The SUV rumbles low all the way to the arena, steady as his hand clamped on my thigh. I keep staring out the window, trying not to chew through my mouthguard before we even hit the ice. The city blurs by, red and black flags hanging from balconies, horns blaring as fans scream our name. Playoffs. The whole damn town feels it.
By the time we pull into the underground lot, my palms are slick, my stomach’s a pit. But Damian? He kills the engine, tilts his head once, and it’s enough to remind me—he’s here. I’m his. I’ll be fine.
The locker room hums different tonight. Not the usual chirping chaos. Not Cole singing off-key or Tyler puking in the trash can. It’s quiet. Tense. Helmets line the hooks, sticks stacked neat, tape rolls waiting like munitions before a war. Even Coach is here, ghost in the corner with a cigar stub, but he doesn’t dare breathe wrong when Damian’s in the room.
Because this isn’t his team anymore. It’s ours.
Damian walks in like he owns the floor. Helmet tucked under one arm, eyes sweeping over us one by one. Every head lifts. Every chest tightens.
“Eyes on me.”
It cuts sharp, the only sound in the room. And we obey.
He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t need to. Just plants himself in the middle of the room, and the air bends around him.
“Wranglers play quick,” he says flat, calm, like he’s reading scripture. “They’ll try to skate through you like you’re not there. So you don’t let them.” His gaze snaps to Cole. “Hollywood, you’re on their wings like glue. They breathe, you choke them.”
Cole grins, taps his stick. “Yes, Captain.”
“Tyler.” Damian’s tone sharpens. The kid straightens like he just got called to court-martial. “You puke, you skate anyway. You puke again, you skate harder. You give me every ounce you’ve got or I’ll carve more out of you myself.”
Tyler nods so fast I think his helmet might fly off.
“Mats,” Damian rumbles. “You shadow their captain. Don’t give him an inch. Make him wish he retired last year.”
Mats smirks, lazy as hell. “Copy.”
“Viktor.”
The big man doesn’t even look up from his tape. Just grunts.
“You see orange, you crush it.”
Another grunt. Good enough.
“Shane.” Damian’s eyes cut like knives. “Wranglers will come for you early, try to rattle you in the crease. Don’t twitch. Don’t flinch. Don’t give them a goddamn thing.”
“Locked,” Shane mutters, tugging his mask down.
And then—me.
My throat closes when his eyes land on mine. His voice drops low, lethal, steady as death.
“Mercer. You win me every draw.”
My chest heaves. My hands tighten on my stick.
“You don’t fold. You don’t hesitate. You bleed and keep skating. You humiliate them shift after shift until they’re begging for the horn.” His mouth pulls with the faintest smirk. “You give me everything.”
“Yes, sir.” I say. “I swear it.”
The room goes still, the words hanging heavy.
And Damian nods once, final, before snapping his tape tight around his wrist.
The tunnel’s a heartbeat—steel humming under our skates, crowd roaring beyond the curtain, the smell of smoke and sweat and anticipation so sharp it could split bone. The boys are loud in front of us, sticks banging against the cinderblock, Cole howling a war song, Mats laughing low, Shane muttering his prayers, Viktor silent as a tomb.
And then there’s me.
