I can’t take my eyes off him.
Every snap of his stick. Every reckless taunt. Every grin he shoots me after another humiliating faceoff win. It’s all mine. All fire he burns out for me.
By the halfway mark, Wrath aren’t even playing hockey anymore. They’re chasing ghosts. Every shift Elias humiliates them is another nail in their coffin.
And me?
Every time he wins, every time he grins, every time he mouths off like he’s untouchable—I get harder. This isn’t just hockey. It’s foreplay. Public. Sharp. Dangerous.
I skate up behind him after another clean win, gloves heavy on his shoulders, eyes cutting into the Wrath bench as I murmur low enough for only him to hear:
“Good boy. You keep playing like that, pup, and I’ll ruin you slow tonight.”
His breath catches, sharp, chest heaving under his jersey. He doesn’t look back. Just grins sharper through the cage and digs in harder for the next draw.
The Wrath never recover.
Every shift of the third, Elias plants himself at the dot like it’s his altar and he’s there to worship. Stick down, grin sharp. And every single time—the puck’s his.
Clean. Sharp. No mercy.
Their veteran centers try. Their rookies try. Hell, even their captain takes a run at him just to shut him up. Doesn’t matter. Elias rips the puck away like it belongs to him alone and dishes it off before they can even blink.
The crowd grows quieter with each win. Their stomps turn to mutters, their boos fade, until the only sound left in this mausoleum is the roar of my boys on the bench. Cole howls every draw like it’s a Cup win, Mats bangs his stick against the boards until the glass shakes, Shane’s muttering prayers like he’s watching a miracle.
And Viktor—stone silent, mouth curved just barely at the corner like he’s seen the second coming.
Elias feeds Cole another. Buried. 5–1.
He wins the draw, slings it to Mats, who hammers it from the blue line. Net again. 6–1.
The Wrath slump. Their bench is silent, helmets sagging, sticks tapping weakly. They’re done.
And my pup?
He’s glowing. Grin feral, chest heaving with every reckless, perfect win. He skates straight back to the circle after every goal like it’s foreplay, like humiliating them over and over is the only thing keeping his blood hot.
By the time the horn blows, Wrath are wrecked. Final score: 6–1.
Reapers storm the ice, gloves flying, Cole tackling Elias with a shout of “MY CENTER!” Mats laughing sharp, Shane dropping to his knees in gratitude, Viktor nodding once like it’s holy.
I don’t celebrate. I don’t raise my stick.
I just skate slow toward Elias, scar pulling into a smirk.
The Wrath’s barn is still echoing boos when we file off the ice, Reapers loud as thunder. Helmets bang hooks, gloves slap benches, water bottles fly. Cole’s narrating the entire game like he’s already clipped it for TikTok. Mats chirps him back. Shane mutters about divine intervention. Viktor doesn’t say a word—just smirks like he saw all this coming.
Elias sits buzzing,cheeks flushed scarlet under the cage still half-clipped to his helmet. He hasn’t shut up since the horn—poking Cole about his shooting percentage, teasing Tyler about missing every backcheck. He’s glowing.
And then Coach finally moves.
Harrow pushes off the wall where he’s been a silent ghost the entire night, cigar stub smoldering between his fingers, clipboard under one arm. His eyes sweep the room once, sharp, like he’s peeling skin. The vets go quiet. Tyler nearly chokes on his water. Even Cole shuts his mouth mid-sentence.
Coach’s gaze lands on Elias.
“Mercer,” he says, voice flat, rough with smoke. “That was the best center work I’ve seen in this barn in a decade. You just humiliated the Wrath in their own house.”
Elias freezes.
