17. Chapter 17
Aweek has passed since I brought Cole home, and somehow the world has not ended.
We have fallen into a strange, addictive rhythm — stolen kisses in dark corners of the arena, his body under mine every night, the quiet ritual of me taking out his piercing before practice and games and putting it back in after.
It still feels unreal most days. Like I am waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But right now, we are in the guest locker room in Halifax, facing the Icehawks — the same team that lost the Cup to us last season and has been bitter about it ever since.
Every game against them feels like playoffs.
They play angry. They play mean. And tonight will be no different.
Cole is standing right in front of me, his helmet off, mouth open with his tongue sticking out like an impatient child. The silver barbell glints under the locker room lights as I try to unscrew it. He is supposed to be quiet and cooperative. Of course he is not.
Instead, he is chirping Elias mercilessly, words slightly slurred around his outstretched tongue. “C’mon, Curls, you gonna cry if I score tonight? Gonna run to your husband and tell him the big bad Hollywood hurt your feelings again?”
“Stop talking, soroka,” I hiss under my breath, trying to focus on the tiny screw. My fingers are too big for this delicate work, but I refuse to let anyone else touch him like this.
Cole just grins wider around his tongue and keeps going. “You know you love me, Captain. Admit it. You missed me while I was gone. You were probably stress-baking with Damian like a sad little househusband—”
From a few stalls away, Roman lets out a loud, involuntary “Awww,” his Russian ears clearly catching the nickname. The kid knows exactly what soroka means. Several heads turn.
I snap my gaze toward him, glaring hard enough that Roman immediately shrinks, suddenly finding his skates the most fascinating thing in the entire universe. He ducks his head and starts fiddling with his laces like his life depends on it. Smart boy.
Cole, the little shit, laughs — the sound vibrating against my fingers as I manage to remove the piercing. I slip the barbell into my glove for safekeeping, then gently grip his jaw, tilting his face up so he meets my eyes.
“Behave,” I murmur, low enough that only he can hear. My thumb brushes his bottom lip once, a silent promise of what is waiting for him after the game.
Cole’s eyes darken, but the mischievous glint stays.
He is going to be impossible tonight. “Yes, daddy,” Cole teases, his tongue still slightly out even after I removed the piercing.
He knows exactly what that word does to me.
My hand tightens on his face for half a second, eyes narrowing in warning, but before I can say anything the locker room door swings open.
Zara and Damian walk in together, both wearing grim expressions that instantly kill the lingering chirps and laughter. The shift in energy is immediate. Everyone straightens up.
“Alright, listen up!” Damian barks, his voice cutting through the room. The cane thuds once against the floor for emphasis as he plants himself near the center, sweeping over all of us with that terrifying coach authority.
Zara steps forward, tablet in hand. “We’ve got a situation with the local media and fans here in Halifax,” she says, crisp and professional but edged with clear frustration.
“The rumors are getting ugly. There’s noise that the Reapers cheated last season to win the Cup — doctored stats, biased reffing, the usual conspiracy bullshit.
They’re also dragging up the footage of Cole punching Viktor again and pairing it with old photos of Cole and Alex.
The narrative is that there’s major team dysfunction, that Hollywood is unstable, and that the organization is falling apart.
So tonight, keep your heads. Play clean.
No reacting to provocation. Especially you, Vance — do not give them any more ammunition. ”
Cole, of course, is only half listening. He is standing right next to me, phone already out, filming some damn TikTok like we are not in the middle of a serious briefing. I watch him angle the camera, lips moving silently as he starts recording whatever chaos he is planning.
I slap him upside the head firm enough to make my point. “Pay attention,” I mutter.
Cole yelps, rubbing the back of his head and shooting me a betrayed glare, but he lowers the phone, grumbling under his breath. Around us, a few of the guys snicker. Zara gives me a small nod of thanks while Damian just sighs like he is already exhausted by all of us.
The rumors do not surprise me. Halifax has been salty since we took the Cup from them.
But the part about Cole and Alex makes something ugly twist in my gut.
They still do not know about us. The team does, but the outside world has no idea.
And I am not sure how long that will last once we step onto the ice tonight.
