18. Damien
18
DAMIEN
“ M om,” Willow whines, pulling off her knitted hat and placing it on her mother’s head. “The doctors said you were doing better—not that you should tempt fate and get a cold.”
Octavia sighs, removing the hat and placing it on Willow’s head. “And your doctors said you were perfectly healthy—not that you should be partially naked in an ice rink.”
Willow snorts, crossing her arms over my jersey, which she wears with a white hoodie underneath and thigh high suede boots that I am going to make her wear when she hops on my dick later. Nothing else, just those boots, or maybe I should fuck her in nothing but my jersey. I’ll just do both, first jersey and boots then just boots. Yeah sounds perfect to me.
“Ladies, ladies.” I smile, sliding a wool hat out of my pocket and handing it to Octivia. “There are enough hats to go around.”
Octivia takes the hat and slides it on her head. “And this is why Damien is my favorite.”
“Oh yeah?” Willow challenges, giving me a sinister look before continuing to speak. “Did I ever tell you about his ex-”
I wrap my hand quickly around her mouth, a large smile on my face as I pull her against my chest. “You have the tickets right? I just want to steal our little troublemaker for a few minutes.”
Octavia smirks. “By all means go. I finally have an appetite for a hotdog.”
Octavia lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she turns to walk toward the hotdog stand, her boots clicking on the ice. “I’ll be right back, you two lovebirds, don’t get too cozy,” she calls over her shoulder, a teasing grin on her face.
I watch her go, but my attention is quickly stolen by Willow, who’s still in my arms. She gives me one last look of mock exasperation before her lips curl into something more mischievous. Without warning, she sinks her teeth into the palm of my hand.
I freeze, a sharp inhale escaping me from the sudden bite. "Ow, seriously?" I grunt, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous she’s being. But there’s something about the way she does it, with just a little too much bite to it, that makes my pulse quicken.
Willow pulls away, smirking at the faint marks left on my hand. “You deserved it,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes like she's the one in control here.
I narrow my eyes, fighting the grin pulling at my lips. “You’re really gonna regret that.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” she says with a shrug, clearly amused by herself. “I bet you love the idea of me biting you. ”
Before I can respond, I lean down, my lips hovering dangerously close to her ear. “I’ll bite you back,” I whisper, my tone low, just for her.
She shudders slightly, but her smirk remains. "Promises, promises," she quips.
She turns to walk away, but I grab her by the waist and pin her against the wall, lowering my lips to her ear. “Do you need a permanent reminder of how well I keep my promises?”
She pouts. “I may forget.”
I snarl and without another word I sink my teeth into the soft flesh, the slight sting of the bite followed by the warm pressure of my lips as I suck the bruise into place.
Willow gasps, her body stiffening for a moment before she shudders against me, her hands pressing into my chest as if to push me away—though I can tell she doesn’t want to. The mixture of pleasure and discomfort is too much for her to hide, her chest rising and falling with every shallow breath.
"Damien," she whispers, a little breathless now, her voice trembling. "You’re impossible."
I pull back slightly, letting her catch her breath, but I’m not finished. I trace the spot I just marked with my fingers, my eyes never leaving hers. "Next time I do that it’ll be on your chest, then your thighs and finally your sweet fucking pussy." I say softly, my lips curling into a grin.
Her eyes darken, her lips parting as if to say something else, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, caught in the moment, a mix of frustration and undeniable desire flashing in her eyes.
“Now go upstairs and go be my good luck charm,” I whisper against her lips .
“Damien-” she whimpers.
“Don’t make me have to tell you twice,” I snarl and she whimpers like I just told her I love her. Damn this girl will be the fucking end of me.
“Good luck, Damien,” she smiles, placing a chaste kiss on my lips, before sliding from between the wall and my body.
The adrenaline is already pumping through my veins, a rush of anticipation for the game ahead. But as I stand there, I can’t shake the lingering image of Willow’s lips against mine, her scent still clinging to me. That kiss... it wasn’t enough. Nothing with her ever is.
I pull my jersey over my head as I walk into the locker room, the hum of the fluorescent lights doing little to ease the tension coursing through me. The sound of laughter and banter fills the air as Nash and the others prep for the game. I try to focus, my mind still a little clouded by the thoughts of her.
Nash spots me the second I step inside, a grin spreading across his face. "The prodigal son has returned!"
I grunt, tossing my bag into my locker without a word. "Shut up, Nash."
Hayden sighs, glancing at me. "Never leave again, man. We've been on the worst losing streak of our fucking lives."
I roll my eyes as I start pulling on my gear. "Maybe you all should work harder instead of waiting for me to bail you out."
"Rude!" Nash gasps, hand clutching his chest like I just insulted his mother. "Monroe, can you believe this guy?"
