The red light blazes. The horn howls. The Reapers’ bench erupts, sticks banging, voices roaring. The Phantoms’ crowd howls in rage.
And right as that happens—Shaw hits me.
His shoulder rams into my ribs so hard the boards shake, my vision flashes white, the breath torn straight out of me. Pain knifes through my side, my body folding against the glass.
But I don’t fall.
Because Viktor is there.
A freight train in black, slamming into Shaw with such force the ice shudders. Their sticks splinter, their helmets crack together. Shaw snarls, Viktor growls something in Russian that vibrates through the boards, and suddenly the Phantoms’ captain looks less like a predator and more like prey.
I’m gasping, clutching my ribs, smirking even though every breath hurts. Because I did it.
I gave the puck to him.
He scored.
We’re winning.
And I’d bleed all night if it means hearing him say it again.
The whistle finally blows, and I stagger toward the bench. My legs don’t want to hold me, but my grin won’t leave. Every step, the boards still rattling in my head, the sting still flaring down my side—none of it matters.
Because the puck went in.
Becausehescored.
Because I fed it to him.
I collapse onto the bench, helmet knocking against the wall behind me. The noise of the crowd is a wall of hate, silver-and-black rage crashing down, but all I can hear is the pounding in my ears.
Then—he leans in.
Damian’s shoulder brushes mine, heavy, deliberate. His hair falls forward, shadowing his face, his eyes cutting into me from too close. He doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t need to.
“You did good.”
My whole body seizes under that low tone curling down my spine.
And then, quieter still, for me alone:
“Do it again.”
The air leaves me in a rush. Not because of the hit. Not because of the bruises already blooming purple. But becauseholy fuck.
My head tips back against the glass, eyes closing for a second, a manic laugh breaking out of me before I can stop it. “Yessir.”
The vets around us smirk, some shaking their heads. Cole mutters something under his breath like,Christ, he’s hooked already.
And he’s right.
I am.
Next shift, I’m lined up again at center, heart hammering. The crowd is a storm of noise, their captain crouched across from me, helmet low, eyes hungry.
But I’m not alone this time.
Because when I drop into my stance, Damian steps up right behind me. Towering. Silent. The weight of him pressing at my back like a wall I can lean against. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough to make my lungs expand, even through the ache.
