And I’d skate through hell just to hear it again.
The puck squirts free. I dive, slap it across the line before Cole can blink, and collapse hard into the boards on the follow-through. My chest heaves, vision tunneling, sweat stinging my eyes.
The whistle blows.
Silence stretches across the ice.
And then—Coach Harrow barks out a laugh. Low, mean. “Not bad, Mercer. Maybe you won’t be a waste of ice after all.”
Cole groans, dragging himself upright, muttering something aboutfucking rookies on steroids.Mats smirks behind his glove. Tyler looks like he just watched someone wrestle a bear.
But I don’t look at any of them.
I look at Damian.
And when his eyes cut into mine, unreadable to anyone else—I see it. Just a flicker. The curl at his scarred mouth, the faintest nod, the smallest reward only meant for me.
Coach doesn’t stay long. He never does.
He drills Tyler hard enough to make the kid wobble, grunts once when he manages to hold his ground, and then vanishes like smoke—clipboard tucked under his arm, cigar dangling, boots clicking off the ice. Just…gone. Like he only crawled out of his crypt to remind us he still exists.
And that’s when the real practice starts.
Because Damian doesn’t wait a second. The instant Coach’s shadow clears the tunnel, Captain Kade’s whistle cuts through the rink like a guillotine.
“Line up.”
Every man on the ice scrambles. Even the vets, who’ve been through this hell a thousand times, move quick. Because when Damian decides it’s time to work, you don’t stall. You don’t breathe wrong. You obey.
And me? My chest’s still on fire from battling Cole, my ribs bruised, my lungs scorched—but I move faster than I ever have. Because I know what happens if I don’t.
“Suicides,” Damian says, calm as stone.
The collective groan from the team sounds like death rattles. Cole mutters something about “sadist” under his breath, Mats smirks, Shane just makes the sign of the cross. Tyler looks like he’s going to pukebeforewe even start.
Then we run.
Blue line, red line, back. Red line, far blue, back. Goal line, boards, back. Until my legs are jelly and my vision blurs. Until my chest is one raw ache and my throat tastes like blood.
Damian doesn’t skate with us. He doesn’t need to. He just plants himself at center ice, arms crossed, his stare cutting across every inch of us like he’s measuring which bone will snap first.
Tyler folds first. Always does. Kid’s lungs aren’t built for this yet, and Damian knows it. Which is why he keeps the whistle sharp every time Tyler stumbles, why he drills him harder than the rest.
By the fifth rep, Tyler’s hunched over his stick. By the seventh, he’s gagging. By the ninth—he pukes. Again. Right there at the blue line, knees buckling as he retches onto the ice.
Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t call a medic or cut him loose.
“Clean it up,” he says flat. “Then back in line.”
And Tyler obeys. Pale, shaking, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before skating slow back to the circle.
The vets don’t say shit. They’ve all been there. They know this is what it means to bleed for the Reapers. To bleed for Kade.
I’m still standing. Barely. Legs trembling, lungs torn, chest raw. But I haven’t gone down. I won’t. Not while Damian’slocked on me, not while every whistle sounds like it’s meant for me alone.
Because I know—every rep, every burn, every bruise is proof. Proof that I’ll give him everything. Proof that I’ll be his good pup, on and off the ice.
My chest is still heaving, Tyler’s still pale, Cole’s bent over his stick muttering “human rights violation” like he’s filing a complaint—but Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t sweat. Doesn’t bend. He just stands there at center ice, the whole rink in his grip.
