Chapter 16 #3
Tyler blinks, frozen in place like he doesn’t even believe what he just did.
And I laugh. I laugh so hard my ribs hurt, and I skate to him first. Before Mats. Before anyone. I grab his helmet with both hands, yank him close enough our cages clack together, and shout, “YOU BEAUTIFUL STUPID LEGEND!”
His mouth’s hanging open, like he’s still buffering.
Mats slams into us both a second later, roaring with victory, and then the whole bench crashes over the boards, dogpiling, shouting, alive with it. Because for the first time all game, we’re winning.
Sixty seconds left.
They pull their goalie.
Oh fuck. Oh shit.
It’s six against five now, and the Hawks are swarming.
We’re pinned against our own goddamn crease, sticks clashing, legs tangled, bodies flying. The puck’s bouncing and no one can get control. Shane’s eyes are locked on it, crouched so low he’s practically part of the ice, every nerve in his body twitching.
I can’t breathe.
The Hawks are everywhere—sharp, merciless.
Then—“PUP!” Damian’s voice cuts through everything.
I whip my head around, and he’s already freed the puck. I don’t know how the hell he did it—brute force, dark magic, maybe sold his soul to the hockey gods—but it’s loose and it’s mine.
I bolt. My blades scream against the ice as I tear down the rink, cutting through the chaos, everything around me a blur of sound and light. The barn explodes behind me, black and red erupting in the stands, and I skate faster than I’ve ever moved in my goddamn life.
The Hawks are chasing—I can feel them behind me, their speed, their desperation nipping at my heels. But the net’s ahead. Empty. Waiting. Begging.
Closer. Closer—I pull back, twist my wrists, and snap—CRACK.
The puck flies. Time slows.
And then—NET. YES, MOTHERFUCKER!!
The horn goes feral. And I’m screaming, arms raised, lungs wrecked, heart slamming into my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out.
“YES!!” I howl, spinning as my skates carve across the ice, the world blurring around me just before the boys slam into me.
Cole tackles me first, knocking the wind out of my lungs with laughter, Shane right behind him yelling something unhinged about holy water.
Mats wraps an arm around my neck, yelling in rapid-fire Spanish, while Tyler’s crying again, full-body shaking like it’s the end of a movie.
And Viktor nods once like this was always the plan.
Damian skates up last. The eye of the storm. He grabs my cage with both hands, leans in close, and growls, “Good. Fucking. Boy.”
I don’t even have time to reply before he pulls me into a bruising kiss through the bars, crowd roaring around us.
We won Game 1. And I want that damn ring.
I barely make it to the locker room before they descend—the press, like vultures circling blood.
There’s no time to strip down, no time to feel.
I’m still soaked in sweat, jersey clinging to my ribs, lungs wrecked from screaming and skating and surviving that last brutal shift, when the cameras hit me.
“Elias!”
“Mercer! Over here—!”
“Take us through that final play—”
I blink into the lights, frozen mid-step, heartbeat still pounding in my throat. The roar of the crowd still rings in my ears, distant now, muffled, replaced by mics, phones, and half a dozen voices firing at me all at once.
Breathe. Just breathe.
My hands are shaking. My legs are numb.
I should feel unstoppable, cocky, victorious, loud. But instead, I feel like I ran through fire and came out blistered. My chest still heaves, my throat’s raw, and all I can do is stare into the nearest lens, mouth dry, brain blank.
I force out a single sound, “Uh—”
And then he’s there. Sliding in behind me, one hand landing firm and heavy on my lower back. He doesn’t say anything to them. His presence alone is enough to make the press take a collective pause, the chaos pausing long enough for my body to remember how to breathe.
I inhale, then exhale and find my voice. “I heard him,” I say, hoarse and frayed. “Damian—Captain. He yelled for me. And I just… I ran.”
More questions crash in—louder, faster, hotter.
“How’d it feel?”
“Were you scared?”
“Was it planned?”
“No,” I answer honestly, blinking into the lights. “It wasn’t planned. It was everything. That’s what we do. He gives the order, I follow. That’s our game.”
A hush falls for a second, and I feel Damian’s hand slide higher possessively.
