He stumbles, mutters curses, tries harder. Edges bite into the ice, shoulders locking, knees shaking.
“Again.”
The word hammers him down. Each time I say it, he obeys, no matter how badly his arms tremble or how hard he pants. Sweat drips down his temples, off his jaw, but he keeps going.
Until finally—finally—he pulls the drag tight, clean, perfect. No stumble, no slip.
I don’t say a thing.
He keeps going anyway. Again. Again. Like he’s forgotten I exist, like all that matters is mastering this one move until the ice itself remembers his edges.
And then his legs give out.
He collapses on his back, stick falling from limp fingers. His chest heaves, muscles wrecked.
And he’s grinning.
Flat on the ice grinning like he just won the Cup. Like bleeding himself dry under my gaze is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
“Fuck you, puck,” he wheezes, voice cracking into a laugh. “Knew I’d get you.” Then louder, throwing his arms wide: “Somebody tell that rubber bastard I own him now!”
He’s delirious, chirping into an empty rink like the whole team’s there to hear. And I let him.
Because he’s wrong—he doesn’t own the puck. He doesn’t even own himself.
Good.
I step closer and look down at him—this rookie center, this reckless little bastard sprawled out like he belongs here.
“Go home, pup.”
The words cut through his manic laughter like a blade. His head snaps toward me, eyes wide, mouth still open around another tease he forgets to finish.
And then he scrambles.
Not graceful. Not smooth. He fumbles to his knees, pushes up, grabs his stick like he’s been caught stealing. Hestumbles, nearly drops it twice, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes, sir,” he breathes.
The grin is still carved into his face, wild and sharp. He’s panting, skating toward the gate on legs that might give out—but smiling like I just handed him the world.
Airports are hell. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, the stink of burnt coffee mixes with strangers’ perfume, and the constant drag of rolling suitcases grates in my ears. Ten hours of flight time, three hours of layovers. Half the guys already look like they’re planning their funerals.
Cole’s the loudest about it, obviously. “Ten hours in a flying tin can, boys. And for what? To get to Haverton, where the only good thing is when we leave again. My back’s gonna look like a broken fence post after this.”
“Your back already looks like that,” Mats mutters.
Viktor grunts. Shane makes the sign of the cross and whispers about curses in Denver airports.
Me? I’m thriving. My duffel’s half clothes, half snacks—trail mix, gummy worms, three bags of chips, a box of granola bars I refuse to share, and a pack of beef jerky that’s already open. I could survive three weeks on what I stuffed into my carry-on.
Tyler’s not thriving. He’s sweating like we’re mid-turbulence already, eyes darting like a rabbit waiting for a hawk.
And then there’s him.
Damian Kade. Standing like a storm, eyes cutting through all of us like we’re noise he can barely tolerate. His voice is calm, low, dangerous.
“Keep it down, or I’ll leave you all here.”
