17. Chapter 17 #2
Cole is still glaring daggers at the kid, chest rising and falling like he is two seconds away from throwing something else. I reach out without thinking, resting my hand on the back of his neck, thumb brushing lightly over his skin in silent reassurance.
However, Cole steps forward, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed into something sharp and dangerous I have rarely seen on him.
“Touch him and I’ll break every finger on that pretty hand of yours, Bellamy,” Cole says, low and venomous.
“And then I’ll make sure you never see another shift on this ice. Stay the fuck away from what’s mine.”
I stare at Cole in pure disbelief. This is not the playful, chirpy Hollywood I know.
This is raw, ugly possessiveness, the kind I never expected from him.
He looks ready to actually fight the rookie right here in front of everyone.
My chest tightens with a strange mix of shock and heat.
He has never been like this before. Not over me.
Elias is staring too, but his expression is pure amusement, like he is watching his favorite show. Damian pinches the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted.
“Jesus Christ,” Zara mutters under her breath.
“Enough,” Damian barks, voice cutting through the tension like a whip. “Bellamy, keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the game. Vance, save the territory marking for after we win. Everyone — tunnel. Now. Let’s remind these bastards why they lost last season.”
The team starts moving, the rookies looking properly cowed as they file toward the tunnel.
Nico gives Cole one last wary look before hurrying after the others.
I stay close to Cole’s side as we walk, my hand brushing the small of his back.
He is still vibrating with leftover aggression, his eyes flicking toward Nico like he is not done yet.
I lean down slightly, so only he can hear. “Possessive looks good on you.”
Cole huffs, but I catch the way his shoulders relax just a fraction at my touch. The arena noise is already growing louder as we approach the ice.
The game starts exactly as it always does against the Halifax Icehawks — aggressive, bitter, and playoff-level nasty from the opening faceoff.
Nico’s smug little flirtation in the locker room lit a fire under my right winger that has not gone out.
Cole is playing like a man possessed. The vets take the opening shift: Elias at center, Cole on the right wing, Tyler on the left, me and Mats on defense, and Shane in net. The moment the puck drops, it is war.
Elias wins the draw clean and we surge forward.
Cole is already flying, curls visible under his helmet as he streaks down the wing, stickhandling through their defense like they are standing still.
I pinch up from the blue line, keeping their winger pinned while Mats covers the middle.
Tyler makes a smart play, cycling the puck low, and feeds it back to Elias, who draws two defenders before sliding a perfect pass across to Cole.
Cole does not hesitate. He rips a wicked wrist shot top shelf, bar down, glove side. The red light flashes. The goal horn blares. We are up 1-0 in under five minutes.
Elias throws his arms up and crashes into Cole near the boards, screaming praise loud enough for the whole arena to hear.
“That’s my fucking winger, baby! Let’s go, Hollywood!
” He is chirping the Icehawks the entire time, skating past their bench with that feral smirk.
“What’s the matter? Still crying about last season?
Keep coming, we’ll send you home sad again! ”
Cole is lit up, feeding off Elias’s energy like it is rocket fuel.
The goal only makes him more dangerous. He is everywhere — backchecking hard, throwing hits, chirping right back at anyone in white and navy who dares look at him wrong.
Every time an Icehawk gets too close, Cole meets them with aggression that borders on reckless.
I stay glued to his side on the ice, shadowing him, making sure no one touches what is mine.
The Halifax crowd is already booing. Their players are getting frustrated, sticks getting higher, hits getting dirtier. But we are clicking. Elias and Cole are in sync in that terrifying way only they can be, and Tyler is keeping up better than expected.
During the next line change, I glide over the boards and drop onto the bench beside Cole, both of us breathing hard after a long shift.
Most of the rookies are out on the ice now, trying to hold the lead we just built, but Roman and Nico are still on the bench with us.
Nico, to his credit, looks properly chastised as he leans forward and tries to make amends.
“Hey, man… Cole, Petrov,” he starts, softer than usual, clearly trying to smooth things over. “I didn’t mean anything by it earlier. Just messing around. No hard feelings, right?”
Cole does not even look at him at first. He just glares daggers across the bench, sweat dripping down his temple.
When he speaks, his voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
“Keep your ‘messing around’ to yourself, Bellamy. Next time you flirt with my boyfriend in front of the whole fucking team, I won’t just throw tape at you.
I’ll make sure you need dental work after the game. ”
Nico winces, trying again. “Look, I didn’t know you two were—”
“Save it,” Cole cuts him off, still glaring. “You saw the way he looks at me and decided to test it anyway. Rookie mistake. Don’t make it again.”
I stay silent, elbows on my knees, watching the exchange with satisfaction.
There is something darkly pleasurable about seeing Cole this possessive, this mean on my behalf.
He has always been loud and chaotic, but this protective edge is new.
And I like it more than I probably should.
My hand finds his thigh, giving it a slow, grounding squeeze.
Cole doesn’t look at me, but he leans into the touch slightly, still glaring holes through poor Nico.
Roman, sitting a few seats down, is doing his best impression of someone who is very focused on re-taping his stick, clearly wanting no part of whatever this is.
Nico eventually mutters another weak apology and turns his attention back to the ice. I keep my hand on Cole’s leg, thumb stroking lightly over his pad, secretly enjoying every second of his lingering glare. My little magpie has claws after all.
The game stays brutal, exactly as expected against the Icehawks.
They are physical, angry, and looking for any opportunity to punish us for last season.
But our goaltender is a wall tonight. Shane makes a massive save halfway through the first period — sprawling across the crease to rob their star center on a one-timer that should have been a goal.
The rebound kicks out dangerously, but the rookies swarm it.
Jace battles along the boards like a man possessed, wins the puck, and feeds a clean pass up to Elias streaking through the neutral zone.
Elias does not waste it. He takes one touch, dekes the defenseman, and rifles it top shelf. The red light flashes. 2-0 Reapers.
“Yeah!! That’s my curls!! GO KADE!!” Cole shrieks from the bench, jumping up and slamming his glove against the boards, pure joy and chaos radiating off him.
On the ice, Elias skates toward our bench with that feral smirk splitting his face and takes a dramatic, theatrical bow — one arm sweeping low like some kind of performer.
He definitely learned that shit from Cole.
The guys on the ice pile in for fist bumps and helmet taps, the bench erupting in celebration as Elias glides past, pointing straight at Cole with a loud laugh.
I allow myself a small smile, watching the way Cole beams like he just scored the goal himself. My hand finds the back of his neck again, squeezing once in silent approval. He leans into it without thinking, still shouting encouragement as the next shift jumps over the boards.
The Icehawks manage to claw one back early in the second period on a lucky deflection, making it 2-1. Their crowd roars back to life, but Damian is a force on the bench beside us, shouting orders with that commanding growl that cuts through the noise.
“Pressure high! Jace, tighter gaps! Mats, watch the back door! Cole, stop floating and get back into the play!” His voice is hoarse from yelling over the crowd, his bad leg clearly bothering him in the cold arena, but he does not sit down once.
Elias keeps glancing toward him between shifts, protective even in the middle of the game.