Chapter 13
We don’t say it. None of us. Nobody mentions the loss, the scoreboard, the fact that the Bastards broke us last game.
What we do remember—what’s etched into every blade and tendon—is the sound of Elias’s voice cracking in the locker room, shrieking my name.
That first loss shredded him. Not just bruised, broke.
So no. We’re not skating tonight just to win the game.
We’re skating to avenge our center.
The arena is packed. Fans roaring, glass shaking, lights blinding.
And every one of us takes the ice like we’re marching into war.
Viktor’s jaw is already clenched. Cole is snarling before the anthem even starts.
Shane’s pacing in his crease. Elias skates out with fire in his veins, curls bouncing, mouthguard hanging from his lips, the bruise on his hip from last game still visible where his jersey doesn’t quite cover it. His eyes lock on the Bastards’.
He wins the first faceoff so clean it makes the air snap.
The Bastards try to swarm, but we’re faster.
We’re meaner. We’re starving. Mats lands the first hit—beautiful, brutal, bone-rattling.
Cole puts one of their forwards into the glass so hard the crowd gasps.
And I slam into their captain three times in the first five minutes, just to set the tone.
You don’t make our center cry and skate away clean.
You don’t break Elias Mercer and expect mercy.
Elias scores first.
Of course he does. Dangles through traffic like a ghost, jukes left, spins, fires glove-side top shelf. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t yell. He skates back to center, breathing hard, ready for more. It’s not joy on his face. It’s vengeance.
They score next. Bastards always do. Dirty move, screen in the crease, but we don’t blink. Shane glares death through his mask, Cole chirps the ref so hard he gets a warning, and we push harder.
Viktor scores next. Slapshot from the blue line so loud it rings off the boards.
The bench erupts. The Bastards try to respond with elbows, slashes, but we don’t bite.
Because Elias gets another faceoff. Wins it and snaps the puck to me like we practiced a thousand times.
I catch, pivot, pass to Cole, Cole back to Elias—boom.
Net. Third goal of the game. The barn goes nuclear.
Elias is chasing something deeper than glory. He wants that ring.
I skate up beside him at the line, lean in, and murmur low enough that only he can hear. “You’re perfect, pup.”
He doesn’t smile, but his shoulders shake. A stutter. Just enough to know he heard me.
By second period we’re up 4–2. And the Bastards are cracking.
They hate not being in control. They hate that Elias isn’t rattled.
That Shane isn’t breaking. That I’ve got blood on my jersey and haven’t stopped smiling once.
We hit harder. We skate faster. Elias is playing the best hockey of his life.
Fast, unhinged and precise. Every pivot brutal.
Every glance toward the bench a question he already knows the answer to.
Yes, baby. I see you.
Yes, I’m watching.
Yes, I’m going to marry the fuck out of you.
The third period starts with us leading, but I know the Bastards aren’t done. Their fans are already foaming, screaming down from the rafters. Green and silver flags wave like a threat, and the ice itself feels rigged, warped boards, sticky patches, chipped corners that weren’t there at warmup.
Still, we own them. They’re trying to play hockey, but we’re hunting.
Elias is glowing. He’s skating like he’s got jet fuel in his veins.
Every shift, he wins the faceoff. Every shift, he breaks past the blue line.
He’s grinding them down by sheer willpower, curls plastered to his forehead.
And I know the signs, I know the way his knee’s starting to lag, the way his breaths are coming shorter, the way he keeps slamming into the boards as if he’s forgotten pain exists.
So I bench him. One shift, that’s all. One shift off. Just to keep his legs from blowing out before the series even ends.
The second I tap his shoulder and tell him to sit, he snaps. “What?” he barks, yanking his helmet up so hard his curls fluff. “Why?”
“Rest,” I mutter, calm. “One shift.”
“I don’t need rest,” he growls. “I need blood.”
“Mercer—” Coach tries.
Elias hisses at him. Hisses. Then turns back to me, eyes wild. “I’m not fucking tired.”
I arch a brow. “Pup.”
“Don’t ‘pup’ me, sir,” he snaps back, loud enough to make half the bench stiffen. “I’m fine. I’m good. I can skate—”
“You’re limping,” I growl.
“I always limp.”
“Not the point—”
“I’m scoring! I’m winning! I am—” He cuts off, chest heaving, eyes manic. And then he throws his gloves. Just hurls them down the bench. They bounce off Shane’s pads, and Shane glares at him like he’s about to stab him with a skate blade. Cole’s eyes go wide. Mats bites his lip.
