Chapter 8
Fucking Maulers.
Their rink reeks of piss and bad decisions, and their fans are nothing short of rabid.
Every scream from the stands sounds like a curse hurled straight from Hell.
The boards are warped, the ice cracks in all the wrong places, and I swear on my life the scoreboard is rigged.
And somehow—some fucking how—we’re down.
Just one point. Halfway through the goddamn game, and it feels like the weight of ten goals pressing on my chest.
I’m seething. I feel it in my throat, in my fists, in every pulse of my body as the Maulers chirp our bench like they’ve already won.
We beat them at home. Twice. But here? Here, they’re monsters.
Every shift, they come harder, sloppier, meaner.
They slash when the ref blinks. Cross-check when the puck’s not even in the same zip code.
One of the bastards tried to trip Shane behind the net and I swear to fuck, I’ve never seen a man literally foam at the mouth before—but Shane? Shane is foaming.
Cole’s still chirping back, louder and louder, but even he’s starting to sound winded.
And Damian’s gone cold. Not quiet in that smirking, slow-burn kind of way.
Cold. Stone silent. Eyes forward, shoulders squared, not a single goddamn word since warmup.
And that silence? That’s war. That’s the version of him that ends careers with one swing and a look.
The horn blasts the end of the period and we skate off, shoulders aching, rage simmering beneath every stride. I yank my helmet off halfway down the tunnel, curls plastered to my forehead, chest heaving with every breath, and he’s there. Right behind me. Silent. Solid. Ice.
I snap. I spin around and snarl, “Say something. Growl at me. Push me. Tell me I’m not doing enough—just fucking say something.
” Because silence is worse than punishment.
At least when he’s screaming, I know he sees me.
When he’s quiet like this? I start wondering if I failed. If I’m not worth the fire anymore.
And he does. His glove fists my jersey, slams me back against the tunnel wall, and his mouth crashes into mine.
Hard and fucking desperate. A kiss that rattles my spine, shatters the fog in my brain, and pulls a sound out of me I didn’t know I had.
I gasp, teeth scraping his lip, fingers curling in his gear like I need to anchor myself to this moment or fall through the ice.
“Just tell me we’re not gonna lose,” I whisper, already cracking around the edges, eyes wide.
His breath stutters just once. Then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, fire burning behind his silence. “We’re not gonna lose.”
It’s a vow. And I believe it. Because it’s him.
His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His voice drops low, and I feel it more than hear it. “You want a win? Then make them pay for touching you. And don’t stop.”
I nod fast, everything inside me tightening around his voice.
“Good,” he growls, knuckles brushing my throat, a soft warning laced with promise.
“Now skate like you’re wearing that ring already.
” The words hit harder than the kiss. That’s what this is, isn’t it?
Every shift. Every bruise. I’m skating for the promise I see burning in his eyes.
The one he hasn’t said out loud. And then he turns and walks away.
I stay where I am, sagged against the concrete, heart jackhammering, lips tingling, brain reeling with only one voice echoing inside me.
Don’t stop. Make them pay. Skate like I’m his.
And I will. God help them, I will.
The third period starts like thunder. Brutal.
Each hit lands heavier than the last, refs swallowing their whistles, letting the game devolve into something feral.
Every Mauler on the ice wants blood—mine specifically.
They know I’m fast. They know I’m first line.
They know Damian’s hand never left the small of my back walking out of that locker room.
So they try to break me.
Let them.
I eat a hit at the blue line, keep skating.
Take a slash to the ribs, don’t even flinch.
Blood’s dripping from one knuckle, but I win every faceoff they throw at me.
Damian’s on my wing, silent and vicious.
Cole’s a snarling mess. Shane guards the net.
Viktor’s throwing bodies. Mats is dragging two Maulers behind him.
Forty-five seconds left on the clock. Cole intercepts at center, rips down the ice. I bolt down the middle, wide open. I call once and Cole doesn’t even look. He knows. The puck hits my stick and I shoot. Top shelf. Left side. Clean and beautiful.
Goal.
Yes!
4–4.
I don’t hear the horn. Don’t feel the crash of bodies hitting mine in celebration. Not even Damian’s glove wrapping around the back of my neck as I’m hauled off the ice registers. All I hear is that next buzzer.
Overtime.
Goddamn it.
Fifteen minutes of mayhem. Of skating until my legs scream.
Of blocking shots with whatever part of me’s still working.
No one scores. Not them. Not us. Every man's bleeding. Every soul's on fire. I’m gasping, blinking through stars. Someone screams to bench me. “Don’t you fucking dare!” I bark, wobbling but upright.