Monroe chuckles from across the room. "We’ve always known Damien's a cocky bastard. "
"Always will be," I mutter under my breath, tightening the straps of my pads. "Now, no one else gets hurt tonight. Everyone gets their head in the game. Puck on the ice."
The guys cheer and bang their sticks, but I barely look up, already lost in the focus I need to get the job done.
The arena lights hit differently tonight. Brighter, somehow. More intense. I squint as I step onto the ice, my skates catching the surface with that familiar cutting sound I've missed for weeks. The doctor said I was cleared to play, but warned me to "ease back in." Whatever that means in hockey.
My teammates tap their sticks on the ice as I make my way to the bench. Coach Dixon nods, a hint of concern behind his eyes. "You good, Damien?"
"Yeah. Good to go."
The familiar weight of my helmet presses against my temples. Last time I wore it, I woke up staring at fluorescent hospital lights, team doctor leaning over me asking how many fingers he was holding up. I couldn't tell him. Couldn't remember the hit either. Just fragments: the cold ice against my cheek, the tunnel of voices fading in and out.
First shift. My heart pounds as I hop over the boards. The noise of the crowd seems to ripple through my body. Everything feels sharper, more immediate. My breath fogs in front of my face mask.
"And in goal, returning after sixteen weeks, number thirty- five, DAMIEN STERLING!"
The crowd erupts, but each cheer feels like a needle in my skull. I raise my stick in acknowledgment, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on my shoulders.
“We heard he took a nasty fall,” one announcer says.
“He did, during preseason and missed the first month of the season,” another announcer answers.
“Wow, down in September and joining us back in December.” The first announcer whistles. “That's a long break.”
“Thank God the season is nine months long, he’ll make a comeback.” The second announcer says in encouragement.
The referee drops the puck. Game on.
First shot comes two minutes in—a soft wrister from the blue line. I track it easily, absorb it into my chest protector. The routine of it feels good. Natural.
"Nice save, Dames," Monroe shouts, collecting the rebound.
Then it happens. Opposing team on a rush. Forward cuts to the net, defenseman chasing. They're coming in fast—too fast. Bodies heading straight for my crease.
My heart slams against my ribs. Sweat pours beneath my mask. The arena spins around me. I see it all again—the shot, the hospital, the weeks in dark rooms, the splitting headaches.
The forward crashes into my crease, jostling me as he's checked from behind. It's a normal hockey play, the kind that happens a dozen times a game. But not today. Not to me.
I'm on my knees, but not in the butterfly position I've perfected over years. I'm crumpled, gasping for air that won't come. My chest is impossibly tight. The sound of the crowd distorts, becomes a roaring in my ears. I can't focus. Can't breathe.
The whistle blows. Play stops.
"Timeout, timeout!" someone yells, but it sounds distant, muffled.
My mask is suffocating me. I rip it off, gulping air that doesn't satisfy the burning in my lungs. Three thousand people watching as I fall apart in my crease.
My coach is suddenly there, crouching beside me. "Damien, talk to me. What's happening?"
I can't answer. My vision tunnels. The ice beneath me seems to tilt and shift. This can't be happening. Not here. Not now.
"Fuck--" My voice breaks.
I push myself up on shaky legs and start skating. Not toward the bench, but toward the exit. Someone calls my name, but I don't stop. My equipment feels massive now, weighing me down, drowning me.
My skates hit the rubber flooring at the gate. I push past a surprised arena attendant, through the tunnel toward the locker room.
The fluorescent lights of the hallway flicker like the hospital. Like the concussion tests. Like the MRI machine. Each step is another admission of failure.
I burst into the empty locker room and collapse onto the bench. My hands shake so violently I can't even begin to remove my leg pads.
She closes the door and leans against it. “And you’re not supposed to be getting undressed. ”
I glare at her, the frustration bubbling up. “I fucked up. I can’t do this and you don’t get it.” I throw my jersey into my bag and slam the locker shut.
She steps closer, a challenging look on her face. “Don’t do this, Damien. You’re better than this. You can’t just quit.”
“I’m not quitting!” I snap, spinning around to face her, my voice rising.
“You’re angry?” She seethes, moving closer to me with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. “Fine, get angry.”
She picks up a water bottle from the bench and throws it across the room, the plastic crashing against the wall. Next, her bag hits the floor with a loud thud, followed by someone’s shoe, both landing with force.
I take a step forward, both hands up.. “What the hell are you doing?”
She doesn’t stop. She throws someone else’s shoe, her phone, kicks over a chair—all of it, one after another. Her eyes are wild, but there’s something raw and broken underneath it all. She slams her hand against the locker, the sound sharp and violent.
“I’m angry, Damien!" she screams, her chest heaving with every breath. “I’m angry that my father is gone. Angry that my mom is pretty great, but depression took her away from me. Angry that I finally know what it’s like to be in love— real love—and my heart wants to give up on me, but I don’t stop fighting!”
