Hold the Line (The Reapers #3)

1. Chapter 1

The ice feels alive under my skates, that sharp, crisp bite that always sends electricity crawling up my spine.

October air hangs heavy in the arena, cold enough to sting my lungs every time I push hard, but inside my chest it’s pure fire.

We’re deep into a full practice—lines rolling, drills stacking on top of each other like Damian’s trying to break us before the next road trip even starts.

Sweat’s already soaking through my undershirt, my curls sticking to my forehead under the helmet, and I’m grinning like an idiot because this is exactly where I belong.

“Yo, Jace!” I call out, echoing across the sheet as I glide backward on my blades, stick loose in my gloves.

The rookie defenseman—Jace Moreno, golden retriever energy trapped in a six-foot-two body—looks up at me with that wide-eyed, eager-to-please expression that makes him impossible not to fuck with.

“You skating like that or are you just auditioning for the Zamboni driver position? Move your fucking feet, Texas!”

Jace laughs, a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the grind of blades and barked instructions. He’s still got that fresh-faced rookie glow, cheeks flushed from the effort, but he’s improving fast. “I’m trying, Hollywood! Some of us weren’t born with rocket boosters in our skates!”

“Excuses!” I fire back, tapping my stick against the ice and circling him like a shark. “My grandma could keep up with you and she’s been dead six years. Pick it up or I’m telling Shane to paint a sad little puppy on your locker!”

The rest of the guys on the ice chuckle. Elias skates past with that feral grin splitting his face. “Leave the kid alone, Hollywood. Not everyone can chirp and skate at the same time like you.”

“Bullshit, Captain Pretty Boy,” I shoot back, flipping him off with my gloved hand. “You just don’t want me corrupting your new favorite puppy.”

Before Elias can retort, the whistle cuts through the air like a gunshot.

Damian Kade stands behind the bench, arms crossed, that cane leaning against the boards beside him like a silent threat.

Even with the bad leg from the crash last season, he looks every inch the menace he’s always been—maybe more now that it’s official.

No more unofficial coach energy. He’s Coach Kade, and somehow that’s made him even fucking worse.

His heterochromatic eyes scan the ice like he’s calculating exactly how many suicides we’re about to run because we’re breathing too loud.

“Vance!” His voice booms across the rink, the kind that makes rookies straighten up instantly. “Stop distracting my defenseman and get your ass in position. We’re not running a goddamn comedy club out here.”

I spin toward the bench, flashing my brightest, most shit-eating grin even though my ribs are still aching from yesterday’s battle drills. “Aw, come on, Coach. I’m just building team morale! Jace was looking a little sad. Needed some enrichment.”

Damian’s scarred mouth doesn’t even twitch. He levels me with a stare that could freeze the ice harder. “Enrichment is for dogs, Vance. You want to play games? You can lead bag skates after practice. How’s that for morale?”

Elias, the traitor, snorts from center ice, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief as he glances at his husband.

I catch the way Damian’s gaze softens—just a fraction—when it lands on Elias, but it snaps right back to steel when it returns to me.

The man is terrifying. Even with the cane, even retired from playing, he’s somehow meaner now.

Like all that pent-up captain energy has an official outlet and we’re all just collateral damage.

Viktor skates past me on the blue line, massive and quiet as always, his eyes flicking my way for half a second. No words. Just that heavy, observant weight that always lands somewhere behind my ribs.

“Focus, Hollywood,” Mats calls from the other side, that easy Miami charm in his voice even while he’s dripping sweat. Shane’s in net muttering to his crossbar like usual, and Tyler Brooks is doing his awkward best to keep up on the wing, looking slightly overwhelmed but determined.

I bite back another chirp and drop into position, but my mouth is still running on autopilot. “Yes, sir, Coach Kade, sir. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the legend.”

Damian’s whistle blasts again—two short, angry bursts. “Line up. Again. And if I see anyone half-assing this next drill, you’re all doing suicides until someone pukes. Mercer, set the pace.”

Elias nods, instantly shifting into captain mode, but I catch the quick look he throws back at Damian—the way his expression softens with that quiet worry when he notices the way Coach is favoring his bad leg today.

Elias fusses over him constantly now, especially on days like this when the injury flares up.

It’s disgustingly domestic and I love it and hate it at the same time.

