Chapter 15
It’s finally quiet.
The kind of quiet that only comes after a war—sweat-soaked, bone-deep exhaustion echoing through the boards.
The rink’s still pulsing with leftover tension from drills that went too hard, hits that landed too loud, and one near brawl between Tyler and Cole that ended with Shane spraying them both in the face with his water bottle.
Finals.
We made it.
Barely.
Last game against the Bastards was hell.
3–2 by the skin of our teeth. The ice ran red, and Elias bled through his tape, but didn’t even flinch.
Skated through every shift. He scored the first goal and assisted the last one.
I kissed him through the cage after the buzzer and threatened to wreck him so hard he’d limp into finals. He told me to make it worse.
We’ve got a full week before we face the Icehawks—the last demon standing, the final group of assholes clawing at the door between us and the Cup. And Elias? He’s already twirling around center ice like it’s his birthday.
Because it is.
June second. Twenty-one. The little brat hasn’t shut up about it since morning skate, chirping nonstop about how he can finally drink without asking for permission, how I can’t ground him anymore, how he’s legally allowed to make bad decisions now and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Still under my contract, pup,” I muttered into his ear when he tried to sneak an extra gummy from Shane’s stash. “Your ass is mine until playoffs are over.”
And Elias, smirking, bright-eyed and panting, looked over his shoulder and said, “Then fuck me into next season, sir.”
I nearly called practice early.
But we didn’t.
We drilled hard—pushed every rep, every shift, to the edge—because the team knows. The Cup’s close now. One more monster left, one last brutal climb, and none of them—not a single damn one—wants to see Elias cry again.
The rookie’s theirs now—ours—and every man on this team would fight to the death just to see him skate that trophy.
He’s grinning, curls soaked and plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging to his chest, doing that obnoxious bunny-hop thing he does whenever he’s trying, and failing, not to look proud of himself.
“Pup,” I call from the bench, one hand still loose on my stick, the other gripping my water bottle like it’s the only thing keeping me from grabbing him right here.
He skates over, panting, flushed, eyes bright, grin wide enough to split him. “Yessir?”
“Happy birthday.”
He blinks, surprised. Tilts his head like I just broke script. “No sarcastic remark? No you-still-skate-like-a-rookie?”
“I was going to say you still owe me twenty suicides.”
He groans.
I smirk. Then I lean in, slow, enough to make him wait for it, fist curling in his cage as I drag it down to meet mine. “But I’ll let you off early today.”
His brows lift. “You will?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes locked on his mouth. “Because I’m gonna ruin you later, and I want your legs working for it.”
Elias makes a sound that is absolutely not legal to produce on ice.
Cole yells from behind us, “SOME OF US HAVE INNOCENT EARS, YOU PERVERTS!”
“Who?” Shane says. “Name one.”
Cole points. “Tyler’s innocent!”
Tyler startles so hard he nearly drops his stick. “What did I do?!” he yelps, wide-eyed like he got accused of murder.
Viktor snorts. “You were born.”
“Rude,” Tyler mutters, hugging his water bottle.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Cole chirps, skating over and slinging an arm around the poor kid’s shoulders. “You’ll lose your virgin ears eventually. Just not in this locker room.”
“That is not comforting,” Tyler says, looking mildly traumatized.
Shane skates by and pats Tyler on the helmet. “I lost my innocence in warmups, bud. It’s tradition.”
Elias is cackling now, leaning into me. “God, they’re so fucking loud.”
“You’re one to talk,” I mutter, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him in. “You scream louder than all of them combined when I’m three inches deep.”
The chaos erupts again.
Tyler dies inside. And Elias just turns red and chirps right back. “That’s because I enjoy my cardio, sir.”
I’m going to murder him later.
Slowly.
The locker room reeks of sweat, soap, and too much cologne. Everyone’s half-naked and yelling—Shane’s already shirtless, screaming about shots, Cole’s arguing with Mats over who’s buying first round, and Tyler’s blinking like he missed the entire plan.
Elias yanks his shirt off like he’s doing a damn strip tease, then looks at me.
I sit on the bench with my elbows on my knees, laces undone, and sigh loud enough that Cole laughs from across the room. “I’m too old for this,” I mutter.
“No, you’re not!” Elias purrs immediately, hopping up from his spot and bounding over like I didn’t just skate him into the boards for two hours straight. “Cap, please! Just come out! It’s my birthday.”
