Third period.
Barn still howling, lights bright enough to blind, the Wranglers desperate, clawing for a comeback.
Doesn’t matter.
Because Elias Mercer is loose on my ice.
Kid explodes out of the faceoff like he’s been lit on fire. Curls flying, mouth running, mouthing off so loud I can hear it from the blue line. Wranglers try to pin him—shoulders, sticks, hooks—but he won’t fold. He cuts through checks like they’re nothing.
I see it in the way he carries himself.
Every stride is for me.
Every cut, every hit, every scrap of speed—mine.
He throws himself at Cole’s size just to win a battle on the boards, pops out with the puck like it’s a prize he earned bleeding, and wings it to Mats who buries it in the net. 4–1.
The barn detonates. Sticks slam the boards, fans scream his name, and Elias—he doesn’t look at the crowd. He doesn’t celebrate with the boys.
He skates straight across center ice and locks eyes with me.
Grin feral, like he’s daring me to say he’s not good enough. Like every reckless second out here is him begging me to watch.
I smirk through the cage. Just enough. Just for him.
And he plays harder.
He teases Wranglers until they snap, drops into scrums twice his size, takes crosschecks to the ribs and bounces back up like he’s unbreakable. The refs are screaming, the benches are howling, and I don’t move an inch.
Because this is what I’ve been drilling into him.
Not just skill.
Obedience.
Devotion.
And he’s giving me all of it.
By the time the horn sounds, Wranglers are wrecked and the scoreboard reads 5–2. Reapers storm the ice, Cole whooping, Shane dropping to his knees like he’s seen God, Mats chirping the bench into silence.
Handshake line’s a mess of taunts and grudges. Wranglers grip too hard, spit too much, Cole mouths off until Mats elbows him into silence. Viktor nearly crushes a man’s hand. The crowd’s still buzzing, our barn dripping with victory.
By the time we break, the boys thunder toward the tunnel—sticks clattering, helmets half-off, jerseys soaked through with sweat. Cole’s already narrating post-game like he’s on SportsCenter, Tyler wheezing beside him, Shane muttering prayers about miracles on ice.
Elias lags.
Not much—just enough.
Those eyes still sharp under his cage, cheeks flushed. The kid’s glowing. Grinning like he just carved his name into the ice.
I wait.
One stride. Two.
The tunnel swallows us in shadows, the roar of the barn fading behind concrete and steel. Boys’ voices echo further ahead, too loud, too careless. Elias turns just enough to glance back—
And I’m there.
