get higher, and I can see it in the way they grind their teeth behind the cages that they’re done playing hockey and hungry for blood.
They want ours, and I’ll be damned if they get it.
Our line rolls back out with twelve minutes on the clock, Elias at center and Cole already chirping on the wing while I hang left with my blades steady and my jaw locked.
Mats and Viktor set up behind us, Shane settles into the net, and the Reapers’ war machine clicks into full tilt like it knows exactly what’s coming.
We line up in orange and black, two wolves and one rabbit, only a stick drop away from violence.
Elias doesn’t bounce this time and he doesn’t grin; he stares across the faceoff circle like he’s about to carve his name into the other guy’s chest. The Wrangler tries to lean on him, to bully him off balance.
Elias twitches once—shifts weight, slams the heel of his blade into the dot, and snaps, “Don’t breathe on me unless you’re ready to die.”
Drop.
He wins the puck. Spins out, fires down the middle, flying full-speed into the neutral zone. Cole peels wide, baiting defense, giving Elias a clear path. I shadow left, waiting, watching.
And that’s when it happens. A Wrangler—number 76, cheap fuck—slashes him.
Not a poke, not a stick lift, but a full, vicious, two-handed chop right to the back of Elias’s knee, and he drops hard.
My vision goes white as the whistle shrieks and the fans scream, Elias curled on the ice clutching his leg, teeth bared.
And I lose it; I launch straight into 76’s path, my gloves hitting the ice and my stick flying.
I grab his cage with one hand and slam my fist into it with the other—once, twice—until the fucker stumbles and blood sprays. He tries to swing back, but I already have him by the throat, dragging him down to the ice as the refs blow their whistles like their lungs are on fire.
“You touch him again,” I snarl, voice lethal, “and I’ll carve your fucking name into the boards with your teeth.”
He chokes and whimpers without even trying to fight back, and the crowd is on its feet while the booth is probably melting down in real time.
Cole is screaming something behind me—“HOLY SHIT, CAPTAIN’S COMMITTING A FELONY!
”—and Viktor is already hauling Elias up by the arm, checking his knee and holding him steady like nothing else matters.
Elias tries to stand and stumbles, and something in my chest snaps hard enough to hurt.
The refs finally get their hands on me and haul me off, send me to the box with ten for misconduct, which is fine—worth it.
Because when I pass Elias on the way there, his face is pale, his lip split, and his eyes light up the second they land on me.
“Sir,” he breathes, barely a whisper.
My fingers twitch against the boards. “I’ve got you, pup,” I rasp back. “Always.”
Viktor’s dragging Elias off the ice, one arm around his waist, the other bracing his elbow. Elias limps, trying to bite down the pain like it’s not there. But it is. I can tell from the way his left skate drags, the way his mouth keeps twitching like he’s about to scream and doesn’t.
They hit the bench. Cole's still on the ice yelling “REF, HIS NAME IS LITERALLY 76, HE WAS BORN TO SIN!” while Mats body-checks a Wrangler behind the play.
Viktor doesn’t waste time. “Bench,” he orders, low.
“No,” Elias snaps, chest heaving.
“Your knee—”
“I said no.” Elias grits his teeth, ripping his glove off to swipe sweat from his face. “Tape it. I can still skate.”
Viktor’s face doesn’t move. Not an inch. “I call Coach. Get Tyler in.”
Elias’s eyes go feral. “I will die before I let Tyler play center this period.”
“You almost did,” Viktor deadpans. “You fall again, we lose possession. You fold, you get benched and I tell Captain.” As if I can’t hear them from across the ice.
“Tell him whatever you want!” Elias bites, flushed red and furious, curls plastered to his forehead, sweat streaking his eye black. “I’m not folding. I never fold.”
He slams a bottle of water down, grabs a roll of tape, and starts wrapping his own knee with it, the tape crooked and his hands shaking so badly it’s almost ugly, but he doesn’t care. It’s pure feral determination, all teeth and will and refusal.
Viktor watches him for a second, then lifts his gaze across the rink, straight to me. I’m still in the box, trapped behind plexi with blood on my hands, and I lock eyes with Petrov and smirk. Your problem now, my expression says. You’re the one with the “A” on your chest.
Viktor exhales like he’s aged ten years. “Fine,” he mutters. “But you fuck up once and I carry you off.”
Elias grins. “Yes, sir.”
“Not me,” Viktor snaps. “Call him sir. I just clean your messes.”
Elias is already hopping the boards before the tape’s even done, practically vibrating, high off adrenaline and spite. Cole howls and throws both fists in the air when Elias slides up beside him at center.
I don’t take my eyes off him for a second, because he’s not limping anymore—he’s skating for me—and when the final score hits 9–5 Reapers, we haven’t just won, we’ve fucking buried them.
Elias stays on the ice like his knee isn’t throbbing, and by the time the horn blares he’s barely standing, collapsing into Cole like a puppet with its strings cut while I’m still serving the tail end of my misconduct, growling behind the glass and twitching to break through it.
By the time I reach the tunnel, Viktor has one arm under him and Mats has the other, dragging him along while Elias keeps chirping, half-conscious and soaked through, his mouth still running even though his knee is done and his leg won’t bear weight.
They haul him into the locker room and now he’s slumped against the wall on the bench, one skate half-untied and the other completely forgotten, sweat slicking his neck and his pads creaking every time he tries to move—and he still hasn’t shut the fuck up.
“Did you see that screen?” he groans, grinning through the exhaustion. “I’m basically the new goalie coach. I taught that puck where to go with my mind.”
Cole howls. “That puck deflected off your ass, Mercer.”
