His eyes flare, a flash of green fire under the cage, but he still doesn’t lunge.
I smirk. “What, you waiting for permission to grow a spine? Or you planning to bat your lashes at Wranglers defense until they let you pass?”
That gets him. His lips twitch, his stick jerks up an inch, breath coming sharper.
“Maybe I should tell the press,” I keep going, words lethal, steady. “Their golden rookie’s just a lapdog. Can’t even slam a body unless it’s for show. Maybe all that chirping’s just covering the fact you don’t got the stones to—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Elias cuts me off. His curls bounce under his helmet as he jerks forward. “I’m not a lapdog—and I’ll take down anyone on this goddamn ice,including you!”
The boards explode with noise—the boys howling, Cole cackling loud enough to echo, Tyler gaping like he just saw God. But Elias doesn’t hear them. His eyes are locked on me, feral, finally snapping into the fire I’ve been carving out of him for weeks.
Good.
Now we can start.
I let the silence stretch half a beat. Just long enough for the boys on the boards to hold their breath. Then I slam him.
Hard.
My shoulder drives into his chest, rattling his cage against the glass, the boards shrieking under the impact. His gasp tears out raw, the sound of pain tangled with fire, and my hand fists back into the bars of his helmet, shoving him harder until the glass hums.
“Show me, pup,” I snarl, hot against his ear. “You say you’ll take anyone? Then take me.”
He’s wild under the cage, teeth grit as he fights to stay upright. His stick clatters, his gloves twitch, his whole body trembling with rage.
And Christ—my cock twitches in my cup.
Because I can feel him snapping back, finally, finally, the hesitation breaking into fire. Because my pup doesn’t just obey—he fights, he bleeds, helivesfor me, and nothing gets me harder than watching him burn.
The boards creak with the weight of us, my hips pressing him deeper into the glass. Every muscle in him is straining against me, but he doesn’t fold. He doesn’t beg. He bares his teeth like he’s ready to sink them straight into my throat.
The boys on the bench are howling, Cole screaming something about “Curls vs. Cap!” like it’s a prizefight. I don’t hear them.
All I hear is Elias’s ragged breath, all I feel is his body shuddering with fury under mine, all I see is the fire in him as he finally slams his weight back into me.
He shoves back.
Not clean. Not polished. But with every ounce of rage I’ve been trying to carve into him. His shoulder slams into mine, his skates screech against the ice, his stick jerks up like he’s finally ready to use it.
Good.
I step back. Just enough. One hand digs into my pocket, pulls a puck, drops it to the circle between us.
“Live.” My voice cracks across the rink. “One-on-one. Show me.”
The sound of it cuts the bench into silence. No chirps, no laughter, no noise. Just sticks tapping once against the boards, nervous, eager.
The puck bounces once, spins, stills.
Elias stares at it. His throat works, his gloves twitch like he’s deciding whether to crawl or burn. Then his eyes snap back to mine, blazing hot, and I see it—the decision.
He lunges.
Stick slaps the puck off the dot, blades biting as he cuts toward the blue line. I chase, hard strides ripping across the ice, stick angled low.
He doesn’t grin. He’s gone silent, fast and feral, like a rookie possessed.
I catch up at the hash marks. Stick hooks his, body weight driving into his side. His ribs buckle under the hit, but hedoesn’t fall. He digs in, claws the puck free, slams it against the boards to keep it alive.
