Chapter 16 #2
Tyler slides in two seconds later, face white. “Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Don’t talk,” I snap. I don’t mean to, but I’m wired. My blood is still boiling. He almost gave them the lead. One slip. One drift, and that could’ve been it.
Tyler looks like he wants to disappear. I press my glove to my forehead and force myself to breathe, counting it out in my head, one more period, just hold the line, just hold the fuckin line.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Damian watching me. Not Tyler. Me. And I know exactly what that look means: don’t lose your head, pup. Keep skating.
So I do.
Next shift, I don’t sit. I seethe.
The second my skates hit the ice, I’m already hunting. Vision narrowed. Blood screaming. The crowd’s a wall of red and black, stomping and howling. Somewhere up there, someone screams my name—I catch “I love you, Elias!” and another “Marry me!”—but it barely registers.
The Hawks are smirking.
I line up at center. The same prick from earlier locks eyes with me across the circle. Gold jersey. Too-perfect face. Stick twirling lazy in his hand. “Bet you choke,” he says.
I smile, wide and feral. “Bet you eat my fucking dust.”
Puck drops.
I win it clean. Blades dig deep, stick slices low, and I’m gone. I don’t pass. I pivot, slip the first defenseman, snap right past the second, feel the slash of his stick against my hip and don’t even flinch.
I see the lane open. The goalie shifts. Too slow, too late.
Mine. I flick my wrist, lightning-fast, top shelf, right over his glove. The net snaps, and the fans scream.
I don’t even hear the horn over the crowd, just the roar. A wall of sound. The sea of Reapers fans screaming my name. I turn, stick raised, fire burning through my veins, and I scream.
One goal. The first goal. First blood of the finals.
And I drew it.
Damian slams into me from behind, arms wrapping tight, voice rough against my helmet as he growls, “That’s my fucking center.”
The team piles in, charging from across the ice like it’s war won. The bench erupts into chaos, fans losing their minds in the stands. I glance toward the glass, and there’s Captain Jr., smashed up against the plexi by some poor fan, arms flung wide like he just hit the damn lottery.
God, I love this game.
Cole’s screaming, full lungs, skating wild loops. Shane slams his stick against the goalpost so hard the refs flinch. Viktor grins—grins, the bastard—and punches Mats in the shoulder like that’s his version of celebration. Even Tyler yells something that almost sounds like confidence.
It spreads like blood in water.
We're not backing down. We're coming for the Cup.
Next shift, Cole lines up beside me, bouncing on his blades, eyes glowing. He taps the toe of my skate with his, leans in, and mutters behind his mouthguard, “You keep skating like that, curls, I’ll let you name my firstborn.”
I smirk. “Only if it’s ugly.”
“Then it’s already halfway to Elias Jr.,” he chirps, and the ref drops the puck before I can throat-punch him.
We explode off the line.
The Icehawks aren’t smiling anymore. They're scrambling.
We slice through them like knives through silk. Puck flies between us like it’s wired into our blood, Cole weaving around one defenseman, then another, then looping the puck behind his back—blind—right to me.
I don’t think. I don’t need to. One touch. One flick. Net.
Second goal.
I scream, "HOLY SHIT, HOLLYWOOD!" as Cole launches himself at me full-speed, knocking me into the boards with a manic cackle. We’re laughing, skating back to the bench like gods dripping sweat and sin.
Behind us, the Icehawks huddle tight.
Next shift, the Hawks bite back. Like they were waiting for the sting to wake them up. First goal’s a sniper shot from the blue line. Shane barely flinches before it’s past him. Their bench erupts, smug and screaming. Our crowd gets quieter for a second. Just enough to feel it.
Then they do it again. Turnover at center ice, breakaway, and fuck—before we can scramble, it’s back of the net.
Tied.
The Hawks just nod to each other like robots rebooting mid-game. Like they expected this. Like they’re not even playing for pride, but for precision.
And it’s working.
By the time the buzzer ends the second period, it’s 2–2 and I’m seething.
Tyler looks like he’s going to throw up. Shane slams his water bottle. Mats punches the door as we skate off. And Cole’s too quiet. Too still. Eyes on the ice like he’s memorizing the cracks.
I’m shaking. This was supposed to be ours—this game, this final, this win—and now it’s even. Tied. Dangling by a thread, slipping through our fingers. And I hate even.
Third period hits like a goddamn freight train.
Every one of us is on edge, coiled tight, teeth grit, breathing ragged through the cages.
The locker room was dead silent before this.
Only the sound of tape ripping, water bottles clinking, and Shane whispering prayers in Russian like he’s invoking a miracle.
