Chapter 11 #2
It starts with a Bastard slashing Elias across the back of the calves.
No call. Then another one crashes into Shane in the crease, full-speed, shoulder-first, aiming to break something.
Cole takes a high stick to the mouth and laughs through the blood.
Mats hammers a guy into the boards hard enough to knock a glove loose, and the bastard still gets up chirping.
I’m hitting bodies like I want them broken. Over and over, boards rattling, ribs cracking. I stop counting the score. Stop checking the clock. The only reason I know we’re still tied is because the horn hasn’t blown, and I haven’t put anyone in the hospital yet.
Elias yelps once—twice—three times. Sharp, clipped little sounds that white out my vision every single time. But he keeps going. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. He scores once—clean, brutal, surgical—and skates back to center like something’s eating him alive from the inside.
The Bastards answer. Cole fires back. I slice through traffic and sink one so hard it rips net, and our bench explodes, but they come back again fast and calculated. And now there’s thirty seconds left on the clock. Tied. Again.
They tear down the ice with all the fury they’ve been hoarding, like this last shift was always the one they meant to end us.
It’s too clean, too fast. I see it unfolding before it happens.
One winger slips past Mats, cuts in sharp, slips right past Shane.
One flash of a stick. One perfect shot. The buzzer screams, the goal light blares red, and the entire barn goes still, hollow and silent.
Viktor punches the bench. Not a slam. A full punch. The wood cracks, splinters like bone, and water bottles scatter. Coach bellows something obscene, voice shredded, snapping another cigarette between his teeth as if the smoke might exorcise the loss.
Elias stands mid-ice, frozen. Staring up at the scoreboard like it’s lying to him. Like maybe, if he blinks hard enough, the numbers will change. But they don’t.
Bastards: 6.Reapers: 5.
Our first loss of playoffs.
I skate toward him slowly. The crowd is roaring now, green and silver fans screaming. But all I see is Elias. Frozen. Mouth slightly open. Face unreadable.
I touch his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Just whispers, “I scored.”
“I know,” I say.
“We lost.”
“I know.”
And then, finally, he turns to look at me. And those eyes? They’re on fire.
Cole skates up behind us, slower than usual.
His lip is still bleeding, one glove off, face smeared with red and sweat and mascara-level smudges from whatever the fuck face paint he wore for luck.
His helmet’s gone, hair a mess, but his voice is soft.
“Curls… come on, babe,” he says, not joking for once. “We’ll get them in the next one.”
Elias doesn’t move. He keeps staring at the scoreboard like it betrayed him.
His chest is rising too fast. Too shallow.
I know that look. I know what it means when his pupils start to blow wide like that—panic.
Rage. Collapse waiting to happen. He’s not breathing right.
Not thinking right. Not in his body anymore.
“This is my fault,” he says.
“It’s not,” I growl instantly.
“I missed that block,” he whispers.
“No, you didn’t,” I snap. “That wasn’t your man. That was the ref swallowing his whistle and the bastard slipping coverage. You skated your heart out, pup.”
Elias sways on his blades.
Cole tries again, gentler. “Baby, it’s one game. First we’ve lost all playoffs. First you’ve ever lost. It’s okay to feel like shit. But it’s not your fault.”
“I scored,” Elias says again. “And we still lost.”
“You played your best fucking game yet,” Cole says, fierce now. “You were a demon out there. If anyone says otherwise, I’ll bite their goddamn face off.”
Elias finally looks at him. Just for a second. Then at me and whispers, “I can’t lose again.”
My hand curls around the back of his neck tight and grounding. “You won’t,” I say. “You hear me? You won’t. Not with me. Not with us. We’ll take the next game and make them bleed for this one.”
Cole nods, stepping up beside him. One arm loops over Elias’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. “Next time, babe. You and me? We’re gonna make them regret ever stepping on our ice.”
Elias nods.
We’re forced into the handshake line, but Elias barely participates. He doesn’t shake. Doesn’t chirp. Doesn’t nod or pretend to tolerate the ritual. He skates past every single Bastard with his chin high, jaw locked, and eyes cold enough to kill frostbite.
Some of them still try. One reaches out and Elias flinches so hard I almost slam my stick through the guy’s ribs. Cole mutters “Jesus Christ” and pats Elias’s back as if to say good job, you petty little gremlin, but even he doesn’t joke too loud. Not now.
