I lean down, panting. “That’s for my wrists, asshole.”
The crowd roars, half furious, half electric. The refs’ whistles screech, Haverton’s bench leaps to its feet, but I don’t care.
Because I did what he told me to do.
And when I skate back toward the bench, blood still howling in my ears, I feel it.
His eyes.
Damian’s watching me like a hawk, his gaze locked on every step I take.
After that hit, the game turns into nothing short of a slaughterhouse.
The Phantoms smell blood—my blood. They’re rabid, every shift a new body gunning for me. Cheap shots, slashes, hooks, blindside hits. They come at me like it’s a feeding frenzy, and I can feel it in every bruise.
But they don’t get to finish the job.
Because every time they close in, a Reaper is there.
Shaw tries to hammer me into the crease? Viktor’s on him in a blink, shoving him off like he weighs nothing.
Another defenseman throws his elbow at my head? Mats ghosts in, stick slapping the puck away before it even reaches me.
One of their grinders digs his stick into my spine after a whistle? Cole actuallylaughsbefore slamming him face-first into the glass, mouthing off loud enough for the whole arena to hear.
And Damian—fuck.
Every time I step on the ice, he’s there, shadowing me. He doesn’t need to say a word, doesn’t need to raise a hand half the time. His presence alone is enough to make Haverton hesitate for just a breath. And that’s all I need to keep moving.
The crowd’s a storm, the Phantoms desperate. They claw, they slash, they bleed themselves trying to get past us. But they don’t break us.
They don’t break me.
When the final horn screams, the scoreboard burns3–1. Reapers.On Phantoms’ ice. Halloween night.
The boos shake the rafters, silver-and-black fans clawing the glass like demons denied their sacrifice. Trash rains from the upper decks, security shouting, chaos spilling even as we raise our sticks.
My wrists throb under the tape, my ribs feel cracked, but none of it matters.
Because we walked into their haunted barn and bled them dry.
Because I didn’t die.
Because Damian Kade is still watching me.
And I’d skate back into their haunted barn tomorrow if it meant his eyes on me.
Of course Cole organized a party.
We walk into the hotel and the rookies think it’s over—the blood, the bruises, the war on the ice. But Cole Vance doesn’t know how to stop. By the time we’re out of the showers, the man’s already sweet-talked management into letting us use the roof, and by the time we’re upstairs, there’s booze, food, and half the team chirping the Phantoms like they’re standing right there with us.
They’re not. But that doesn’t stop the boys from howling into the night.
The roof hums with chaos. Mats is leaning against the rail, smirking at something only he knows. Shane’s muttering curses into a beer can like it’s a holy relic. Tyler’s looking around like he expects Haverton fans to crash through the stairwell doors. Cole’s loudest, obviously, narrating plays that didn’t even happen: “And then Mercer looked Shaw dead in the eye and saidis that all you’ve got, old man?—”
Mercer’s grinning like a lunatic.
Bruises bloom under his eyes, ribs wrapped in shadows, wrists taped rough. His curls are damp from the shower,sticking up wild, his grin sharp and too wide, laughter spilling from him like he doesn’t even feel the pain.
