I glare, cheeks burning. “You’re dead.”
He smirks, smug as hell. “Get in line, rookie.”
And just like that, baggage claim turns into a battlefield fought in whispers and elbows, me and Cole grinning sharp enough to draw blood, all while Damian walks ten steps ahead. Like he doesn’t even know I’m fighting for my life back here.
Except he knows. He always knows.
Baggage claim is a goddamn warzone. Sticks clattering, gear bags big enough to crush a toddler coming down the chute, Viktor practically growling at anyone who gets too close. Cole’s narrating like it’s the Stanley Cup finals—“And here comes Vance’s bag, ladies and gentlemen, containing three pounds of hair gel and a backup pair of sunglasses—” until Mats smacks him with a stick tube just to shut him up.
We wrestle everything together—pads, helmets, skates, bags so heavy I swear the straps are carving bruises into myshoulders—and stumble out into the morning glare. The Reapers’ bus is waiting, hulking black and crimson, the logo gleaming like a warning sign.
And then, like a horror movie jump-scare,he’s there.
Coach Harrow.
One second the bus steps are empty, the next he’s planted in the aisle, glasses perched low, clipboard in hand, like he’s been waiting for us since 4 a.m. No one saw him get on. No one saw himanywheresince Haverton. It’s like he materializes out of thin air whenever it suits him.
I blink. My brain stalls. Then I lean sideways, pressing my shoulder into Damian’s arm, whispering under my breath.
“Where the fuck does hecome from?”
Damian doesn’t even flinch. Just hums low, eyes on Coach like this is normal. Like men just spawn out of bus seats with travel itineraries and death stares. His hand brushes against my back as if to steady me, but his mouth never moves.
Meanwhile, Cole—loud, fearless, suicidal Cole—throws his hands up and groans. “Jesus, Coach, do you sleep in the overhead compartments or what?”
Coach doesn’t answer. He just looks over his glasses, one slow sweep of the bus, and somehow Cole actually shuts the fuck up.
We file on like condemned men, dragging bags down the aisle, collapsing into seats. My head’s still spinning. Because it’s one thing to get poked half to death by Hollywood. It’sanother thing entirely to watch a whole bus full of Reapers—grown-ass men—act like toddlers caught sneaking candy the second Coach breathes in their direction.
And Damian? Calm. Always calm. Like none of this is strange. Likeheisn’t the only thing scarier than Coach himself.
The bus lurches out of the airport lot, black-and-crimson beast chewing through morning traffic. Everyone’s half-dead—gear bags piled in the aisle, sticks rattling in the overhead racks, boys slumped against windows.
And then Coach starts pacing.
Clipboard in hand, glasses sliding low, he stalks up and down the aisle like a wraith. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’tneedto. The only sound is the squeak of his shoes on the floor and the scratch of his pen as he writes something—notes? Death sentences? Who the hell knows.
The silence is suffocating. Cole tries to whisper something to Mats—dies mid-sentence when Coach stops right beside him, scribbles something on the clipboard, and keeps moving. Mats smirks into his hoodie like he lives for the drama, but evenhedoesn’t chirp. Tyler’s practically vibrating out of his seat, clutching his bag like Coach might confiscate it for crimes unknown. Shane’s muttering prayers, eyes darting every time the clipboard squeaks.
I try. Itryto keep my mouth shut. But my nerves are on fire, my leg bouncing, my throat raw from yesterday and last night and the goddamn panic attack and the whiskey.
So of course, I lean toward Damian again. “He’s not eventalking.This is worse than talking. What is he writing? What is hewriting, Cap?”
Damian doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes forward, shoulders relaxed, one hand steady on his thigh. The only sign he even heard me is the faintest curl of his lip. Like he’s amused. Like he knows exactly how far gone my nerves are and he’s not going to save me.
Cole actually groans under his breath. “This is psychological warfare. I’d rather do stairs for an hour.”
Viktor grunts from two rows back. “Youwilldo stairs for an hour.”
The whole bus dies again.
Coach finally stops at the front, scrawls something final across the page, and snaps the clipboard shut with a sound like a gunshot. No words. No lecture. Just that.
And somehow, that’s worse.
By the time we pull into the lot outside the Reapers’ training arena, everyone’s sitting bolt upright like we’re about to be called in front of a firing squad.
But we’re not here to skate. Not today. Not after Haverton, not after the storm, not after whatever the hell that layover turned into.