Because Elias isn’t sulking. He’s fuming, and it’s leaking off him like radiation.
The second the line ends, we head toward the tunnel, sticks down, helmets off, sweat slicking every inch of gear. Shane is dead silent. Mats is mumbling to himself in Spanish. Viktor hasn’t unclenched his jaw since the buzzer.
And then the press swarms us. Flashes start going off before we even hit the mouth of the hallway. Mics shoved in our faces. Questions flying. The team knows the drill—keep walking, don’t react, don’t say anything stupid.
But Elias…
Elias gets swarmed.
“Elias! Elias! This is your first playoff loss. Are you okay?” one reporter shouts, pushing forward.
He doesn’t even register the question. “What?” he blurts, wild-eyed.
“How do you feel? Are you disappointed in the team performance? Is it personal?”
I grab Elias’s elbow before he can answer. His eyes snap to me, huge and glassy and barely holding it together. “Tunnel. Now,” I mutter low, shoving past the cameras with him close to my side.
Cole blocks another reporter with his whole damn body. Viktor growls at someone. Shane barks something about shoving a mic up someone’s ass. I walk faster, Elias beside me like a storm tethered on a leash.
Elias hits the locker room. A full-body explosion of panic, rage, and heartbreak.
His stick clatters to the floor, his helmet bounces once, twice, and then he slams his fist into his locker door so hard the metal caves inward with a sickening crunch.
Blood splatters when his knuckles split instantly.
He jerks back, staring at the mess like he can’t tell whose blood it is, chest heaving, curls plastered to his temples with sweat.
The entire room freezes. Cole shuts up mid-sentence.
Mats stops unlacing his skates. Even Viktor halts.
But I don’t think. I’m at his side in two strides, catching his arm before he punches again, shoving myself between him and the dented metal. “Pup!” I growl, grabbing his shoulders before he can swing at anything else. “Look at me.”
But he’s somewhere else. Somewhere spiraling. His breaths come sharp and too fast. He pushes against me, not hard, but desperate, fists trembling, voice breaking. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”
“Baby.” I cup the back of his neck, force him to look up. “Look at me. It’s okay.”
“It’s not!” Elias chokes, slamming his bloody hand against my chest like he’s trying to shake the truth out of me. “What if we lose?? What if—we—what if the Bastards—Damian—”
My name. My fucking name. It lands like a punch to the ribs. He’s said “sir,” “captain,” “cap,” “you,” “hey asshole,” but never that. Not to me. Not when it mattered. And now he’s using it like a lifeline, wrecked, eyes wild, like he’s begging me not to break him in half.
I grab his face immediately, gentle, but firm, hands on his cheeks, foreheads almost touching, holding him still. “Elias. Eyes on me, pup.”
He tries, but panic keeps jerking his gaze away, every blink a new wave of fear. So I hold tighter. “Eyes. On. Me.”
His lashes flutter. Finally, finally, he looks straight at me.
“If you think,” I growl, low and lethal, “that one loss is going to stop me from marrying you, you are out of your goddamn mind.”
He sucks in a breath with trembling lips and his voice cracks when he whispers. “But… but you said… win the Cup, get the ring—sir, you said—”
“I know what I said.” My thumb brushes his cheek, wiping the salt off his skin. “And I meant it. You will win. Because you’re my center and you don’t fucking fold.”
He shakes his head, tears streaking down his cheekbones, blood dripping from his knuckles to the floor. “But if I lose—if I lose you won’t—”
I stop him with both hands on his jaw, forcing him into stillness. “Baby,” I whisper. “The ring’s waiting for you.”
He freezes completely.
“At home,” I add quietly. “I picked it up last week.”
Elias’s eyes go huge—green, glossy and stunned—and he lets out the tiniest, broken sound before collapsing against me, forehead pressing into my chest, fists curling in my jersey like he’s trying to climb inside me.
His whole body shakes with the force of the emotion riding him.
I wrap both arms around his back and hold him tight, burying a hand in his curls as he sobs silently into me.
I shouldn’t have said it. I know exactly what kind of chaos I just unleashed.
I know he’s going to tear the apartment apart tonight searching every drawer, every closet, every pocket for that box.
But fuck it. It snapped him out of the spiral.
It brought him back to me. And right now that’s all that matters.
