My cheeks go nuclear. “Cole!”
He just cackles, throwing his hood up and tugging his headphones back on like he didn’t just hand me my own obituary.
Damian doesn’t say a word. Just lets the corner of his scarred mouth twitch upward while his grip stays firm in my hair, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
And fuck me—I really am good.
Rival’s locker room.
It smells wrong—like bleach and stale sweat instead of the grind of steel and smoke we’ve carved into our own back home. Concrete walls painted some piss–colored beige, hooks bolted too high, benches that creak like they’ll snap under one decent hit. The Wrath don’t have a barn, they’ve got a mausoleum.
And we’re going to bury them in it.
The boys are suiting up loud—helmets clattering, sticks tapping, Cole teasing Tyler about lacing his skates like a toddler. Shane mutters something about curses, Viktor sharpens his blade edges in silence, Mats lounges like he’s half asleep. Elias… Christ. He’s bouncing out of his gear like someone plugged him straight into the arena lights.
And through it all—Coach.
Grant Harrow, cigar clamped in his teeth, clipboard tucked under one arm. Doesn’t say a word. Just leans against the wall like he’s part of the furniture, smoke curling into the ceiling. His silence makes them twitch, but it doesn’t matter. Because he’s not the one they’re listening to.
That’s me.
“Eyes on me.”
The noise dies sharp. Helmets still, laces pause, sticks hang loose in gloved hands. Every head turns.
“The Wrath play dirty,” I start. “They’ll slash late, hook deep, bury you in the corners until your ribs bruise. They want to rattle you early. You don’t let them. You don’t fold.”
I glance at Cole. “You cut inside every rush. If they take your stick, you bury the body and keep moving.”
Cole grins like a devil. “Yes, Captain.”
“Mats.” My gaze cuts sharp. “You’re shadowing Hughes tonight. He’s fast. You stay faster. Don’t give him a breath.”
Mats smirks, lazy and lethal. “On it.”
“Shane.” My voice slices. “Wrath like to crash the crease. They’ll jab at you after every whistle. Don’t you twitch. Don’t you let them see you rattle.”
His head bobs sharp, mask already marked up with war paint. “Locked.”
“Viktor.”
He doesn’t even look up from his steel. Just grunts.
“You hit anything that moves in orange. Don’t stop until they bleed.”
Another grunt. Good enough.
Finally—Elias.
The pup straightens, curls damp, eyes blazing like I just called his name in church.
“You,” I say. “You win me every goddamn draw. You play through blood, through bruises, through whatever cheap shit they throw. They want to bury a rookie? Let them try. You give me everything.”
His grin flashes wide, feral. “Yes, sir.”
The vets shift. Tyler pales. Cole snorts. Mats smirks. Shane mutters a prayer. Viktor sharpens his blade harder.
Coach doesn’t say shit. Just scribbles something on his clipboard, smoke curling slow around his head.
