Chapter 21 #2
I line up for the next faceoff, teeth clenched, every muscle thrumming with frustration.
The second the puck hits the ice, I don’t hesitate.
I explode forward, driving through two. I don’t slow.
Don’t blink. I snap the puck so hard it flies past their goalie with a vicious little whistle, hits the back of the net, and sings with another beautiful goal.
But it’s not enough.
It never is. Because thirty seconds later, the Hawks punch back. Not one. Two. They’re taunting us. No, not us—me. The scoreboard flashes, glowing: twelve to seven.
Twelve. To. Fucking. Seven.
The horn blares, shrill and mocking. The crowd loses its mind, the whole arena vibrating with noise, cheers, chaos. It should fuel me. It should push me harder. But all it does is sharpen the fury already tearing through my bloodstream.
I’m still standing at center ice, rage boiling under my skin, and when I turn slowly and lock my glare straight onto Steve, our goalie, our problem.
He’s already shrinking, helmet off and pads sagging, eyes wide and mouth moving like he’s searching for an explanation that won’t save him, and he doesn’t even make it off the ice before I start skating toward him.
Viktor grabs my jersey and mutters, “Do not kill him on national television.”
“No promises,” I snarl.
Cole leans in, still breathless from the last shift. “Can I watch?”
Damian looks up the second I burst through the door like a hurricane, still in half my gear, sweat dripping, helmet marks still pressed into my forehead.
He’s smiling, as if the world isn’t collapsing. As if the Hawks aren’t one win away from stealing the Cup. As if Steve didn’t let twelve goddamn pucks through the net like they were VIP invitations to hell.
“I hate Steve so much!” I snarl, stomping across the room with all the fury of a rabid toddler, tearing off my gear and launching it at the nearest chair. “I hate his stupid pads. I hate his stupid face. I hate his entire existence.”
Damian blinks—calm and unbothered, half-reclined in a pile of hospital blankets like he’s some mafia king draped in luxury, watching his brat throw a tantrum from the throne. “Nice to see you too, pup,” he says, raspy but amused.
I groan, slap my palms to my face, and collapse into the chair beside the bed. I don’t even care that I stink. That I’m still in my socks. That I’m dripping sweat and rage all over the sterile tile floor.
He was smiling. I love that smile. “I swear to god I’m gonna murder Steve,” I mutter into my hands. “I’m gonna shove a puck so far down his throat they’ll have to Zamboni him off the ice.”
“Pup.”
I lift my head, scowling.
Damian’s still smiling. “Did you come here just to complain about Steve?” he asks, all warm and slow like honeyed whiskey. Bastard.
“Yes,” I snap. “And to sob. And maybe throw myself out a window. But mostly Steve.”
He chuckles—fucking chuckles—and I nearly lunge for the call button to narc him out to the nurses for being smug and medically annoying. “I watched the whole game,” he says softly, eyes not leaving mine. “You skated like a monster.”
“Didn’t matter,” I mumble, slumping again. “They still won. One more game and they take the Cup. Our Cup.”
Damian doesn’t answer right away. He watches me like he’s memorizing something. Then finally, he says, “You’ve got two more games too. And you're not done.”
“I can’t do this without you,” I blurt. It rips out of my chest, raw and true. I don’t even mean to say it. It just explodes. Like the words have been sitting under my ribs for days—festering.
Damian’s smile falters. And for the first time since I stormed into the room, he looks serious. The kind of look he only gives me when he’s about to say something I’ll carry until I die.
He shifts on the bed slowly, reaches one arm out, grabs my hoodie, and pulls.
I don’t fight it. He drags me in until I’m half sprawled over him, head on his shoulder, breath still shaking. His heart’s beating slow under my ear. “Yes, you can,” he murmurs. “You were always going to.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard.
“You’re ready, Elias.”
“No, I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in, voice low, threading his fingers through my hair. “You’ve been ready. You’ve led the team without me. You’ve bled for them. Skated like a devil. You’re their captain now.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to be.”
“You already are.”
My eyes sting and I bury my face deeper against his neck, fists clenched in the hospital blanket.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to go back in time and stop the bus from leaving the arena.
Instead, I just breathe and let him hold me.
“Can you fire Steve?” I whine, nose still buried in the crook of Damian’s neck.
“You’ll be without a goalie,” he murmurs, lips twitching against my temple.
“Same difference,” I huff. “It’s like putting a tissue in net and hoping it catches pucks with vibes.”
Damian laughs quietly, but he doesn’t argue, which only proves my point.
“Tomorrow’s the next one…” I say, cracking at the edges. “And I can’t—” I swallow hard. “I can’t win without you. And without Shane.”
Damian exhales slowly. His hand slides up my back, grounding me again, anchoring me like he always does.
