Chapter 23
Flying without him felt wrong.
It felt fucking wrong.
Every bump, every rumble, every flicker of turbulence sent my nerves spiraling until I was gripping the armrest. And not even just the flight—everything.
Waking up without Damian’s voice. Packing without his lists.
Boarding without his stare drilling into the back of my head like don’t fuck up, pup.
He wasn’t there to say it.
But Cole was. He slid into the seat beside me like he’d been waiting for me to unravel. Didn’t even tease, just grabbed my hand and held it. Real quiet. Real firm. And I didn’t let go the whole flight.
Now we’re back in enemy territory. Icehawks ice. Gold everywhere. And I’m freaking the fuck out.
I’m sitting in the locker room, legs bouncing, sweat already slick on my spine, heart hammering loud enough I swear Shane—who’s sitting in the corner in his damn wheelchair like he might duct tape his leg and crawl into net—can probably hear it.
Viktor’s in the crease, our official captain right now, but even he looks tight today, focused, sharp.
Mats keeps checking his gear over and over, like if something’s off, it’ll be his fault.
Tyler’s chewing his mouthguard. Cole’s doing his best to keep the energy up, cracking jokes and bouncing on his skates, but even he looks nervous under the surface.
And I’m sitting here texting a man who can’t be on the ice with me.
Sir. I’m trying to breathe but it’s not working. It’s Game 7. What if I screw it up? What if we lose? I need you.
I stare at the screen. No reply yet. Doesn’t matter. I just needed to say it. Needed to get the panic out before it devoured me whole.
I tuck Captain Jr. under my arm—his stupid fuzzy face smushed against my ribs and lean forward, pressing my forehead to my taped-up stick. “Please,” I whisper. “Please let me skate this right.”
Viktor cuts through the noise. “Let’s win this.”
Everyone jerks up. Sticks hit the floor. Pads creak. The entire room shifts from chaos to mission in seconds.
And then Viktor turns to me. I’m still sitting, clinging to air. But he doesn’t let that slide. He storms right over, grabs me by the front of my jersey, and yanks me up so fast my feet barely touch the floor.
His face is right there. Eyes like steel. Voice a snarl that vibrates in my bones. “You don’t choke today, pup. You hear me?”
I blink. My throat closes. I can’t—
“He’s watching. You know he is.”
My heart stutters, my chest caves, and I nod—I nod—and Viktor lets go as we walk.
The hallway is loud, vibrating under our skates. The Reapers move as one—black and red and teeth. My head’s spinning, but my feet move. Out of the tunnel, into the blinding lights of hell itself.
The arena erupts.
I can’t even hear the music. Just screams—black and red banners waving, Reapers flags flapping, gold flashing from the opposite side of the stands. My name is being screamed from somewhere. And I skate forward, fast and deadly, because this is it.
First period blows open. The puck hits ice and vanishes in the chaos, Viktor slams back into the net, Cole takes the left wing, and I take center like it’s my last breath. We explode across the ice.
Two minutes in, Cole scores and the barn goes nuclear.
Our bench explodes, and I scream so hard my throat burns.
But the Icehawks strike back, coiled and ready; five minutes later, they tie it.
Viktor growls in net, slamming his stick against the post so hard it echoes, and I see it in his eyes—ice-cold, surgical focus settling in.
We circle again. Another shot blocked. Another rebound missed.
The period spirals fast, devolving into a grind where every second feels like teeth, and every shift costs blood.
I skate until my lungs shred, hit until my shoulders go numb, and scream at Steve from the bench—he’s on backup now in case Viktor keels over, and I swear I will die before that happens.
The final shift of the period, I set up Cole again—shot, post, in.
2–1, Reapers.
The buzzer screams. And so do we. We flood off the ice like wolves with blood in our teeth, and the crowd’s still howling like hell opened under them.
One period down, two to go.
I slam onto the bench, heart in my throat, lungs blazing. My fingers tremble as I rip off one glove and grab my phone from the cubby in my stall.
One new message, from him.
That’s my pup. Good boy.
The world stills. I swear I stop breathing for a second. Just stare at the screen like it’ll vanish if I blink. My throat burns, my eyes sting, and I press the phone tight to my chest trying to absorb the words straight into bone.
He’s watching. He saw me. And a slow, feral grin curls across my mouth as I shove my glove back on.
Game on.
We reset, hit the ice. The second period opens like a firestorm. Cole breaks the line, threads the puck to me—shot. Saved. But Mats crashes the crease on the rebound and slams it in.