I kiss the top of his head. “You hear me, pup? One loss means nothing. You’re mine. You’re safe. And you’re not losing a damn thing.”
Outside the locker room, the Bastards celebrate. In here, Elias shakes in my arms and clings like he’ll never let go.
His breath catches against my chest, still ragged from crying, still clenched tight in the aftermath of panic.
I keep my arms locked around him, thumb stroking the back of his neck, grounding him with every slow pass.
My jersey is soaked with sweat and tears and blood, and I don’t care.
He’s shaking less now. The tension slowly drains from him.
He hasn’t let go of my jersey, though, his fists are still balled in the fabric.
And then, quietly, so quietly I almost miss it. “What if I’m not good enough to win it for you?”
My hands go still as he says it like a confession, lifting his head slowly, eyes rimmed red, curls limp, freckles drowned in a storm of pain and doubt—and I see it, all of it, every crack, every bruise, every jagged sliver of pressure he’s been carrying since playoffs started, since I told him: win me the Cup, baby, and I’ll give you everything.
I cup his face again, firm but gentle, making sure there’s nowhere for his eyes to run but to mine. “Elias Mercer,” I say, slow and sharp, “if you ever say that bullshit again, I will bench you for emotional misconduct and kiss you stupid in front of the whole damn team.”
He tries to glare. It melts halfway through, mouth twisting like he doesn’t know if he wants to cry again or snap back.
“Not good enough?” I growl, pressing my forehead to his.
“You’re the reason we made it this far. You’re the engine.
You’re the fucking heart. I don’t give a shit about scoreboards or series leads or playoff stats.
I want you. And you—” I press my hand to his chest, over his racing heart, “—are already mine. Cup or no Cup. You understand me, pup?”
His eyes flutter shut as if he’s trying to believe it. Then they open again, softer now. He nods once, barely a movement, but it’s there. That tiny flicker of trust. Of hope. Of belief in something that isn’t the weight of the world he built on his own shoulders.
“Say it,” I whisper.
He swallows hard. “I’m yours.”
“Good boy.” I kiss his temple, then his cheek, his mouth—soft and deep. Not hungry or possessive. Just ours.
The room is silent around us. The team’s still there, sitting, changing, watching. But no one moves. No one dares interrupt.
I’m crouched in front of Elias, carefully tugging at his jersey, unbuckling pads. He’s still sniffling, but the worst of the storm’s passed. His cheeks pink, not red, his eyes wet but no longer overflowing. Still pouty as hell, though. He glares at his own shin guard.
“Stop sulking,” I murmur. “You played like a goddamn demon.”
He huffs, arms limp at his sides, still vibrating under my hands.
Then Coach walks in and the whole room stills. Grant McClellan, old-school tyrant and our unapologetic, cigar-chomping warlord, surveys the room with a single glance. He clocks Elias instantly—crumpled, blood-specked, exhausted, gear half-off, freckles all blotched from crying—and smiles.
Smiles. Not his usual gnarled smirk or that crooked half-grin that means someone’s about to get verbally skinned alive. No. A real smile.
Elias frowns like that expression threatened his life.
“Move, Kade,” Coach says, stepping forward.
I stay crouched. Don’t move an inch. Just growl, low and warning.
Coach rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you’re worse than your rookie.” He steps around me anyway, and Elias tenses like he’s expecting to be benched, or turned into mulch on the spot.
But Coach plants himself in front of him, crosses his arms, and says, “Mercer. You are officially a Reaper.”
Elias stares up at him baffled. “Sir…” Elias whines, blinking hard. “You do know we lost, right?”
Coach’s smile widens. It scares the shit out of everyone. “You played like hell. You fought through the whistle. You nearly murdered a man for touching your goalie. And you made the Bastards panic.”
He leans in, voice dropping enough for the rest of the team to pretend they’re not listening. “You played like a Reaper.”
Elias opens his mouth, closes it again, swallows like his throat might betray him, then he whispers, “...thank you, sir.”
Coach smirks, claps him once, hard, on the shoulder pad. “You mess up next game, I’ll eat your heart.”
“Got it, sir.”
Coach turns to leave, muttering something about press conferences and how no one better cry on camera or I swear to Christ I’ll make you skate until you bleed, and the moment he’s gone, Elias exhales like he’s survived a gunfight.
I chuckle. “Told you you’re a demon.”