We hit the ice like thunder.
And Damian’s beside me. First shift, he skates up to the line like a predator, shoulders loose, eyes calm. I match him stride for stride, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd.
The puck drops and the Hawks change. They start body-slamming.
Not dirty. Not like the Bastards. No, these fuckers are legal—they hit hard enough to rattle your bones but never enough to draw a call. Elbows tight, shoulders square. No trash talk, no shoves after the whistle. Hit, recover, regroup—like it’s programmed into their blood.
One by one, they start hammering us.
Viktor gets slammed in the corner. Cole takes a clean but brutal hit behind the net. Mats gets sent flying across the blue line. Shane’s screaming from the crease, trying to rally us, but even he can’t mask the panic building.
I get slammed into the boards so hard I see stars—ribs rattling, glass shuddering, the crowd gasping loud enough to echo in my skull.
But I get up. I always get up.
And Damian’s there immediately—like he felt the hit ripple through the ice—skating up beside me without a word, without even a glance, his shoulder brushing mine.
I catch my breath, grit my teeth and I get back in position. Because if these gold-blooded, stone-faced motherfuckers think we’re folding, they’ve got another thing coming.
Next shift, Damian retaliates. The puck hasn’t even dropped yet and he’s already skating tighter, lower, more lethal. That slow, terrifying stillness he wears? Gone. What’s left is pure violence.
I feel it before I see it. The Hawks captain—big, fast, probably smart enough to do taxes in his sleep—has just stepped over the blue line, chasing a loose puck. He doesn’t see it coming. Doesn’t hear the warning. Doesn’t feel the shift in the air.
But I do.
Boom. Damian slams into him like a wrecking ball made of fury and muscle and every unsaid promise he’s ever made to me. The hit echoes. The sound of it ricochets around the arena. The Hawks captain crumples mid-stride, skidding across the ice.
The crowd loses it. Reapers fans scream as the air vibrates with rage, glee, and pure bloodlust.
The whistle comes late—too late.
The ref hesitates and Damian’s already skating off, calm as a god, his expression unreadable behind the cage, while their captain is still trying to remember his own name. He doesn’t even glance at the ref. Because that? That wasn’t a penalty. That was legal. That was the message.
Come for our crease again? You’ll regret it. Come for our captain? He’ll make you bleed.
The Hawks pause for a second, but it’s enough. And in that second, I skate up beside Damian, grab his jersey at the hem, lean in close enough to taste the sweat and thunder in the air, and murmur, “Marry me harder, captain.”
He smirks as he gets back in position.
One second, the puck’s snapping off a Hawk’s stick with sniper precision—low, left side, guaranteed to slip in under the glove.
The next, Shane drops into a full split, legs scissoring so fast you can hear the fabric strain, glove flashing out to snag the puck mid-air like he’s been waiting all game for this exact goddamn moment.
SNAP. Whistle.
“FUCK YEAH, GOALIE JESUS!!” Cole screams from the bench, half-standing, punching the glass with his glove. “FUCK ‘EM UP, GUMMIBEAR!”
Shane stays down for half a beat longer than necessary, like he knows how filthy that save was, then flips the puck out of his glove with casual disdain and skates backward like he just did a magic trick.
Reapers fans are howling.
Tyler looks like he’s about to cry from relief. Mats punches Viktor in the chest. I’m shaking with adrenaline and pride and this wild, vicious joy that tastes like metal on my tongue.
Because we’re still in it. Still holding. Still alive.
And Shane just bought us another chance. Another minute to breathe. Another shift to reset. Another shot at glory.
The clock’s bleeding seconds, the game’s tied, and it hits me—not a single penalty all game. Not one fight, one scrum, one drop of blood on the ice. The Icehawks aren’t here to hurt us; they’re here to dismantle us. And that’s almost worse.
The third period’s halfway done. Score’s 3–3. And I’m running on fumes.
Every shift takes more than it gives. My thighs are burning, my lungs are tight, and somewhere under it all, my brain’s screaming what if we lose in ten different accents.
Then it happens.
Tyler.
Fucking Tyler.
He’s skating fast, eyes wide, clumsy like always—but this time, he doesn’t fumble. This time, he’s right where he needs to be. The puck bounces off the boards, hard, and everyone expects it to ricochet off his skate and die in the neutral zone.
But no. The little bastard catches it, clean, steady, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and then he passes. A single wicked slice across the ice straight to Mats, who’s already breaking past the last defenseman.
And Mats doesn’t miss.
The goal horn screams. The bench erupts. The Reapers’ side of the crowd damn near combusts.4–3.