Chapter 9
The store is too bright.
Fluorescent lights hum like mosquitoes, bouncing off glass cases lined with diamonds, sapphires, emeralds—all the things men with too much money buy to patch bullet wounds in relationships they already let rot.
I walk past them all without slowing. There’s only one case that matters.
Only one order that’s been sitting in the back of this place, just waiting for the playoffs to crack open wide enough for me to come collect.
“Mr. Kade?” The woman behind the counter straightens too fast, hands twitching like she’s already braced for impact. She knows who I am—not from the games, not from the banners or the fights, but from the tab.
“Yes. I’m here for the pickup.”
She doesn’t ask which one. Just ducks into the back and returns with a box—small, black, deceptively heavy—setting it onto a velvet mat like it might detonate if she breathes wrong. It might as well. My fingers curl around it, feeling the weight settle into my palm.
“I had it polished this morning,” she says softly, almost reverent. “It’s… perfect.”
It is. A platinum band, wide and clean, no stones, no flash—nothing unnecessary. Just weight. Just promise. Inside the metal, the engraving is simple: #27 × #19. Our numbers. Our line. The beginning and end of every shift—one forged from blood, the other from fire. Mine. His.
I snap the box closed and give a single nod. She doesn’t ask for a signature, doesn’t offer a receipt, just watches as I slide it into my coat and leave without another word. The playoffs are halfway done, we’re deep in the semifinals with two rounds left to bleed through—and he’s still standing.
That little brat tore through the Maulers like they owed him blood.
Scored when we needed it. Drew penalties like a sin.
Skated like his life was on the line, not the Cup.
And every time he hit the ice, I could feel it—that he was mine.
Not just because he calls me sir. Not just because he screams for me after games and melts in my lap in the dark.
But because he never stops. Because he wants this more than air. Because he’s earned it.
I don’t need to test him anymore. Don’t need to keep the leash short or pull the reins every time he brats too loud. I know who he is now. What he’s made of. What we’re made of.
This ring? It’s not a gift. It’s a promise. One I’ve been building, quietly and violently, since the second he stepped onto my ice, looked me dead in the eyes and asked to be ruined.
My phone buzzes once. I glance down.
Pup: you still out? i’m cold. come warm me up ??
I smirk.
Little shit.
He’s probably curled under five blankets, one sock on, nothing else.
Curls a mess. Lips chapped. Whining into his phone because he misses me and won’t say it out loud.
I toss the phone in the passenger seat, shift into gear, and drive.
The car’s still warm when I kill the engine.
The ring’s heavy in my pocket, burning a shape against my thigh with every step toward the elevator.
The lobby’s quiet. Front desk guy gives me a nod. I press the button, lean against the wall, let my head tip back while the numbers crawl up the panel. Twenty floors. One brat. And a lifetime of silence I’m about to break.
The doors slide open, I step into the apartment and—Jesus Christ—there he is, standing barefoot on the hardwood with one sock slouched low, wearing my old black jersey, number 27 stretched halfway down his thighs and the collar pulled wide from sleep, his hair a mess of dried curls, his mouth pink from biting it, and his eyes lit, feral, and absolutely up to no good.
I don’t even shut the door before he’s moving, slow, grin blooming like a crime scene. His hands go for my coat the second I’m inside—quick, clever, greedy fingers slipping into my pocket before I’ve even shrugged it off.
“What did you get?” he purrs.
I raise a brow. “Brat.”
He bats his lashes. “Curious.”
His hand ghosts over the inside of my coat like a pickpocket in a silk trench coat fantasy. If he wasn’t so obvious, he might’ve gotten away with it. But he’s not built for stealth. Not when he wants something this bad. I feel his fingers brush the box. I catch his wrist before he can pull.
“Pup,” I warn.
He freezes, mouth parting, heat blooming behind his eyes. He’s so predictable. One catch, one growl, and he goes pliant.
I lean in. Kiss him slow,. Bite his bottom lip just enough to make him gasp, then murmur against his mouth. “Get dressed.”
He blinks. “What?”
I smirk, backing off enough to see the confusion dawn. “We have a press conference.”
His jaw drops. “Now?”
“Thirty minutes. They bumped it forward. We’re taking questions before the next series starts.”
“But—” He looks down at himself. At the jersey. The sock. His bare goddamn thighs. “I just got comfy.”
“Yeah, and now you’re getting clothed.” I kiss his cheek once. “Hustle.”
He groans dramatically, already turning, already stomping toward the bedroom. “You’re the worst,” he yells over his shoulder.