Then Cole screams from the hallway. “MOVE, PRESS WHORES, HE NEEDS A SHOWER AND A HUG!”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and lean back an inch, into Damian’s chest, grounding myself against the only thing solid in the room.
“You did good,” he murmurs low and quiet. “You gave me everything.”
I tilt my head up to look at him, lips parted from exhaustion and adrenaline. “I’ve got more,” I whisper. “One game down. Three to go.”
His smirk is slow, like he already knows. “That’s my pup.”
The second the locker room door slams shut behind us, I drop. Right to my knees. My legs buckle, hands catching on the floor, helmet still on, gear still strapped, and I can’t breathe because everything hits at once. The adrenaline, the screaming, the sprint, the goal—
Holy shit.
I crawl in full gear, half laughing, half crying as the room spins around me and my hands slap against the wet tile, dragging myself into the showers like it’s the only place left to fall apart.
Cole’s voice chases me in, cackling. “SWEET MOTHER OF CHRIST, HE’S CRAWLING—HE’S FULL EXORCIST CRAWLING—SOMEONE GET THE CAMERA—”
Mats shouts, “He’s broken!”
Shane yells, “Don’t touch him, he’s sacred!”
I collapse under the spray and let the water slam into me, the force of it hitting like another check. Chest heaving like I ran through hell, because I did.
The water’s not even warm yet. I don’t care. I press my forehead to the tile, dripping, trembling, burning from the inside out, and whisper, “We did it. We fucking did it—”
And then it hits, the stomp of skates, the clatter of gear, the shriek of laughter, followed by the entire team barreling in after me.
Cole tackles me sideways, helmet to helmet, screaming “YOU PSYCHOPATH LEGEND!”. Shane dumps his water bottle on the shower spray for dramatic effect. Mats slides across the floor on his knees and crashes into my leg like a bowling pin. Tyler’s laughing, yelling. “I passed! I passed!”
I’m on the floor in a dogpile of chaos, soaked, exhausted, and I’m laughing.
The chaos is deafening. Water everywhere, steam rising, gear flying, Cole shrieking something about “SHOWER CAKE,” Shane howling because Mats tried to shampoo his hair mid-celebration, and Tyler absolutely failing to escape a group hug turned hostage situation.
Then silence falls—not gradually, not in the way it usually creeps in after a win. This silence cuts through the room like a blade.
Damian is still in full gear, every inch of him soaked in the aftermath of war.
His shoulders are squared, chest rising in that slow, deep rhythm that means he’s not done yet.
The tape around his wrists is peeling, loose and curling.
There’s dried blood arcing along his jaw from some brutal hit nobody even saw, and sweat clings to the column of his throat.
His skates strike the tile once, then again, each step echoing with weight—louder than it should be, slower than it needs to be, an announcement that turns every head and even makes Cole shut up.
Damian doesn’t speak. He stands there, taking up the whole goddamn doorway, and scans the room like a warlord returning to survey his battlefield.
And then his eyes find me. I don’t try to get up. I blink up at him dazed and completely wrecked in a way only he could have done.
He doesn’t speak either. His presence is louder than anything he could say. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts one gloved hand. His finger extends, silent, commanding as he points to the door.
That’s all it takes. No words. No explanation.
The boys don’t argue. Not one of them dares.
They scatter like roaches under a floodlight, scrambling and slipping, tripping over gear, hauling ass in every direction.
Cole grabs Shane by the hoodie. Mats is already laughing.
Tyler’s yelling, “I’M NOT LOOKING, I SWEAR!
” while somehow looking everywhere, and still, no one dares delay.
The door slams shut.
And just like that, we’re alone.
Steam curls thick around us, wrapping everything in heat and haze, the water hissing in the background as it crashes into tile. My chest heaves, muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline, every breath dragging through lungs that still feel like they’re on fire.
Damian steps forward at an unhurried pace, every inch of him carved from control and quiet menace. He doesn’t rush. He lets the distance close on his terms, until his shadow swallows me whole and he’s towering there, undeniable and inescapable.
Then he crouches in front of me. Not gently. Not with care. He lowers himself with predatory intent, deliberate and precise, like something closing in on prey that’s already too wrecked to run, and knows it.
One hand lands on my chest, firm and anchoring. The other reaches up, grabs the edge of my helmet, and tugs it off with one fluid motion before tossing it behind him without looking. The sound of it hitting the tile barely registers.
