“Good,” I growl.
He snaps a look at me through the cage, sweat dripping into his eyes, lips curled into something reckless. “Not done yet, Captain.”
Then he’s gone again.
Skates bite ice, body twists, and he wheels the puck back across the slot like he was born for this. My chest rumbles with a laugh—low, feral, pleased—and I tear after him, shoulders colliding, sticks clashing, weight and speed slamming until the whole rink shakes with us.
The bench is losing it. Cole howling, Tyler gaping, Mats mutteringholy shitunder his breath. But I don’t hear them.
I only hear him. The scrape of his blades, the grunt of his breath, the snarl that rips out of him when he bodies me right back into the glass.
And my cock twitches hard again, because Christ—he’s fighting me. For real.
Every stride is desperate, sharp, reckless—every shove against my chest is wild with fury. He claws the puck down the wall, slams it off the boards, shoulders into me again and again like he really thinks he can topple me.
And God, it’s perfect.
Because I don’t need him to win. Not yet. I just need him to try.
At the crease, he finally makes his move. Cuts inside, stick flashing fast.. For one second—forone single second—he thinks he has me.
I crush him.
My shoulder drives into him, weight slamming him flat to the ice. His stick clatters away, the puck skittering useless behind the net, forgotten. The sound rattles across the rink, the boards shaking, his grunt tearing through the air.
And still—he doesn’t fold.
His ribs saw under me, curls plastered damp to his forehead, lips curled in a snarl even as my glove pins his cage to the ice.
Perfect.
I lean down, close enough that only he can hear over the roar of the bench losing their goddamn minds. My breath fogs his cage.
“Good boy.”
His body trembles under mine. And then—Christ—his mouth splits into the smallest grin, wrecked and reckless, like he just won anyway.
Because he did.
Not the puck. Not the point. But the fight.
The bench is howling—sticks banging, helmets slamming against the boards, Cole cackling so hard he sounds half–possessed. Tyler’s got his jaw on the floor, Shane’s muttering a prayer like he just watched a man rise from the dead.
But Elias only sees me.
Flat on the ice, eyes staring straight into mine. He’s grinning—wrecked and wild—even though I’ve got him pinned like prey.
Good pup.
I shove myself upright first. Plant my skates, roll my shoulders, and reach down. Not fast. Not gentle. Just one heavy glove hooking the cage of his helmet and hauling him back onto his feet.
He stumbles, legs shaking, but he doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t fold.
My hand drops from his cage to his hip.
Just for a second. Just long enough for him to feel the weight of it. Just long enough for the vets on the boards to notice, their chirps dying in their throats.
Then I let go. Step back. Calm. Collected. Like nothing just passed between us.