“I’m your captain,” I call back.
“And you’re the worst!”
I smirk, pressing a hand to the ring box in my pocket. He has no idea how much worse I’m about to be.
He disappears into the bedroom, and I’m only halfway through hanging up my coat when it hits me—silence. Which, with Elias, is never good.
I shut the closet door slowly and pause, letting the quiet stretch while I listen for something, anything. There’s nothing. No rustling. No zippers. No drawers opening or closing. Not even the faint, guilty noise of someone pretending to get dressed. Just… nothing.
I sigh. “Pup,” I call, already knowing how this is going to end. “If you’re trying to sneak out the window in one sock again, I’m not chasing you.”
The silence holds.
I take three steps down the hall—loud, heavy ones, just to make sure he hears—then push open the bedroom door.
And there he is, on the edge of the bed, jersey still on, sock still there, and absolutely nothing else.
His legs are spread like an invitation disguised as laziness, curls messy around his face, lip caught between his teeth.
He looks up at me. “Hi,” he purrs. “Quick question.”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear it yet—”
“I don’t need to hear it.”
He hums, slow and dripping smug, leaning back on his hands so the jersey rides higher on his thighs. “But what if it was a really smart question? What if it was—oh, I don’t know—strategic?”
I deadpan. “Get dressed.”
He rises to his feet, too slow, too pretty, crossing the small distance with a sway in his hips that he absolutely learned from tormenting me.
He presses a palm to my chest, slides it up my collarbone, then curls his fingers into my shirt like he’s about to pull me in.
Then he stands on his toes, mouth brushing mine.
“We could skip,” he whispers. “Press won’t miss us.
We’re tired. Overworked. Full of trauma.
Probably dehydrated. It’s irresponsible to make us leave. ”
I raise a brow. “Nice try.”
He smirks. “Was it?”
“No,” I murmur, grabbing his chin between two fingers, forcing him to look at me. “It was pathetic.”
His breath catches.
I lean in, lips grazing his ear. “And you know what’s worse?”
“W-what?” he whispers.
“You’re not even subtle.” I slide my free hand down, drag a slow line up the back of his bare thigh. He shivers instantly. “You want me to fuck you before we leave.”
He whines, quiet and involuntary.
I let my hand fall away. “Shame,” I say. “We don’t have time.”
His eyes go wide with betrayal. “Sir.”
“Clothes, pup.” I step back, gesture toward the open closet. “Now.”
He glares at me, a tiny stormcloud of pure, bratty fury gathering between his brows, and then—because he never knows when to stop—he tries one last thing. He steps closer, hooks his fingers into my belt loop, and murmurs, soft and coaxing, “What if I asked nicely?”
I lift a brow. “Try me.”
He swallows, lashes dropping as he looks up at me anyway, and when he speaks again it’s barely more than a breath. “Please?”
I smirk, pat his cheek once, and turn away. “Cute. Pants, Elias.”
His groan echoes through the apartment, dramatic as hell, but he still stomps to the closet, muttering curses under his breath as he grabs clothes and yanks them on with exaggerated misery. Good boy.
He’ll get his reward tonight—but right now, we have reporters to ruin.
Elias stomps out of the bedroom, dressed in what technically counts as a suit if the dress code was punk-rock sex riot.
Slim black slacks, sharp enough to please Coach, tight enough to cause a scandal.
A deep grey button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar popped just to be an asshole.
The tie? Crooked on purpose. A black-and-red plaid number that screams I will bite you if you correct me. And the shoes? Nowhere to be seen.
His curls are still messy, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming just under his jaw that I definitely put there this morning. He saunters up to me, eyes bright, lips parted, all full of swagger and no self-preservation.
I don’t say a word. Just reach up, slow and sure, sliding my hands through his curls to push them off his face. My thumbs brush behind his ears, tilting his chin up, forcing those bright green eyes to lock with mine. He softens instantly. All brat, gone. Just Elias. My center.
“You’re perfect,” I murmur, rough.
His fingers twitch at his sides. Then he goes right back to the crime. His hands slip toward my waist, one already brushing the inside of my jacket. “What’s in the pocket, Cap?” he purrs.
I catch his wrists before he gets further. “Still not subtle,” I mutter, stepping back just as he lunges. He makes a sound like a wounded raccoon. “Sir!”
“Shoes, pup,” I call over my shoulder, already walking toward the front door.
Behind me, there’s a beat of silence, followed by a loud groan and a muttered, “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m lucky you can read,” I shoot back. “Shoes.”
“Fascist.”
“Flatterer.”