“I’m fine!” Lie. I’m not fine. I’m a pile of twitching muscle and stubborn rage.
One shift away from being stretchered out.
But I won’t leave. Not until that goal horn screams or I’m scraped off the ice.
And then I remember—I have one card left. I skate up behind him. My captain. My monster. “Caaaaaap!” I whine, dragging it out with every ounce of brat I’ve got left. “Make it stoooop!”
He turns, slow and lethal, eyes locked on me like I’m prey that begged for it. “Yes, pup,” he growls. And fucking scores. Wrister from the circle. Clean, precise and devastating. The puck sails top shelf, netting behind a Mauler goalie too stunned to react.
The horn explodes, the arena combusts, and I crumble. Right there on the ice. Helmet gone. Jersey stuck to my spine, every muscle shaking. I collapse in a panting heap, legs trembling, vision blurred with stars and sweat and him.
I don’t even know if it’s celebration or chaos when the boys crash into me. Cole’s shrieking. Viktor’s roar shakes my ribs. Mats is screaming something in Spanish. Shane’s cackling. And Damian—God, Damian is somewhere behind them, watching.
And I’m panting on the ice. Not from exhaustion—though, yeah, I’m wrecked.
Not from victory—even if that goal just ended the longest damn OT I’ve ever played.
But because Cole fucking Vance is clinging to me like a gremlin on a sugar high, cackling in my ear, screaming something about me being his emotional support brat.
And I can’t stop laughing. We’re a tangle of limbs on the ice and Cole is definitely sitting on my ankle, but I’m too far gone to care.
We’re just laughing. Wheezing. Collapsing into each other like idiots while the crowd loses its mind above us.
“That was disgusting,” Cole pants between wheezes. “You little feral shit—that was art.”
I think I moan in agreement. Or maybe I just choke. Either way, I’m still smiling when a giant shadow looms over us.
“Handshake line,” Viktor deadpans, already grabbing Cole by the back of the jersey.
“Viiiik!” Cole whines, flailing as he’s hauled up.
But Viktor’s already turning, still clutching Cole, when his other hand snags me too.
One massive gloved fist curls around my arm like a vice and drags us both.
“Come on,” Viktor grumbles. “Act like professionals.” He’s not dragging us.
He’s containing us. Because that’s what Viktor does.
He holds the team together when the seams threaten to rip open.
“Too late!” Cole yells, eyes wild, legs flailing as he’s pulled toward center ice.
I stagger after them, still laughing, barely able to walk in a straight line.
Our helmets are off, gloves tucked under arms, cheeks flushed with heat and hysteria. I swear, we look like drunk chaos demons being marched to church by our long-suffering dad. “Ow, ow, ow—my knee!” I whine dramatically.
“Cry more,” Viktor mutters.
Cole yells something about medical malpractice, and I lean into him, both of us still giggling as we stumble into the line, hearts pounding, lungs still raw, grins wide.
I glance back just once, and I see Damian, waiting and watching, his mouth curled into a private little smirk meant only for me. Yeah. We earned this one. Together.
I barely make it to the handshake line without tripping over my own blades, still high on adrenaline and Cole’s feral joy, when I feel it.
A touch. Light and warm through my glove.
I glance to the side and he’s there. Skating right behind me.
One hand ghosting over mine, knuckles brushing, thumb sliding once across my glove.
The other? Already locked in the firm rhythm of handshakes, one Mauler after another, ruthless grace in every movement.
But he doesn’t say anything, he’s just there, quiet and massive, touching me like a tether, a reminder that I’m never alone.
The line moves. Cole is chirping even now, smirking at every Mauler who flinched during OT. He tries to high-five one and gets ignored. “Rude,” he mutters. I snort.
And then Shane. Helmet on, cheeks flushed, mouth twisted in a snarl-grin combo. His gloves are still on, still clenched. This is what he lives for—mayhem, miracles, and that split second where no one can touch him. Our chaos. Our crown. Our goalie god.
The boys swarm. Cole gets there first, slamming into him with a loud, “Goalie fucking God!” and a helmet bump that almost knocks Shane sideways.
Then Mats crashes into him too. Viktor grunts and taps his forehead to Shane’s. Even Tyler throws himself into the pile yelling “Holy shit, Shane!!” He looks stunned. I shove my way in, grinning, lean forward, and bump my helmet to his. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters, chest still heaving.
“Right back at you,” I whisper, smiling so wide it hurts.
Behind me, I feel Damian’s presence still thick, watching it all.
His team.
His win.