After Zara finishes laying out the media minefield, Damian steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane for a moment before setting it against the wall with a quiet thud.
The room falls into focused silence. Even Cole stops fidgeting beside me, though I can still feel the restless energy vibrating off him.
“Alright,” Damian says as he gestures to the whiteboard where he has already scribbled lines and matchups.
“These bastards are still pissed about last season. They’re going to come out swinging, looking for blood.
We play smart, not reactive. Elias, you and Cole run the first line like we practiced.
Keep the speed up, force them to chase. Viktor, you and Mats shut down their top pair.
I want physical but clean. No penalties unless they earn it. ”
Elias, already wearing his captain jersey, moves to stand beside his husband, nodding seriously as he points at a few notes on the board.
“We exploit their left side. Their new D-man is slow on the transition. If we cycle the puck down low, we can wear them out early.” He glances at Damian, his eyes narrowing with concern as he watches the older man shift his weight.
Without hesitation, Elias reaches out and gently touches the small of Damian’s back.
“Sir, you should sit. Your leg’s been killing you since we landed. It’s too cold out there.”
Damian huffs, but there is no real bite in it. “I’m fine, pup. It’s December, what do you expect? The leg’s just stiff. I’ve played through worse.”
“Yeah, and look where that got you last season,” Elias mutters, fussing anyway. He adjusts the sleeve of Damian’s hoodie like it personally offends him, then slides a folding chair closer with his foot. “At least sit while you finish the briefing. I can take over the rest if you need me to.”
The rest of the room pretends not to notice the domestic display, but I catch a few soft smiles and knowing looks.
Damian rolls his eyes but eventually lowers himself into the chair with a barely-hidden grimace.
His bad leg is clearly giving him more trouble than usual — the cold weather always makes the injury flare up worse.
It has not been that long since the crash.
He is still healing, even if he refuses to admit it.
“Elias’ right about their transition game,” Damian continues, nodding at Elias with clear pride. “Pressure them high. Force turnovers. And Cole—” His eyes pin our right winger. “Keep the chirping to a minimum. I mean it.”
Cole opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but thinks better of it when both Damian and Elias glare at him. I hide my smirk by looking down at my gloves.
Damian continues the briefing, turning his attention to the rookies with the same no-nonsense intensity he gives the rest of us.
“Bellamy, Moreno — you two are going to see heavy minutes tonight. Stay tight on their forecheck. Do not give them space in the neutral zone. Jace, watch your gaps. They’re fast and they’re pissed.
They want to prove something after we took the Cup from them last season.
” He looks at Shane, who is already half-dressed in his gear.
“Shane’s in net tonight. We’re reminding these suckers exactly why we won last year.
A rookie in net against this team is not ideal, even if said rookie played in the KHL. We play like champions. Understood?”
The rookies nod quickly, looking equal parts excited and terrified. The tension in the room is thick — Halifax always brings out the worst in everyone, especially this early in the season when the memory of the Cup Final is still fresh for them.
I am adjusting my pads when Nico Bellamy, the pretty, smug rookie left winger, suddenly appears beside me. He leans against the stall next to mine, flashing that cocky little smile that makes half the league want to punch him.
“Hey, Petrov,” he says, deliberately flirtatious. “You know, I’ve been watching your tape. That shutdown defense is impressive… but I wouldn’t mind seeing what else those hands can do off the ice sometime.”
Several things happen at once.
Cole’s arm snaps back and he hurls a full roll of tape across the room with surprising force.
It smacks Nico square in the shoulder hard enough to make the rookie wince.
My eyebrows shoot up at the sheer audacity of the kid flirting with me right here, right now.
Elias gapes from across the room, mouth actually open in disbelief.
Damian snorts loudly, clearly fighting a laugh.
Zara can already see the PR nightmare forming.
And the rest of the team goes dead silent.
“Read the room, rookie…” Mats huffs from his stall, shaking his head.
Nico rubs his shoulder, still wearing that smug grin even as he glances between me and Cole like he is starting to realize he might have fucked up. I do not say a word. I just stare at him until he looks away, suddenly very interested in his own gloves.