Tyler groans. “Can wenot—”
“Weare,” Cole cuts in, eyes gleaming. “It’s tradition. Phantoms game. Halloween night. Doesn’t matter where we are—we make the hotel ours. Costumes, chaos, booze. Half the league talks about it. They don’t call us the Reapers just because of the jerseys.”
The room erupts. Mats smirks, Shane actually claps, Viktor shakes his head like he’s already resigned to it. Brooks looks like he’s trying to melt into the floor.
Mercer? He’s vibrating, still high from drills, smirking so sharp it’s dangerous. He chirps Cole again, voice rough with exhaustion but bright: “What’s the plan then, oh fearless party planner? You gonna lead the Phantoms through a haunted corn maze before we kick their asses?”
The whole table laughs. Cole winks at him. “Stick with me, curls. You’ll see.”
The boys are wound too tight with that reckless energy that always comes before Haverton. They’re loud, laughing, half-planning a game of chicken with security, half-planning a haunted circus in the hotel halls. Mercer’s right in the middle of it, eyes bright, curls plastered to his forehead.
Cole’s the loudest, obviously. He’s waving his hands around like he’s pitching a movie. “Listen, listen—picture this. Capes. All of us. Full Dracula mode when we walk into their barn tonight. The crowd wouldn’t recover.”
Groans ripple through the room. Mats mutters something about dignity. Shane looks genuinely intrigued, whispering about blood sacrifices. Tyler looks horrified.
I’ve heard enough.
“If anyone shows up with capes at the game,” I say, “I’m benching you.”
The room freezes, then erupts. Laughter bounces off the walls, Viktor snorts into his hands, Mats actually grins, and Cole slams his palm against his stall like he’s been personally betrayed.
“You wouldn’t,” he groans.
I arch a brow. “Try me.”
Cole mutters something about “no sense of theatricality,” while Mercer cackles so hard he nearly drops his water bottle. He chirps Cole with something about being “vampire roadkill by the second period,” and the vets lose it all over again.
But even as the chaos builds back up, I can feel Mercer’s eyes darting toward me. Quick, sharp glances he probably thinks I don’t notice. Like he’s still chewing on every word I’ve given him these past days. Like he’s waiting for the next command.
The Phantoms will come for him tonight. He doesn’t know how hard yet. But when they do, I’ll be there.
And if I have to bleed half their roster to keep him breathing, so be it.
First game.
Not my first game ever—not by a long shot. I’ve played in barns that smelled like piss and popcorn, against boys who wanted to break my jaw just for grinning too wide. I’ve had scouts in the stands, fans screaming my name, blood dripping down my chin.
But this—this is different.
My first game as a Reaper.
My first game with him.
The locker room is buzzing, hot, packed tight with bodies and steam from the showers. The smell of sweat and tape, of fresh jerseys, of adrenaline burning in our veins. Gear’s clattering on, shin pads thudding, gloves flexing. The sound of skates hitting the floor is like a heartbeat under all of it.
And there he is.
Damian Kade.
My captain.
He’s standing dead center, bigger than all of us, long hair damp, eyes sweeping over the room like he owns not just the sheet but every man in here. And he does.
Coach Harrow is at his side—when the fuck did he get here? Did he fly in with us? I didn’t even notice. My brain’s been locked on Damian, the way his voice cuts through everything.
“The Phantoms are going to come for you,” he says, calm, steady, lethal. “They’ll go for rookies first. Cheap shots, slashes, late hits. They’ll drag you into the boards and try to leave you there.”
He doesn’t have to look at me when he says it, but he does. Just a flicker, quick and sharp. My heart nearly blows out of my chest.