Goal.
The bench erupts but the Icehawks retaliate fast. They’re moving quicker now, but it’s messy, desperate. They tie it up within minutes, clawing back with everything they’ve got.
We come at them again. I draw defenders like a magnet and drop the puck back. Cole’s already there, hammering it in from the blue line.
3–2.
But these bastards don’t quit. The Hawks come screaming back and score again. By the time the buzzer sounds, it’s a 3–3 tie, and the air is vibrating with tension thick enough to choke on.
Back to war.
I slam down on the bench so hard my stick rattles between my knees. My chest is heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. Beside me, Cole flops into his seat, helmet half off, curls a mess, panting.
I grab his jersey, yank him toward me, and snarl straight into his face, “They’re not taking this from us.”
His eyes flare wide, and then he grins feral and full of fire. “Fuck no, they’re not.”
Mats drops in on Cole’s other side, Viktor stays standing, and Tyler’s pacing like a nervous wreck, muttering something about how he’s never wanted to kill someone with a puck more in his life.
Coach stomps down the aisle behind us, chewing his gum. “Third period’s ours,” he growls. “Go out there and break them.”
I glance up at the jumbotron—final period, tie game. One more shot. One last twenty minutes. Win it here… or lose everything.
I close my eyes for a second. Come on, Cap. Watch me. Watch me make you proud.
The third period opens and the Icehawks hit the ice like they’ve already won.
I see it in the way they move—tight, arrogant, smug bastards skating like they think we’re going to roll over and let them take the Cup.
And for a second, the Reapers aren’t fast enough.
The puck slips through our line, gets dumped to their winger, and he launches it.
It hits net.
It hits the fucking net.
4–3.
My stomach caves in.
The barn explodes in gold jerseys jumping, screaming, pounding against the boards. I can’t hear. My legs are stone.
No. I will not lose this game. I will not lose this Cup.
I skate so hard my blades carve trenches.
I hunt the puck. I slash through their defense.
Cole sees me and feeds me the pass clean across the crease.
I grab it, one beat and no hesitation, and shoot as the puck flies top right past the glove and into the net with a sound that splits the world in two—4–4.
The scream that rips out of me is primal. I throw my arms up, Cole tackles me into the boards, and we both go down in a heap of gear, snarling and laughing and losing our goddamn minds.
The Reapers surge off the bench, and the barn goes feral. Sixty seconds. That’s all that’s left on the clock when I skate to the bench and yell, “TIME OUT!” Coach is already hurling his clipboard, and everyone’s panting, eyes wide, hearts thundering in their chests.
I find Viktor and grab him by the shoulder. “I need you with me.”
His eyes are calm, deadly, already locked in. “We pull the goalie,” he says like it’s law. “I’ll be there. You just win the faceoff.”
I nod once, sharp and fast. Then we’re back on the ice—six against five.
The announcer’s voice crackles through the arena: “The Reapers have pulled their goalie—six attackers on the ice now. Ladies and gentlemen, buckle the fuck up.”
The crowd loses it, screaming so loud the glass shakes as Viktor waits at the blue line, Cole at my side, Mats, Tyler, and Coach all yelling from behind the bench. I drop into position. The ref drops the puck—and I win it.
It turns into a goddamn brawl for control.
I take the faceoff but barely keep the puck before one of the Hawks slams into me, sending me crashing into the boards hard enough to make my ears ring.
I don’t go down. I lock my grip on my stick, keep my eyes on the puck, and refuse to stop even when he tries to pin me there.
Then Viktor appears like a demon in red and black and rips the guy off me, hurling him aside. “GO!” Viktor roars.
I shove off the glass, stumble, spin and see Cole. I pass and he takes off, skating hard and fast, fluid as water, dodging one, two, three Hawks like he’s dancing through traffic. Mats slides into position, tapping his stick once—Cole sends it flying.
I bolt.
Skates screaming and lungs shredding, every muscle burning like I’m made of fire as Mats sees me and flicks the puck clean and perfect into my path and I catch it, with no time to think before I shoot and it hits, net, and the horn explodes.
I don’t even hear it at first—not over my own scream, so raw my throat tears. I slam my stick down, throw my head back and roar because we did it, WE FUCKING DID IT—
Suddenly the weight hits me. Cole’s first, tackling me from behind. Mats piles on. Then Tyler. Then everyone. Viktor’s there, snarling and smiling, and Coach is screaming from the bench like he’s been possessed by Satan and it’s beautiful.
The crowd goes feral.