“We need to win two more,” I whisper. “And they only need one. One. And if they get it, they lift that cup. Not us. Not you. Not me.”
The room quiets. The TV flashes forgotten highlights in the corner. Damian’s heartbeat thumps steady under my cheek, slow and certain—like a countdown I’ll never control.
Eventually I lift my head a little. “You really think I can do it?” I whisper.
He looks at me. And fuck, that look. The one that wrecks me. Like I’m not just panic in skates. Not some rookie with pretty curls and fast hands. “I’d bet my life on you,” he says.
I bite my lip, nodding once. “…Guess I’ll have to go ruin the Icehawks then.”
I kiss him slowly with everything I’ve got left. Like I’m pouring every broken, burning nerve into his mouth because I don’t know how else to say thank you for surviving.
He kisses me back just as slow. And when I finally pull away, wrecked, I press our foreheads together and whisper, “You’re not the only one who’d bet everything.”
I slide off the bed, grab my phone, and head for the door. My legs still shake a little, like my body forgot how to function between grief and rage and too many losses. But I’ve got a mission now. Something to burn for.
This is our Cup.
I step into the hallway and start typing.
Me: Reapers. Midnight meeting. Arena. Come or don’t. But I’m not losing this war without a fight.
Cole replies instantly.
Cole: I’m already lacing up, baby.
Shane: Can I bring tequila?
Viktor: Tell me who dies.
Tyler: …will there be yelling?
I grin.
Fucking Reapers.
They gather at the rink. It's close to midnight, the arena half-lit, the jumbotron glows dim red overhead and I’m already on the ice, full gear, pacing back and forth.
Cole rolls in first, chewing gum. Sticks his head out of the locker room, glances at me, and whistles low. “Fuck, he’s feral.”
“Correct,” I snarl.
Viktor follows behind him, dragging Tyler by the collar. Shane wheels in after, one leg in a cast, his usual chaos muted. Even he looks serious tonight.
I let the silence stretch until even Cole stops bouncing. Until every single one of them is staring at me. I skate to the center. My stick echoes on the ice. “Don’t sit,” I snap. “Don’t speak. Just listen.”
They do.
I point at the banners. At the Cup years.
At the names stitched in gold. “You see those? They don’t mean shit if we lose this series.
You know what the world’s gonna remember?
That we choked. That we let the Hawks sweep the finals because our goalie couldn’t stand still long enough to block a toddler. ”
“Jesus,” Tyler mutters.
“Shut up,” I say, pointing my stick at him. “You’ve been playing scared for three games. I want blood, not nerves. Pick one.”
Cole smirks. “Can I pick blood?”
“You better,” I snarl. “Because we’ve got one shot left. One shot to turn this around. They win the next game? We’re done. Our Cup is gone. Damian is lying in a hospital bed with stitches in his chest, and we’re here losing to a team that’s been reading our playbook like it’s a bedtime story.”
Everyone’s quiet.
I skate back and forth in front of them, breathing hard.
“No one else is coming to save us. Not Coach. Not Shane. Not even Damian. It’s just us now.
So if you’ve got anything left—rage, pride, spite, teeth, I want it on this ice.
We don’t go down nice. We don’t go down quiet.
We go down swinging, and if that puck’s still moving at the last second, I will take it to the fucking net myself. ”
Cole whistles again. Low this time. “I got chills.”
“Shut up, Hollywood,” I snap without even looking at Cole, my voice sharp enough to slice through the bullshit. I turn toward Shane, planting my stick into the ice. “Okay, goalie. Who do we got?”
Shane squints up at me from the bench, eyes glassy with pain and painkillers, like he’s trying to focus on the board but seeing ghosts instead. “You want honesty or hope?”
“Shane.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Mats is too nice. Cole’s too loud. Tyler’s a fawn on skates. Coach has arthritis.”
I glare, voice flat. “Anyone.”
Shane chews his lip for a long second, then slowly nods, like it costs him something. “Viktor.”
All heads turn. Viktor raises a single brow, completely unbothered, the stoic wall of death he always is. He doesn’t say a word.
“He’s not me,” Shane mutters, shifting in his chair, voice quieter now. “But he’s got instincts. He blocks out of spite.”
A spark of something sharp curls through my chest. Hope? Maybe. More likely vengeance. “Excellent,” I growl, already turning back toward the ice. “You’re in net tomorrow.”
Viktor snorts, low and amused. “You owe me a win.”
“You’ll get two,” I promise, dead serious.
I look around one last time, sweeping my gaze over the half-broken monsters still standing, still bleeding, still mine. “Now skate.”
And they do.
Every one of them drops onto the ice like they’ve been summoned by war and we don’t stop until the rink screams.