Chapter 22
I’m propped up in this goddamn hospital bed, half-upright, wrapped in wires and bruises, stiff in all the wrong places.
My ribs ache with every breath. My leg is immobile, braced and heavy, and I can still feel the ghost of tubes in my throat when I swallow.
There’s a nurse stationed at my side, chatty and overeager, the kind who fills silence like it’s an emergency.
She talks too fast, and asks questions I don’t care to answer, but I let her stay.
Because she brought snacks. And because she put the game on without me even having to ask. That earns her a pass.
The second the broadcast cuts to the starting lineup, I spot it—the thing that makes my smirk curl slow and mean across my face.
I shift slightly, wincing, every movement stitched with pain, and mutter, still hoarse from the intubation, the surgery, the near-death spiral of the last seventy-two hours. “Fucking hell.”
Viktor Petrov. Fully geared. Helmet tucked under his arm. Standing dead center in the crease, towering, terrifying as ever. In the goddamn net.
The nurse gasps beside me, one hand flying to her chest. “Isn’t he your defenseman?”
“He is,” I rasp, sipping slowly from the goddamn juice box she shoved in my hand like I’m six years old and not a man who nearly bled out on a gurney. My lips twitch around the straw.
Her eyes go wider. “Are they out of goalies?!”
I grin, letting the smile bloom full and feral. “No. They’re out of patience.”
The camera cuts to center ice, and there he is. Elias. Holy fuck. He’s pacing, drilling the team like his entire marriage depends on it. He’s screaming, commanding, eyes wild and feral, mouth filthy with chirps and threats, full gremlin captain mode in all its chaotic glory.
And God—God, I’ve never wanted him more.
It did start that way—win the Cup, and I’ll put a ring on your finger. But watching him now? Watching him take my team and own it?
I’d marry him either way, Cup or no Cup.
“Is that your boyfriend?” the nurse asks, crunching on a chip like it’s a medical instrument.
“Captain,” I correct without thinking.
She hums. “He’s angry.”
“Good.” I smirk again. “He plays better angry.”
On screen, Elias shoves Tyler into position like a drill sergeant with trust issues. Cole chirps something and gets smacked with a stick. Shane is visible in the stands behind the bench in a wheelchair, double-fisting gummy bears and screaming.
Viktor’s already blocking shots in warmup like he wants to kill the puck for daring to exist.
“Fucking Reapers,” I whisper.
The nurse lets out a laugh beside me, light and easy, like we’re watching a regular game and not standing at the edge of a battlefield. “You’re gonna be a very smug man if they win tonight, huh?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t, because I’m already gone. Eyes locked on the screen, heart pounding, each beat heavy enough to echo in my throat.
I can feel it in my ribs, not from pain this time, but from something rooted in pride.
Fear. Obsession. The kind of feeling that only comes when your entire soul is wearing number nineteen.
Come on, pup.
The broadcast pans wide across the Reapers’ bench, catching flashes of movement, noise, barely-contained energy.
Tension crackles in the air like static before a lightning strike.
Black and red streak across the frame, fists pounding shoulders, teeth bared in anticipation, fire barely leashed.
It’s chaos incarnate. My chaos. My boys.
And then the camera finds him again. Helmet off, sweat-slick curls plastered to his forehead, mouth moving a mile a minute, he’s yelling again.
I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to.
I know that face. I know that fury. He’s probably barking about stick placements.
Probably snarling about blood. He grabs Cole by the jersey and shakes him, spits something furious at Tyler, then spins to the net to knock knuckles with Viktor like they’ve been at this for years.
As if nothing’s changed. Like the team didn’t just shove a defenseman in goal and decide to wage war anyway.
And then he looks up, right at the camera, right at me.
Like he could feel me watching him, even from miles away.
His eyes lock with mine through the screen, electric and steady, full of that terrifying, beautiful focus that’s all his.
The storm behind his eyes hasn’t faded, it’s gotten worse.
Sharper. Wilder. Controlled only because he wants it to be.
His mouth twitches a little. A flicker of something that’s almost a smile but too wrecked to count as joy.
And then, clear as day, I watch his lips move. “This is for you.”
My grip on the remote goes ironclad. Knuckles white. Like if I breathe wrong, it’ll explode in my hand.
The nurse gasps beside me. “Oh my god. That was for you, wasn’t it?”
I try to swallow, but my throat locks. My body’s lagging behind what my heart already knows. I can’t speak. I can’t. Because he didn’t just say it—he meant it. Like he’d bleed for it. Die for it. For me. For the team. For the black-and-red monster we built from blood and broken boys.