We run the drill hard. Bodies crashing, sticks clacking, pucks flying. I thread a perfect pass to Elias, who buries it glove-side, and I whoop loud enough for the empty seats to hear. But every time I open my mouth to keep the energy up, Damian’s glare cuts through me like a blade.

Practice drags on like Damian’s personally offended by the concept of mercy today. The whistle blasts again, and I watch as he leans heavier on that cane behind the boards. He’s been ripping into every little mistake with that terrifying calm precision that makes even the vets nervous.

“Vance, if you’re done playing social director, get your head in the fucking drill,” he barks across the ice. “Moreno, tighter gaps or I’ll skate you until your legs fall off. Mercer—pace them, don’t baby them.”

I glide up beside Elias during the next water break, who's pouting every time Damian calls him Mercer even though they're married. The rain’s pounding against the arena roof like it’s trying to drown us all.

“What’s up with him?” I mutter, jerking my chin toward Damian.

“He’s been an absolute menace since we stepped on the ice.

Even meaner than usual, and that’s saying something now that it’s official. ”

Elias wipes his face with the bottom of his jersey, those green eyes flicking toward his husband with a mix of fondness and calculation. “It’s raining,” he says simply, like that explains everything. “His leg’s bothering him.”

I snort. Of course. The man could coach through a hurricane and still look like he wants to murder the puck. Before I can say anything else, Elias, the little shit, skates straight toward the bench with that feral, trouble-making grin plastered across his face.

“Coach,” he calls out, voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness as he leans on the boards right in front of Damian.

“You look tense. Want me to come over there and help you loosen up? I’ve got some real good ideas for post-practice recovery.

Private session. Just you, me, and that fancy office of yours. ”

Everyone goes quiet for half a second. Mats chokes on his water. Shane, who’s already looking a little blue around the gills from the brutal conditioning, mutters something that sounds like a prayer under his breath. Even Viktor pauses mid-stride on the blue line, his eyes narrowing.

Damian’s stare doesn’t waver, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Mercer. Save the bedroom eyes for after I’m done working your ass into the ground. Back on the line. Now.”

Elias doesn’t back down. He bats his lashes like some kind of deranged golden retriever in heat.

“C’mon, sir. The boys are dying out here.

Shane’s turning the same color as the visitor jerseys.

One more drill and we’re gonna lose our goalie to hypothermia.

I could warm you up real nice if you let us off early… ”

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. The audacity of that married man is unmatched. Damian pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly fighting the losing battle between coach-mode and husband-mode, before blowing the whistle twice.

“Fine. Hit the showers. But tomorrow we’re doubling the bag skates. And Mercer—if you flirt with me on my ice again, I’ll make you lead them.”

Elias beams like he just won the Cup. “Yes, sir.”

We skate off the ice in a chaotic wave of exhausted bodies and clattering sticks. The second we push through the locker room door, the tension breaks.

“Goddamn, Curls,” I groan, shoving Elias’s shoulder as I drop onto the bench in front of my stall. “You absolute whore. Using sex to end practice? That’s a new low, even for you.”

Elias laughs, already peeling off his jersey. “Worked, didn’t it? You were out here chirping rookies like it was stand-up comedy night while the rest of us were dying. Don’t act like you weren’t grateful.”

“Please. I was providing essential emotional support. Jace needed it. Kid’s got zero chill.” I yank my own jersey off, tossing it into my stall. “Meanwhile you’re out here eye-fucking your husband in front of God and everybody. Married life looks good on you, Captain Slut.”

“Shut the fuck up, Hollywood,” Elias fires back, grinning as he throws a balled-up sock at my head. “At least I have someone to eye-fuck. Last I checked, your right hand was filing a complaint about overtime.”

I catch the sock and whip it right back at him. “My right hand has better chemistry with me than half the league has with their significant others. Besides, I’m selective. Not everyone can handle all this.”

The locker room door swings open again and everyone freezes mid-motion—except Damian, who just watches like he expected this.

A woman steps inside, sharp eyeliner, sharper posture, dark hair pulled back neatly.

She’s wearing a crisp blazer and carrying a tablet, looking completely unfazed by the half-naked hockey players and the smell of sweat and gear.