“Exactly,” Elias slurs. “Strategic butt.”
Shane mutters something about Jesus, Viktor looks ready to yeet Elias into a tub of ice, and Tyler keeps inching closer like he wants Elias’s seat.
I step into the room. Silence. Every head swings my way.
I don’t speak; I walk as I strip off my gloves and my helmet and drop them in my stall without breaking stride.
When I reach Elias, he looks up, glassy-eyed and glowing.
“Cap,” he breathes. “We won.”
“I know.” I crouch in front of him and grip his injured leg gentle. “You didn’t tell anyone it got worse.”
He grins, high on blood and victory. “Didn’t want to be benched. You said win. I won.”
“Idiot,” I mutter, but my thumb strokes slow over his knee anyway. “Good boy.” His lashes flutter and his whole body slumps in relief.
Then I hook my fingers under his pads and start undoing his gear. Elias makes a strangled sound. “S-sir—”
“You can’t move,” I say as I peel off his shin guard and set it aside. “You’re not taking these off alone.”
“I—I could try—”
“Pup.” My voice drops low. “Let me take care of you.”
His mouth shuts and his hands curl around the edge of the bench, knuckles going white as he nods once, small and trusting, and that’s good.
I unbuckle the rest of his pads slow and deliberate, peeling off his jersey and sliding the soaked undershirt over his head without rushing or teasing, just handling him and stripping him down to compression shorts, trembling thighs, and the bruises already darkening along his hips.
His breath hitches every time my hands touch skin.
“You played like a demon,” I murmur. “Made me hard from the fucking box.”
He whimpers, and behind me Cole chokes out, “Oh my God, I’m still here.”
I ignore him, my eyes never leaving Elias’s. “You win me Game 4,” I growl, “and I’ll let you come without using your hands. On the floor. In my lap. While the team’s still in the building.” Elias moans.
Viktor stands up. “I’m leaving.”
“I was never here,” Mats mutters.
“I need therapy,” Shane whispers.
Cole throws his hands up. “I NEED TO UNHEAR WITH FIRE.”
Elias bites his lip, his whole face red, but he’s panting and nodding already. “Yes, sir. I’ll win it. I’ll—I’ll ruin them.”
“Good boy,” I rasp. And I help him to the showers. Because he’s mine. And he earned it.
By the time we hit the tunnel, Elias is clinging to my back.
His arms locked tight around my neck, his thighs hooked over my hips, chest pressed to my spine. His knee’s shot. He can barely walk. And he refuses to take the wheelchair the arena staff offered.
So I carry him.
Black jacket over his jersey. Helmet clipped to his bag. Curls damp from the shower and sticking to my neck. Every few steps he nuzzles in like he’s trying to fuse with my spine.
Behind us, the rest of the Reapers trickle out. Cole still high off victory, Shane doing a weird dance, Mats texting without looking up, Viktor watching everything. The Wranglers already cleared the other tunnel, sulking and silent.
We’re about to walk straight into a goddamn circus, because the press is waiting—cameras, lights, recorders, mics shoved forward like bayonets. Elias makes a pitiful noise and buries his face in my neck. I tighten my grip on his thighs and keep walking.
“Captain Kade!” someone barks. “Is Mercer injured?”
I don’t stop walking as I squeeze Elias’s leg where it curls around my waist. Elias lifts his head, red-faced and grinning, and calls back, “No! I’m fine! I’m just lazy!”
Laughter ripples through the mob and flashbulbs burst while another voice shouts, “Is that true? You carried him after Game Two too!”
Elias slaps my chest, giggling. “Because he likes it.”
Cole swoops in. “She’s got a bum knee,” he yells into a mic. “Needs to be babied. You should’ve seen the hit—looked like a mafia hit job, honestly. I feared for my life.”
“You chirped the guy into a penalty,” Shane mutters behind him, and Cole snickers in response, his sunglasses sliding down his nose as he adds, “Because I’m a hero.”
More laughter breaks out and more cameras flash, the press eating Elias alive the way they always do, because he gives them soundbites and chaos—chaos with dimples. Then another reporter steps in closer and calls out, “So, Elias, how’s the leg actually feeling?”
Elias leans around me, eyes bright. “Like I got slashed by a Wrangler with abandonment issues!”
Cole screams with laughter. “That’s going on a t-shirt!”
We’re almost to the bus when one of them shouts louder than the rest. “Are you two officially together?” The noise dips for a second. Elias stares down at me from my shoulder, suddenly wide-eyed.
I roll my eyes as I stop walking and turn halfway back toward the crowd, Elias clinging tighter while my hand fists harder on his thigh, and I say, flat as fuck, “I thought we had this conversation already—he’s mine, yes.”
More flashing, a couple of gasps, and Elias turns red as hell.
“And no,” I continue, “it’s not favoritism, unless you want me to kiss everyone’s knees better.”
The gasps turn into wheezes, Cole nearly drops his bag, Shane starts hyperventilating with the sound of a dying bird, Mats breaks into applause, and Tyler’s jaw hits the floor.
But it’s Viktor’s stare that gets me. He stops cold, standing dead still at the bottom of the bus stairs, and looks back at me with one brow raised so high it’s in another time zone, because I just gave a full sentence to the press.
Maybe three. He blinks like I started singing Broadway. I blink back. Shrug.
Elias wheezes into my neck, “Cap, that was the most words I’ve ever heard you say in a single breath.”
I grunt. “Hurt myself.”
Cole collapses on the bus stairs, wailing, “Someone help, he’s human!”
Elias doesn’t stop laughing the whole ride to the hotel.