He stomps down the bench like he’s about to fight me next. “I swear to fuck,” he growls, jabbing a finger at me. “You better win this shift without me, or I’m going back in myself and killing someone.”
I lean down, close enough to catch his collar in my fist, and snarl right against his mouth. “Sit down, Mercer, or I’ll tie you to the fucking bench.”
His pupils blow wide as he sits there—still twitching, still fuming, still vibrating with that particular brand of rage that earns hat tricks and handcuffs in equal measure.
I don’t look away from him until the puck drops.
And we win the shift.
They’re all screaming in my ear—crowd, refs, Bastards, hell, maybe even the devil himself—but none of it matters.
Not with the puck on my blade and the net wide open.
Not with Elias still benched, seething on the sidelines, his knee bouncing, mouthguard half-chewed to death between his teeth as he glares at me.
Good. Let him glare.
I drop my shoulder, cut across the ice with one clean pivot, and snap a wrister so vicious it doesn’t just fly—it sings, straight top shelf, right over the Bastards goalie’s glove. Net. Light. Fuckin horn.
The crowd goes silent, my bench explodes, and I turn, skating backward across the ice until I’m dead center of the rink and raise my stick, pointing it straight at him. At Elias.
His eyes snap to mine. He doesn’t even flinch, just stares, flushed to the tips of his ears, teeth sunk so deep into his mouthguard I swear I hear the plastic crack. His hands curl around the bench rail like he might launch himself over it and rip my jersey off mid-game.
Let him want it. Let him remember who I am.
Because yeah, pup—I benched you. And I’ll do it again. But don’t forget who taught you to skate like that. Don’t forget who you belong to.
I skate back to the bench, smirk curling at the edge of my mouth. Cole’s hooting. Shane bangs the boards. Mats yells something obscene. But I don’t care. All I care about is the look Elias gives me when I pass him—murder, want, hunger, pride—all tangled into one bratty, beautiful glare.
He’s blushing so hard his freckles vanish. And his legs are already moving. He knows he’s going back in.
Elias skates like he’s been uncaged. Blades slicing through the Bastards’ zone with lethal precision, curls bouncing, mouth moving nonstop. He doesn’t even glance at the crowd or the refs. No—he’s got one target, and it’s standing across from him at the faceoff circle, shifting from foot to foot.
Poor bastard.
Elias isn’t skating like a rookie anymore. He’s skating like a Reaper. Like a brat who got his captain’s blessing and wants the whole goddamn world to suffer for it.
He gets to the circle, plants his skates, and flashes that grin, the one that makes men snap sticks and make mistakes.
“Hey,” He chirps, loud enough for the nearest Bastards to hear.
“Did you ever figure out how to tie your skates without your mom’s help, or you still waiting for her to finish breastfeeding you? ”
The Bastard center’s jaw tightens. His glove twitches.
Elias leans in closer. “I’ll give you a freebie, yeah? After I win this draw, maybe I’ll let you sniff my jockstrap so you remember what a real center smells like.”
The guy chokes. Actually chokes.
The puck drops and Elias wins it clean. So clean it’s disgusting. He flicks it back with that same smug little twist of his wrist he always does when he wants to show off, then spins, already hunting for the lane, already writing his name across the scoreboard in blood.
I stay back, let him run wild. Because that’s what he is right now. Not a rookie. Not my pup.
A weapon. And God help the Bastards if they think they’re walking out of this rink with their dignity intact.
He rips it out from the boards. Elbows flying, stick low, shoulder grinding against the Bastard defenseman trying to pin him.
The puck squirms loose for half a second and Elias explodes.
He snatches it, pivots on one knee, spins behind the net, and cuts across the crease so fast the goalie doesn’t even drop.
Crack. Back of the net.
6–2.
The little shit skates right past the Bastards bench, looks their captain dead in the eye, blows him a kiss, and doesn’t stop skating. He’s laughing by the time he gets back to our bench, wild and breathless, curls stuck to his forehead, grin sharp enough to draw blood.
Cole grabs him in a headlock mid-shift, grinning like a maniac, and I watch Elias light up the world with every stride. And then the Bastards score.
6–3.
Viktor slams the door behind him so hard the glass rattles, and the whole sound of the arena shifts—thinner, meaner, that sharp edge of spite cutting through like a blade.
The horn blows. Game over.