Damian straightens, leaning lightly on his cane. “Boys. This is Zara Reyes. New PR and media coordinator. I hired her personally. She’ll be handling press, socials, and making sure you idiots don’t tank your own images every time you open your mouths.”

Zara’s gaze sweeps the room once, calm and assessing, like she’s already cataloging every single one of us. A small, professional smile curves her lips. “Pleasure to meet you all. Try not to make my job impossible on day one.”

The entire locker room freezes like someone hit pause on a shitty reality show.

Half the guys are still mid-strip, jerseys hanging off shoulders, pads half-unlaced, sweat dripping onto the floor.

Tyler’s got one skate off and is staring like he’s never seen a woman in his life.

Jace looks equal parts starstruck and terrified.

Even Elias has gone suspiciously quiet, his eyes flicking between Zara and Damian with that mischievous little smirk he gets when he smells chaos.

Zara stands there perfectly composed, one eyebrow arched just slightly as she takes in the scene. The silence stretches, thick and awkward, broken only by the distant hum of the arena’s ventilation system and the occasional drip of melting ice from someone’s gear.

Then Viktor groans from his stall a few feet away. The sound rumbles deep in his massive chest like distant thunder.

“Stop acting like children who have never seen a woman before,” he says, dripping with pure Russian exhaustion. He doesn’t even look up from where he’s methodically peeling tape off his stick. “She is here to work. Not to watch you idiots drool.”

And so, the spell breaks. Shane barks out a laugh that turns into a cough, Mats grins like Christmas came early, and I can’t help the wide, shit-eating smile that splits across my face.

“Damn, Petrov,” I call out, loud enough to cut through the sudden noise as everyone starts moving again. “Didn’t know you had it in you to be the voice of reason. Usually you just brood in the corner looking like you want to commit murder with a soup spoon.”

Viktor’s eyes flick toward me for half a second before he goes back to his gear. Classic. One sentence and then radio silence. But that look? It lingers somewhere under my skin the way it always does.

Zara’s lips twitch into something that might actually be amusement.

“Appreciate the assist,” she says dryly, glancing at Viktor before turning her attention back to the room at large.

“Like Coach Kade said, I’m Zara Reyes. I’ll be managing media relations, social content, interview prep, and damage control when any of you decide to go viral for the wrong reasons.

” Her sharp gaze lands on me specifically for a beat. “That means you, Hollywood.”

I press a hand to my chest like she’s wounded me. “Me? I’m an angel. Pure content gold.”

Elias snorts from his stall, yanking his compression shirt off and tossing it at me. “Angel my ass. Last week you posted that TikTok of Shane trying to summon demons in net and it got three million views. We’re still getting emails about it.”

“That was quality entertainment,” I shoot back, dodging the sweaty shirt and flicking it right back at him. “You’re just mad because your thirst trap pics with the Cup only got half that. Married life making you soft, Kade?”

“Keep running your mouth and I’ll show you soft,” Elias fires back with a wicked grin, but there’s no heat in it. Just the easy, familiar rhythm we’ve had since we met—best friends who chirp each other harder than any opponent.

Damian clears his throat from where he’s leaning against the wall, his cane planted firmly beside him.

“Enough. Reyes is off-limits for your bullshit. Treat her with respect or you’ll answer to me.

And trust me, you don’t want that right now.

” His eyes sweep the room, lingering just a second longer on Elias, who gives him an innocent little smile that fools absolutely no one.

Zara nods once, professional mask firmly in place. “I’ll be observing for the next few weeks, sitting in on practices, traveling with the team. Any questions, bring them to me directly. I don’t bite… unless you give me a reason to.”

Mats straightens up a little too fast, flashing that effortless Miami charm. “No biting necessary. We’re all very well-behaved.”

I bark out a laugh. “Speak for yourself, Rivera.”

The locker room starts filling with the usual post-practice noise—gear clattering, showers turning on, guys chirping and shoving each other.

But underneath it all, I can feel the shift.

New PR means new eyes on us. New rules. And with Damian already in full menace mode because of the rain and his leg, this season is shaping up to be a special kind of circus.

I look toward Viktor again. He’s still quiet, methodically organizing his stall, but I swear I catch him watching the whole scene with that hyper-observant intensity that always makes my stomach do stupid fucking flips.