I smirk, leaning back against the bench, blood dripping down my taped hand. “Good boy.”
And Elias skates off, faster, hungrier, like I just lit the fire under his blades.
He doesn’t waste a second.
First shift after they drop me in the box, he’s back at center—mouth running filth at the Wrath’s vet across the dot. The puck drops, and he explodes like fire on steel.
One stride, one clean lift of the stick, and the puck’s his. He burns past the blue line before the Wrath even register they’ve lost. Goal horn tries to swallow him alive, but Elias buries the wrister top shelf like he’s been doing this his whole life.
Net ripples. Crowd boos. Our bench detonates.
And he skates right past the box. Grinning. Feral. Stick tapping the glass sharp in front of me as if to sayone.
Good boy.
Next shift—he doesn’t bury it himself. Not yet. He dances the puck between two Wrath defensemen, grins wide as they slash his ribs, and still slips it through clean to Cole screaming down the wing. Wrister. Net. Horn.
Two.
Bench howls, Wrath snarl, refs useless—and Elias doesn’t slow. He’s back at the dot, back at center ice, chest heaving, mouth running faster than the Wrath can keep up. They slash him again, hook him, drive him hard into the boards—he just bounces back up grinning.
Threads another pass to Mats this time. Low, sharp, filthy. Net again.
Three.
By the time the second period horn blows, the scoreboard reads 4–1. Wrath bleeding. Reapers roaring. And Elias—Christ, Elias—he’s glowing through the cage.
Three goals. All mine.
The boys know it. They’re chirping him loud, banging helmets, Cole screaming he wants custody papers because “Cap’s already got the marriage license.”
I just sit back on the bench, blood dried on my knuckles, smirk sharp across my scar, eyes steady on my pup.
Because when the horn sounds again and we’re back in that hotel room—
I’m going to reward the shit out of him.
Third period.
Wrath come out swinging, desperate, orange jerseys snarling like they think they can claw back three goals on home ice. The crowd’s rabid, refs jittery, their bench barking orders that sound more like death rattles than strategy.
Doesn’t matter.
Because I’m back on the ice. And Elias is right beside me.
This isn’t about goals anymore. It’s about humiliation. About domination. About stripping Wrath bare in their own barn and leaving them bleeding in front of their fans.
And for me—for us—it’s foreplay.
First shift, Elias crouches at the dot. The Wrath center across from him looks rattled, stick tapping too fast, mouth tight behind the cage. Elias just grins. Sharp. Reckless. Full teeth.
The puck drops. He wins it clean, flicks it back with a snap so smooth it makes the crowd groan. I’m already moving, scooping it up, hammering a pass straight to Cole—who buries it. Easy. Too easy.
The barn erupts in boos. Our bench howls. Elias looks at me, grinning wild under the cage.One.
Next faceoff, he doesn’t just win it. Hetoyswith them. Lets the Wrath center think he’s got it for half a heartbeat, then snaps it clean away with a flick of his wrists. I body the winger who tries to chase him down, slam him hard into the boards, and Elias skates past free, curls flying, mouth running chirps so filthy I almost laugh.
The Wrath are unraveling. Their crowd’s silent now, their bench sagging. Elias doesn’t stop. He wins every draw, threads passes sharp as blades, feeds our wings like it’s nothing. And I—
