Chapter 16
The locker room is buzzing. Not loud. Not chaotic. Not like usual. No, this is different. This is finals.
The air feels tighter somehow, like the oxygen’s been rationed and everyone’s sucking on the same last breath. No one’s chirping. No one’s laughing. It’s all shallow breathing and gear creaking and the low hiss of tape being wound tight around sticks and wrists and ankles.
We made it.
And now we’re facing the Icehawks. They’re not like the Bastards.
Not goons. Not brutes. The Hawks don’t fight unless they’ve already won.
They're surgical. Precise. We’ve been watching tape for weeks, memorizing plays, learning their patterns.
I’ve seen their captain take a puck and pass it like it was planned ten plays ago.
I’ve seen their goalie stop a three-on-one without blinking. They don’t flinch. They calculate.
Shane’s already in full gear in the corner, jersey bunched at his elbows, helmet on, eyes closed, lips moving in frantic little whispers. His leg bounces like he’s trying to skate off his sins.
Tyler’s pacing, sweating through his base layer before we’ve even hit the ice. He keeps wiping his hands on his thighs.
Mats and Viktor are stone-cold. Suited up, staring at nothing, syncing their breathing.
Cole’s dead silent. No chirps. No cackles. He's sitting there in his corner of the bench, taping his stick with sharp, aggressive strokes, not even looking up.
Damian’s calm. Terrifyingly so. He’s sitting at his locker, taping his blade with that same lethal precision he uses for everything—me included.
His hair’s still damp from warmups, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing with every pull of the tape.
And his gaze? It’s not here. Not in this locker room.
It’s already ahead, already on the ice, already seeing how this ends.
The ring. Fuck. The ring.
My heart stutters.
I’m fully dressed, skates laced tight, mouthguard tucked into my glove, helmet waiting beside me. I should feel ready. I should feel like I earned this. But instead, I feel like I’m going to puke all over my shin guards.
Because this is it. Game 1 of the finals.
The last climb. The last bloodbath. The last team we’ve got to beat before I get the ring, before I get him. Before I finally get to walk off the ice into his arms and hear the words we’ve been circling around like cowards for two goddamn months.
One more. That’s it. That’s all we need.
And suddenly it feels too real. Too big. Like everything might collapse if I blink wrong.
What if we don’t make it? What if I choke? What if they’re faster than us, sharper, colder? What if Shane cracks? What if I miss a faceoff? What if I let them score first and the whole team spirals and Cole breaks something and Tyler can’t handle the pressure and I—
“Pup.” The voice cuts through everything. Low and commanding.
I blink. I didn’t even notice I was staring at the floor, helmet still clutched in both hands, breathing too shallow to be safe. My head jerks up.
He’s looking at me. Just me. Everyone else is moving, talking, stretching, chirping, but not him. He’s still. Focused. “You’re okay,” he says. Just that.
You’re okay.
And I believe him. It’s not loud. It’s not even a pep talk. But something about the way he says it, like it’s fact, unhooks the noose around my lungs.
My fingers relax on the helmet. My pulse steadies. My throat still burns, but the panic starts to bend.
I nod. A tiny one, but it’s enough. He sees it and goes back to his stick, taping the final line with a slow, clean rip. The kind of calm that comes before violence.
God, I love him.
The second we hit the tunnel, the noise hits us like a wall—thick and electric, vibrating up my blades and into my ribs. Drums, chants, clapping, stomping, shrieking. The kind of roar that drowns out your own blood.
Reapers fans are everywhere. Half the arena’s a sea of black and red—jerseys, war paint, glitter signs with my number sharpied over hearts. I clock one sign on the dash glass that says PUCK ME, MERCER and another one with CAPTAIN’S PUP in all caps with a sketch of a dog collar under it.
I shouldn’t love that, but I do.
Hawks fans are louder, though, at least for now. Their colors bleed gold and deep red, sleek and polished and arrogant as hell. They chant in waves. Unified. Not wild like Reapers fans. Not chaotic. But…solid. Like they expect to win.
But Reapers fans? Reapers fans are feral.
As I skate out behind the first line, something catches my ear through the thunder. High up. Unhinged. “I LOVE YOU, MERCER!”
I grin before I can stop it, sharp and fast and crooked. Damian’s beside me, a few strides ahead, and I swear he heard it too—he doesn’t react, but I know that jaw clench.
Our fans aren’t just loyal, they’re rabid. And tonight, packed shoulder to shoulder in a stadium that’s already vibrating with noise and need, they don’t want a win.
They want blood.
The Hawks are already on the ice. Lining up, barely looking at us. Their captain is tall, clean-cut, efficient. Doesn’t smirk. He waits and I hate him already.
