52 - Haven
HAVEN
Sutherland stopped at the edge of the table. He didn’t sit. Didn’t reach for a chair. He just stood there, looking down at us like he had some kind of claim.
“Captain,” he said finally.
Grayson didn’t respond right away. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the booth. Like he had all the time in the world.
“You’re in the wrong jersey,” Grayson said.
A flicker crossed Sutherland’s smug face. It was gone just as fast.
“Business decision,” he shrugged.
“Yeah,” Ares muttered. “We heard you were good at those.”
Sutherland ignored him, but I could tell it wasn’t easy. His eyes stayed locked on Grayson.
“Funny thing about captains,” Sutherland said quietly. “They always know.”
A span of silence followed. One loaded with tension and menace.
“Besides, this one’s not so ridiculous,” Sutherland went on, flicking the Sentinel’s logo with one finger. “You’re the Reavers, not the Reapers. Did anyone tell you that yet?”
Ares leaned forward slowly, forearms braced on his knees, eyes locked on Sutherland like he was already measuring distance.
“Careful,” he said.
All eyes followed Sutherland’s slow, smooth movement, as he leaned in close to Grayson.
“You saw what you saw,” I heard him murmur, adding a shrug. “Don’t act like you didn’t…”
He was too focused on Grayson’s reaction to pay attention to anyone else.
That was the mistake.
Ares moved first. Not a warning, not a shove.
A punch.
Short. Fast. Brutal.
His fist drove straight into Sutherland’s jaw with a crack that cut through the bar like a gunshot. The goalie’s head snapped sideways, his body staggering back into the edge of the table.
Chairs scraped. Someone shouted.
After that — all hell broke loose.
Sutherland came back swinging, wild and pissed, but Ares was ready for him. He slammed into him again — this time shoulder-first — driving him hard into the neighboring table. Glasses toppled. Mozzarella sticks flew. Beer splashed everywhere.
Sebastian was already on his feet, yanking one of the Sentinels off Ares before he could grab him from behind.
“Bad idea,” Sebastian muttered—
— and shoved him straight into another guy, sending both of them stumbling.
Grayson was slower to stand.
But when he moved, it mattered.
Sutherland lunged forward again, trying to regain ground, but Grayson caught him.
One hand fisted in his jersey, the other locking onto his shoulder. He drove him back, hard, pinning him against the wall with a solid, bone-jarring thud.
“Don’t,” Grayson said, low and controlled, right in his face. “You don’t get to spin this.”
Sutherland laughed. Even bleeding.
There was something off in the laugh, now.
“I left this shithole for greener pastures,” he chided. “Don’t cry about it. Suck it up.”
Ares hit him again — this time in the stomach. Sutherland stopped laughing. He doubled over, coughing…
That set it off all over.
Bodies collided. Tables skidded. Someone crashed into the bar hard enough to knock bottles loose.
“HEY— HEY—!” a voice shouted, somewhere in the chaos.
Zack — God help him — was still clutching his takeout container like it held state secrets. At least up until one of the Sentinels came at Grayson, at which point he reacted on pure instinct.
“NOPE—”
He launched the entire greasy, horrific contents straight at the guy’s face. It hit him square in the jaw with a wet, catastrophic splat.
Everything froze for a second. The guy just stood there, dripping congealed cheese. Blinking in stunned disbelief.
“What the hell was that?” he choked.
“Regret!” Zack yelled.
Sebastian lost it. Actually lost it. Ares surged forward again, but this time Grayson caught him. He used every last ounce of his strength to hold onto his teammate, locking him in place.
“Enough!” he said firmly.
Something in his voice must’ve triggered a memory, because Carter Sutherland actually stopped. He stood there breathing hard, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
His eyes found Grayson again. Then me.
And that smile—
That same sharp, knowing smile slid right back into place.
“This isn’t over,” he sneered.
Grayson shrugged.
“Will be soon.”
Security grabbed Sutherland and shoved him toward the door. The rest of his team followed, angry, still chirping as they disappeared out of sight.
The bar settled slowly behind them.
Chairs were turned over again, and tables slid back into place. Zack stared mournfully down at the remains of his sacrificed meal.
“… I was saving that,” he said quietly.
Ares let out a breath, rolling his shoulders. Sebastian wiped his mouth, still half-grinning.
“They’re throwing us out too, once the Sentinels clear the lot,” said Dorian, returning from the bar. “So finish your drinks.”
“I can’t even find my drink,” lamented Caleb, searching the floor.
I glanced over at Grayson. Not only was he no worse for wear, but for some reason he seemed entirely unfazed.
He caught my look and grinned back at me. His hair was still somehow perfect. His lip, a tiny bit swollen on one side. And in that moment, I knew.
I love him.
Sebastian, standing tall, holding a napkin against his forehead.
And him.
Ares, lifting a table in one hand and a chair in the other. Trying to figure out which went where.
And him.
The realization was stark and immediate, and hit me like a surprise punch to the face.
At the same time, it also wasn’t a surprise at all.
You’re fucked, Haven.
Yeah. Yeah, I really was.
But when we got on the ice, and the puck finally dropped?
The Sentinels were fucked too.
They just didn’t know it yet.