And he’s still staring at the camera. Still staring through it like he knows I’m here—wires in my arm, lungs stitched with pain, watching him like my whole damn world’s behind glass.
Then he grins. Vicious, gorgeous. That lethal curve of his mouth that always means one thing—someone’s about to get destroyed, and he’s going to enjoy it. Then he turns away from the camera, back to the ice.
Message delivered. Time to hunt.
Go get it, pup.
First faceoff of the game. Elias skates in, crouches low, and the second the puck hits the ice, he wins it clean.
Textbook perfect. Then he swings, but not at the puck, not at the play.
He goes straight for the nearest Icehawk, helmet-to-helmet, a full-body check that sends the guy sprawling against the boards.
The whistle blows, sharp and immediate, but nothing’s called, it was clean.
Brutal, but legal. Vicious energy bottled into precision.
Reapers fans are on their feet, screaming his name, chanting like they’re ready to burn the whole place down.
He doesn’t stop. He grabs the puck, spins on his blade, whips it across the ice to Cole, who catches it, spins, and launches a wrist shot straight at the net.
Viktor blocks a rebound like he’s done this his whole life. And then Elias takes it back. Bursts across the blue line. Two defenders try to corner him. He spins around them, dips his shoulder, cuts in close and fires.
GOAL.
One minute in. The Reapers draw first blood and Elias skates to center ice, looks right at the Hawks bench, and blows them a kiss.
I watch him barrel through the door, curls flying, cheeks flushed, jersey half off like he forgot to undress before sprinting across the entire hospital. Cole and Viktor are right behind him, both grinning.
“Sir, DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT??” Elias shrieks, wild and vibrating.
I smirk, grab a fistful of his jersey, and yank him in until his knees hit the side of the bed. “Yes, pup,” I murmur, proud in all the places that matter. “Good boy.”
His breath hitches, his grin breaking wide and feral. “We murdered them. We came out like goddamn demons. Did you see my first goal? Did you see the spin? The check? Cole almost died laughing!”
Cole’s already halfway flopped into the visitor chair, laughing so hard his ribs are probably bruised. “That defenseman screamed, bro. Legit screamed. Like—please, Mr. Mercer, not the face!”
“I was watching,” I rasp, hand still curled in Elias’s jersey. “TV, remember?”
“Yeah, well,” Elias mutters, eyes gleaming, “I wanted to say it in person. It’s better when I’m gloating directly into your face.”
Viktor, ever the silent wall of judgment and unbothered death, leans against the far wall and folds his arms. “He skated like his soul was possessed.”
“Possessed by me,” I mutter, and Elias actually chokes.
Cole wheezes. “Can you not say that when I’m sitting right here? I already got trauma from earlier.”
“From Viktor?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
Cole makes a strangled noise and hides behind his hoodie.
Elias turns back to me, still panting, still glowing, and shoves his hands through his curls. “One more game,” he says, and it’s quieter now. “We win one more and it’s done. It’s ours.”
I look up at him. The rookie who’s not a rookie anymore. My center. My chaos. My future. “One more,” I say. “And I’ll put that ring on your finger, pup.”
He freezes, then his knees hit the floor and his head hits my chest, and I swear, if I wasn’t already half-broken, I’d fuck him into the mattress right now in front of God and the entire Reapers roster.
I curl my fingers into his curls instead and kiss him slow. His lips are soft, but the way he leans into me? Starving. Like the adrenaline of the win hasn’t faded yet, the high of the game is still fizzing in his blood and he’s choosing me as his grounding rod.
Good choice.
When I finally pull back, he's pink-cheeked, grinning like he wants to devour me. “Do you need anything?” he asks, all soft and earnest.
“Mmm… coffee,” I smirk, dragging a lazy hand down his cheek.
He squints. “Are you even allowed coffee??”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Tea. Happy?”
“No,” he mutters, but he stands anyway.
“Go on,” I say, jerking my chin toward the door. “Take Cole with you.”
“What?” Cole croaks from the corner. “I just sat down! He can handle tea! I’m fragile, Kade!”
I arch a brow. The brow.
“...Shit,” Cole mutters.
“I want to talk to your handler,” I say slowly. “Move, Vance.”
Cole chokes on his own spit. “Handler?! Handler?! I’m not a German Shepherd!”
I stare at him until he groans, grabs Elias by the arm, and drags him toward the door. “C’mon, curls. Let’s go get the angry invalid his damn tea before he tries to propose with a heart monitor strapped to his chest.”