I circle once, heart jackhammering, lungs burning too fast too soon, and try to remember everything Damian drilled into me this week. Stay low. Anticipate their pivot. Don’t overskate the puck. Let Shane see—they crowd the net.
But all I can feel right now is the ice under me and the thousands of screaming voices above and the weight of everything this game means.
The second the whistle blows, we swarm. Tight formation, jerseys brushing, skates slicing little halos into the ice. Viktor looms behind me. Cole leans on his stick, breathing hard but silent. Mats cracks his neck. Tyler fidgets, he’s trying not to puke.
Shane’s crouched in his crease, gloved hand twitching, mask angled down. He hasn’t said a word in minutes. He’s been still. Watching. Waiting.
I skate up to him.
I don’t tap his helmet. I grab it. Fist tight around the grill, yanking it down until we’re eye to eye through the bars. His pupils are dilated. He’s vibrating.
Good.
“Make them regret coming close to you,” I snarl.
Shane growls deep in his throat, eyes flaring. I shove his helmet back into place and turn fast, skating into position before the ref can say shit about it.
Behind me, I hear Shane slam his stick against the post once. Twice. Then again.
The crowd erupts. The puck drops and game 1 begins.
The first period is hell. Not bloody. Not wild. Worse. It’s clean.
Every pass. Every shift. Every movement from the Icehawks is like watching a machine dissect us in slow motion.
They don’t throw hits. They don’t chirp.
They don’t need to. They keep coming—cold and calculated.
Every time we think we’ve got a lane, they’re already there.
Closing it. Reading it. Breaking it apart.
And still, we hold.
Nobody scores. Nobody breaks.
I’m skating like my bones are trying to outrun my brain. Every shift, I’m drenched. Every shift, I’m second-guessing. Every breath, I’m scanning, thinking, what did I miss? what did I miss?
Cole’s not talking. That’s how I know it’s serious. His jaw’s locked. He’s skating fast and hard, backchecking, but he hasn’t made a single joke. Not even to me.
Damian? Unbothered. He’s moving like this is what he was made for. Gliding between defensemen, calm and lethal and already seeing five plays ahead. When we switch lines, he taps my shoulder once and says nothing else.
Shane is a wall. A wall. Not flinching, not cracking. Every shot that comes his way, he absorbs like he’s been waiting for them. Two, three, five—he takes them all. Every save makes the Reapers fans scream louder.
“Let’s go, Reapers!”
“Mercer! We love you, baby!!”
I hear it—I do—but it feels distant, like I’m underwater. My heart’s pounding, gloves soaked, every inch of me running hot and wild and jittery, but I can’t break formation. I can’t fuck this up.
Because the Hawks don’t make mistakes.
And if we do, even once, they’ll make us pay in blood and goals.
We hit the bench again—shift change—and I slump beside Cole, gasping for breath. I can feel Damian’s eyes on me from the far end of the bench, steady and burning, but I don’t look. I can’t. Not yet.
I clench my teeth, tap my stick twice against my skate—grit, focus, breathe.
Just one mistake, I think. One. And it’s over.
We’ve never faced a team like this.
Second period. Four minutes in we’re deep in the Hawks’ zone, puck moving fast between Cole and Mats, and for a second, it feels like we’ve got them, like maybe the wall’s cracking. I cut left, Cole cuts right. Shane’s pounding his stick at the far end. And then Tyler misses the read.
He’s floating too far up. Drifting toward the puck instead of watching the zone collapse behind us. Their winger sees it instantly—shifts, pivots, flies past.
The counterattack is lethal. One pass, two strides, and suddenly it’s a breakaway.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I’m already moving, pivoting so hard it wrenches my knee, but I don’t think, I just skate.
Tyler’s yelling something behind me, but I tune it out. The ice is a blur under my blades, wind screaming in my helmet, heartbeat pounding. The Hawks forward is flying—lean, brutal. But I’m faster.
I have to be faster.
I’m not letting them score.
I reach him at the circle. Lunge with my stick out. He tries to shoot, fast wrist flick, low blocker side, but I’m already there, dragging my stick across the ice like a goddamn guillotine. The puck ricochets off the blade and skitters wide.
The crowd erupts.
Shane throws both arms up. Tyler skids into the crease, panting. The Hawks winger slams his stick against the glass, pissed.
I don’t celebrate. I’m too busy choking down the scream in my chest.
Coach is already yelling for a line change. I skate hard toward the bench, vision blurry, and collapse onto the seat beside Cole. My ribs feel like they’re cracking. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop my stick.