The first morning after, he limped.
The second, he tried to hide it.
By the time practice rolled around again, he was walking off-center, every stride crooked like his body couldn’t quite forget me.
Of course Cole chirped him.
Of course Elias chirped back.
But now? Now there’s no joking.
Now there’s ice.
My whistle cuts the air sharp as a blade, and the boys scramble, all helmets and tape and clattering blades. I’m not just barking orders today. I’m on the ice with them, gear strapped tight, lungs burning same as theirs.
I drill them hard. Harder than they’ve ever been drilled. Suicides until lungs scrape raw. Board battles until sticks snap. Net-front scrums that leave knuckles bloody. They’ll thank me for it later.
Cole I toss against Tyler, because I know the kid’s going to fold and I want him to. Cole’s a bastard when he wants to be—loud, sharp elbows, never shutting his mouth. I can see Tyler’s shoulders sagging already, jaw clenched against tears he doesn’t want to shed. Good. He’ll break and rebuild stronger.
And Elias—
Elias gets me.
His skates cut slow to the circle, confusion strong in his eyes. He knows what it means to go one-on-one. He knows it’s not just sticks and pucks. It’s body. It’s weight. It’s slam and slash and grind against the boards until one man wins.
“You want me…to…what?” he gulps, helmet tipping forward.
His eyes are wide, curls damp under the cage. He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Because going against me doesn’t mean playing—it meansbleeding.
“Yes,” I say flat, planting my stick into the ice. “You and me.”
His throat works. He stares at me like the idea alone might kill him. And he’s right. Because he won’t hold back against anyone else if he can stand against me.
“You expect me to—” His voice cracks. “To hit you?You?”
“Yes.”
The word is calm, stone.
Because if he can slam me into the glass, if he can chirp me to my face, if he can bleed and stand tall against the meanest bastard in this league—then he can do it against anyone.
The circle’s cut into ice, fresh lines from drills still jagged under our blades. The others watch from the boards—helmets tilted forward, sticks clutched, waiting like vultures for blood.
Elias stares at me. His stick trembles where it rests on the dot.
The whistle shrieks.
And he doesn’t move.
Not the way he should. Not the way I’ve seen him against every other bastard who’s tried to crush him. He always lunges first—always. He never folds, not once, not since the second I dragged him onto this roster. He takes hits, he mouths off back, he bleeds, he gets up. Every single time.
But against me? He hesitates.
I see it in his legs, the way his weight shifts but never commits. I see it in his grip, knuckles white, but stick still locked in place. He’s frozen.
Because I’m not Cole, or Mats, or some Wrangler trying to shatter his ribs. I’m his Captain. His goddamn nightmare. The one man he’s too reverent, too devoted, toomineto slam into the glass.
And that’s exactly why I have to make him.