“Pup—”
“Twenty-one,” he reminds me, puffing his chest out proudly. “Which means I can finally drink without your permission.”
“Like that’s ever stopped you.”
He grins. “Exactly! So now I get to do it legally.”
I run a hand over my face, resisting the urge to groan again as Elias sits beside me, still shirtless, still flushed, still glowing. His knee bumps mine, then his fingers graze my thigh subtlety, teasing. He’s trying to make this impossible.
“You gonna wear that smug look all night?” I ask.
He smirks. “Depends. You gonna behave or give me something to smirk about?”
Cole howls from the other side of the room. “HE’S GONNA GIVE YOU A RING, BIRTHDAY BITCH!”
“Shut up, Cole!” Elias shrieks, turning red from the base of his neck up.
I’m already up and moving before anyone else can pile on. Elias scrambles after me, still tugging on clothes, still laughing.
I was never going to say no.
The entire team rolls out of the arena, howling and slapping each other’s backs, still high off adrenaline and sweat and the promise of alcohol.
Helmets tucked under arms, hair still damp, jerseys half-stuffed into duffel bags, none of them are moving like they came out of a brutal, bloody playoff practice.
No. They’re moving like wolves that caught the scent of prey and know it ends in drinks.
I follow slower, gear bag slung over my shoulder, jaw tight.
The team bus is already waiting by the curb, engine humming, the same driver we’ve had for years sitting behind the wheel with a grin that’s already halfway to mocking. He takes one look at me and presses his lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, voice low.
“Sure thing, captain,” he smirks, tipping an imaginary hat.
And then Elias barrels past me, nearly knocking over Shane and Cole in the process, a blur of reckless birthday energy. He launches himself up the bus steps like the damn thing will start faster if he runs hard enough.
I watch him go. He's still shirtless. “Mercer!” I snap, sharp enough to cut through the chaos. He’s halfway up the bus steps when he freezes as if I yanked his leash, stops so fast he nearly eats shit, stumbling forward, grabbing the railing to keep from face-planting in front of the whole damn team.
He whips his head around, eyes wide and pout already forming. “What? What did I do now, sir?” he whines.
I raise a brow. Take a long, slow look down his chest. “Forgot something maybe?”
He stares at me. Then blinks. Then follows my gaze down the length of his bare torso, and the realization hits him like a puck to the face. “Oh. Oh shit!”
Cole snorts behind me. “Puppy went feral and forgot his damn shirt.”
Elias bolts back down the steps, nearly crashing into Shane, muttering something about how he swore he put it in his bag. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“He’s gonna be the death of me,” I groan.
The driver just laughs. “Yeah, but what a way to go.”
Cole barely gets the words out, breathless from laughter, already halfway sprawling into the seat beside me. “Hi sir, I’m the birthday brat, spank me please.”
I turn my head, slow as sin, smirk already curling. “He doesn’t ask to be spanked, Hollywood. He asks for my cock down his throat. Wanna try it?”
Cole freezes. Just stares at me. Eyes wide, soul halfway out the window, like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or shrivel up and die. Silence stretches.
And just when I think he might actually combust, the bus door bangs open again.
Elias barrels back inside, wearing my jersey over his jeans, sleeves too long, collar hanging off one shoulder like sin itself.
He takes one look at the scene—Cole in his seat, me unbothered—and immediately hurls a half-full water bottle at Cole’s head.
“Get out of my spot!” he snarls, marching forward. “Your bone is over there!” He jabs a finger toward Viktor without looking.
Viktor scoffs and adjusts his headphones.
Cole yelps, dodges the bottle, and scrambles to the other side of the aisle, muttering something about ungrateful pups and sexually aggressive captains. Elias flops into the seat beside me with a dramatic huff, curls bouncing, smug and seething at the same time.
I glance down at him—the jersey, the pout, the possessiveness rolling off him in waves—and I smirk.
Mine.
The second the bus stops outside the club—some high-end, velvet-roped, chrome-drenched place that smells like money, overpriced cocktails, and sex—chaos explodes.
The moment the door hisses open, Mats is gone, practically sprinting past security with a grin so sharp it belongs in a cologne ad.
“Women,” he breathes like he’s found religion.
Shane, on the other hand, bolts in the opposite direction the second Viktor stands up, still haunted from the last time he accidentally tongued down vodka. “I see you, Petrov! Don’t try me!” Shane yells, ducking behind Tyler.
Elias is bouncing.
Literally.