She stands there for a moment, breathing hard, her fists clenched at her sides. Her chest rises and falls, and her eyes are burning with something fierce .
I stare at her, speechless, the weight of her words hitting me harder than I expected. Her hands tremble, but she doesn’t back down.
“I fight, Damien,” she continues, her voice trembling but strong. “I fight, even when it’s hard, even when I don’t know if I have anything left to give. I don’t quit, not even when I feel like the world’s falling apart around me.”
I take a deep breath, my anger momentarily fading as the realization settles in. She’s not just talking about me. She’s talking about herself, too.
Her voice softens, but there’s no less fire in it. “So, stop acting like you’re the only one who’s hurting. Stop pretending that walking away will fix anything. You can’t quit because it’s hard. You have to fight, just like I do.”
I stare at her, the words weighing heavily in the air between us. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can keep fighting. But in this moment, I can’t bring myself to walk away either.
“You think it’s that simple?” I mutter, my voice barely a whisper.
She meets my gaze, eyes steadily. “No. But nothing worth having ever is. So you get back on that ice and you let the entire arena feel how angry you are. You fucking let it rip, Damien and you don’t stop until they make you. You hear me?”
My blood is boiling, every nerve in my body screaming. Her words—god, they get under my skin, and I don’t know if it’s the anger, the frustration, or something deeper, but it snaps something inside me. Without thinking, I lash out, my fist connecting with the locker door. The metal crumples with a loud crash, the sound echoing off the walls. I stand there, my hand still throbbing from the impact, chest heaving, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I don’t know if I’m more angry at her, at myself, or at everything that’s been building up inside me.
Willow stands there, eyes wide for a moment, and then she takes a step toward me, like she’s not afraid of what I just did. “Feel better?” she whispers.
I grab her by the shoulders, pulling her toward me, crashing my lips into hers in a heated, desperate kiss. She’s stiff at first, but then she melts into it, her hands gripping the front of my shirt, her breath mingling with mine. For a second, everything falls away—the anger, the fear, the doubt—and there’s just us.
But then, just as quickly as it started, I pull back, my heart hammering in my chest. “You fucking piss me off, Trouble.”
“Good,” she smiles, scrunching up her nose in excitement. I press my lips to hers one more time before turning around and throwing my gear back on as fast as I can.
I slap my gloves together, my heart pounding in my chest, adrenaline already coursing through my veins. I walk to the door, take a deep breath, and push it open, stepping out into the arena. The roar of the crowd hits me, but it’s like a distant hum compared to the storm inside my head.
The ice is cold, the chill biting at my skin, but I feel alive. I feel like I could tear through a wall. I skate into position, squaring myself in front of the goal, eyes scanning the rink, ready for anything.
“Sterling!” My coach barks walking closer to me.
“I got it,” I nod. “Put me back on the ice. ”
“You left the ice, are you out of your mind?” The assistant coach yells at me, but I keep my eyes on the ice and focus on the anger coursing through me.
“I got this.” I snarl looking Coach in the eye.
He inhales sharply, and says, “Put him in.”
“Coach?” The assistant whispers.
“You heard me Henry, put him in.”
I smile to myself as the game is paused to exchange goalies.
Monroe whispers to me as I pass, “Come on D.”
Once I am in position the game kicks off again, and I’m in it—completely in it. Every save I make feels like it’s in slow motion, every move sharp, calculated, and perfect. I’m not just stopping pucks, I’m destroying them, as if every shot against me is a challenge I can’t back down from. I’m on fire, like I’m finally in control of something.
The opposing team starts to get desperate, throwing everything they’ve got at me, but it’s like I can anticipate every shot before it even happens. I’m diving, stretching, sliding across the ice in ways I never thought I could. The crowd’s roar grows louder with every save, and it feeds me, pushing me harder, faster.
I catch one slap shot right out of the air with my glove, and the arena erupts. I don’t even flinch, I just look up, my eyes scanning for the next threat. The seconds stretch into minutes as I work in a blur of motion. Nothing is getting past me. I’m untouchable.
And then, with just seconds left on the clock, they launch a final attack—one last, desperate shot. The puck rockets toward me, and I move before I even realize what I’m doing. Time seems to slow down as I extend my leg, my pads making contact with the puck, redirecting it just enough to send it bouncing off the post and away from the goal.
The buzzer blares. We win.
The crowd goes wild. I can barely hear anything over the deafening roar, but the adrenaline surges through my veins like a drug. I stand there, catching my breath, my entire body buzzing. For a moment, I feel untouchable.
I don’t wait for the team to come over and congratulate me. Instead, I skate straight to the bench, throwing off my mask and gloves, and in the chaos, I look for her—Willow. I catch sight of her in the stands, her eyes on me, her face a mixture of awe and pride.
I nod at her, pounding my hands against the plastic barrier. Now I get it. I get Vincent’s need to consume her and Cast’s words from a couple of days ago. I want to marry her too.