Good.
Because I’ve already said enough.
The Wrath’s barn rumbles like a storm, crowd stomping, lights flashing orange and black, their announcer bellowing like he’s calling a funeral. The boys file out of the locker room, shoulder to shoulder, sticks tapping against the floor, the echo sharp in the narrow tunnel.
I walk last. Always.
Elias keeps pace just ahead of me, shoulders squared like he can carry this whole damn night on his back. He’s buzzingalready—skates clacking too fast against concrete, jaw tight. He wants this fight. He thinks he’s ready.
He is.
But I lean low anyway.
“They’ll come for you, pup.”
His head jerks, breath catching, but he doesn’t look away from the light spilling across the ice.
“The Wrath hate rookies. They’ll hook you, slash you, drive you into the boards till your ribs crack. You’ll probably leave your blood on their ice tonight.”
His stride falters. Just once. Small. Barely there.
Then he recovers.
I smirk.
“But if you give me everything,” I rasp, low, final, close enough that he feels it scrape his ear, “I’ll put you back together when the horn blows.”
His throat works. His chest heaves. And when he looks up at me—just for a second, just long enough—I see it. The fire. The devotion. The worship tangled in fear.
“Yessir,” he whispers, hoarse, sharp, certain.
The crowd roars as the light hits the tunnel mouth. Orange jerseys swarm the other side, sticks banging, helmets slamming. The Wrath wait like wolves ready to feed.
But Elias doesn’t slow again.
He grips his stick tighter, sets his jaw, and skates straight into the fire.
The horn blasts, lights screaming, Wrath pounding their sticks against the boards like war drums. Their barn is loud, their crowd louder—orange jerseys spilling hate from every seat.
Perfect.
First faceoff.
Elias crouches low at the dot. Across from him—Wrath’s veteran center, ten years older, twice his size, grinning like he’s about to make a meal out of my rookie.
Cole leans in at his wing, smirk wide, voice carrying sharp enough for everyone at the circle to hear.
“C’mon, curls. Make daddy proud.”
The Wrath center snarls. The linesman glares. Elias’s ears turn scarlet under the cage.
And then he grins.
Sharp. Reckless. Full teeth.
The puck drops.
Elias explodes.
