Elias doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fold. He drags the puck along the boards, angles slips past the first defenseman like a ghost. The second tries to corner him—big bastard with a stick slash sharp enough to drop most rookies—Elias just grins and flicks the puck through his legs. A filthy nutmeg that has the whole barn howling.
He bursts free, ice spraying under his blades, Cole already barreling down the wing screaming for the puck. Elias doesn’t even look—just wrists it clean, fast, straight to Cole’s tape.
Cole doesn’t miss.
Wrister, top shelf.
Net rips. Horn screams.
The barn detonates. Ravensburg on their feet, smoke and red lights flashing. Cole skates straight past the net and whirls, arms out like he just won the Cup. Elias slams into him, helmet to helmet, cackling like a maniac.
And the bench loses its shit.
“Jesus Christ!” Mats is half up, smacking the boards. “Did you see that pass?”
“Fucking circus tricks already,” Viktor mutters, but his mouth twitches at the corner.
Tyler just gapes, jaw dropped, until Shane slaps him in the back of the helmet.
I don’t move. I just stand there, arms folded on the boards, watching my pup grin sharp enough to cut himself open.
Then the jabs start.
“Hey Mercer!” One of the vets bellows from down the bench, smirking like a devil. “Where the hell’d you pull that out of? Cap’s playbook or your ass?”
The others bark laughter, tapping sticks, egging him on.
Elias just grins wider. Green eyes wild, curls bouncing under his cage as he bangs the glass. “Better question—how’s it feel knowing I’m already better than you, old man?”
The bencherupts.The Wranglers are snarling, the refs whistling, and Elias just keeps grinning, skating back to the dot like he owns it.
He’s loud. He’s mine.
And I’m smiling.
The second Elias opens his mouth, chirp flying like a blade, I know what’s coming. Rival vets are predictable—always hungry to bury the loudest kid on the ice. And my pup? He’s painted himself neon.
It happens next shift.
Elias bursts across the blue line again, fast as fire, puck on his stick. The barn’s roaring, Wranglers scrambling—and then their defenseman lines him up.
Shoulder.
Elbow.
Cheap.
The hit’s late, blindside, crushing Elias into the boards so hard the glass rattles. He drops, body folding, stick clattering against the ice.
The whistle doesn’t blow fast enough.
I’m off the bench before the crowd even gasps.
First stride is calm. Second is fire. By the third I’m a freight train. I don’t bother with the puck, don’t bother with the play—I go straight for the bastard who touched him.
Impact.
Brutal.