I blink up at him.
“You ran,” he murmurs, voice low and dark.
I nod, dizzy from the closeness, from him.
“You scored.”
I nod harder, desperate for more—for anything he’ll give.
“You’re mine.”
“Always,” I whisper, wrecked.
He growls low in his throat, eyes black with need, and then his hands are on me, peeling away my gear. One piece at a time. Each of them discarded with methodical ease. Then he grabs the bottom of my jersey and rips it over my head in one smooth, brutal motion.
I gasp, shivering under the spray.
“Up,” he commands.
I try to stand, but my legs wobble beneath me, shaking from effort.
He catches me without hesitation, lifts me effortlessly, and shoves me against the tile. Water pours over both of us now, soaking my bare skin while he remains fully geared—taped, armored, relentless.
I’m exposed, flushed with heat, and trembling under his hands, every nerve lit up and screaming his name.
He leans in close, breath hot against my ear as he claims me all over again. “You skate like a fucking devil,” he growls. “Now you’ll scream like my pup.”
And then Damian kisses me hard enough to crack the air around us. Teeth, tongue, dominance—his mouth crashes into mine like he wants to taste the scream already building in my throat. My head slams back against the tile, water raining down, and still he doesn’t let up.
He kisses like he fights, with his whole body and absolutely no mercy.
I whimper as his tongue drags over mine, as his teeth sink into my bottom lip and send sparks down my spine. My knees buckle, my back arches, and I claw at the slick fabric of his jersey, nails scraping up his chest like I’m trying to crawl inside his ribs, like being close isn’t close enough.
And Damian growls low and rough, the sound vibrating out of his chest as he presses in tighter. “Louder,” he hisses against my mouth. “Give it to me, pup.”
I choke on a gasp, nails digging harder into his shoulders as my whole body starts to tremble. I am feral. I am his.
And when he finally pulls back enough to look at me, I’m already gone. My chest is heaving, my eyes are wild. My cock is flushed and leaking between us like I might actually die if he doesn’t touch me now.
He smirks like he knows, like he planned every second of this, and then he grabs my thigh, lifts it, pins it to his hip with one gloved hand, and murmurs, “You’re gonna beg, Elias. You’re gonna howl for me.”
And God help me, I know I will.
He sinks to his knees in full gear. Shoulder pads creaking, skates thudding against tile, that soaked black jersey clinging to him. It shouldn’t be possible—he’s huge, heavy, armored—but he drops to the floor like he was meant to kneel there for me.
My breath hitches. “Cap—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, voice dark and holy. His hands are already on my thighs, rough and wet, spreading me open with unshakable control. “You gave me that goal, pup. Now I’m gonna make you forget how to stand.”
My back slams into the tile again. The water pours over both of us, hot and loud, but all I can feel is his mouth—pressing open-mouthed kisses to the inside of my thigh, slow and filthy. Like he’s not just going to eat me out—he’s going to devour me.
And when he drags his tongue up, until it lands exactly where I need it, my knees give out completely. “FUCK—!”
He pins me harder. One hand locking around my hip, the other splayed across my chest, holding me there, like he owns my ability to move, to survive.
And then he goes down on me. No mercy. Tongue flicking. Lips sealed. Groaning on me like he’s starving. I sob—echoing off the walls—my hands scrabbling at his soaked hair, his gear, anything to anchor me.
But there’s no escape.
Mouth working my length, eyes locked on mine even from down there. I try to look away, but I can’t. His stare pins me in place harder than his hands ever could.
I am nothing but noise.
And when I finally break, body jerking, voice raw, pleasure slamming into me so hard I see white, he keeps going. Sucking me through it. Holding me there. Making sure I feel it.
By the time he stands again, wiping his mouth with his thumb, water still pouring from above and steam clouding the room, the only thing holding me upright is his hand fisted tight in my hair.
And I smile, drunk on him, high on it, still shaking from everything we’ve done. “I’m gonna marry you,” I pant, letting my head fall weakly against his chest, the words slurred with exhaustion and something dangerously close to reverence.
His chest rumbles with laughter, low and satisfied. “Yeah, pup,” he mutters, dragging me close with one arm wrapped tight around me. “You fucking are.”