It’s the third game, the score tied on the board with half the clock still left to bleed out, and Elias is skating like a demon.
I don’t mean fast—I mean possessed, the kind of movement that looks less like strategy and more like something feral clawing its way out. His blades tear the ice into streaks as he cuts tight corners and takes reckless lines, always moving, never looking back. Number nineteen blurs black and red along the boards, curls flying loose, his mouthguard chewed to absolute shit between every faceoff.
The Wranglers come in desperate, their sticks swinging mean and ugly as shoulders ride high and elbows sharpen with intent, because this isn’t hockey anymore—it’s war dressed up in skates and jerseys. They’re two games down and one loss away from elimination, and they know it, the panic practically dripping off them and soaking into the fabric of their sweaters where you can almost smell it.
But Elias doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t fold; he thrives in the violence, leaning into it like it’s oxygen, like this is exactly where he was always meant to be.
I lean forward on the bench, arms braced on my thighs, helmet tucked under one arm. My shoulder brushes Viktor’s, but he doesn’t move. The crowd is a damn roar—Wranglers home barn, orange everywhere—but all I see is him. My center. My pup. The pretty little shit who hasn’t stopped skating like his soul’s on fire since the puck dropped.
And God help me, I almost get hard watching him.
Because he’s everything I made him, and there’s no hesitation left in him anymore. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t wait, and doesn’t look for permission that no longer exists, because he knows exactly who he is and what he’s allowed to take. He dominates the ice with the certainty of something finished and perfected, something that was shaped to do exactly this and nothing else.
"Christ," Cole mutters beside me, watching the same shift. "He's not even human tonight."
“Shut up,” I growl.
Elias slams shoulder-first into the Wranglers' alternate captain, knocking the stick clean from the fucker's hands. The crowd boos. Elias grins. That sharp, rabid smile I’d rip someone's teeth out for. And then he spins, scoops the puck from behind the net, and cuts back up the ice like a goddamn missile.
I stand without meaning to, my body moving on its own before my brain can catch up, and the rest of the bench shifts with me like they feel it too, like there’s something coiling tight in the air that’s about to snap. Viktor doesn’t say a word, but his eyes track Elias the same way mine do, cold and focused and unreadable, because he’s always been sharper than he looks. He’s captain material, the kind that doesn’t need to announce it or want it, and that might be the most dangerous thing about him.
Elias rips through two defenders like they’re barely there, and Cole—mouthy bastard that he is—is already flying up the wing, laughing as he chirps a Wrangler mid-pass like this is all a gameto him. Elias sees it, reads it, times it perfectly, and with one flick of his wrist sends a no-look pass slicing clean across the blue line.
Cole catches it in stride and, with a single touch, sends it right back to him, the play unfolding like a goddamn symphony written in motion and instinct. Elias doesn’t hesitate as he buries it top shelf, glove side, bar down—a sniper shot so clean it feels like it goes straight through the fucker’s soul. The red light explodes and the goal horn shrieks, and Elias throws his arms wide, his face lit with that dangerous, wild grin that makes the rest of the world disappear for me.
My chest rumbles as my grip on the helmet tightens, and the hard line of my jaw never cracks even though inside I’m nothing but pure fire. Because he scored for me, and I know it, the same way I always do.
He skates toward the glass with his teeth bared, screaming into the roar, and Cole slams into him from behind, laughing as he knocks them both into the boards. Mats follows, yelling in Spanish, and the whole first line piles on until it’s a full Reaper avalanche, bodies and noise and chaos everywhere.
But my eyes never leave Elias. He peels out of the pile last, eyes bright, that fucking mouthguard half-out between his teeth like he wants me to shove him against the wall and fuck him breathless.
My tongue presses against the back of my teeth.
He looks up, searches the bench, and finds me. Our eyes lock. I nod and his grin twitches wider. Brat.
Cole’s still howling. “WHO’S YOUR DADDY, ORANGE COUNTY?!” Ref glares at him. He doesn't care.
I barely hear any of it, because my center just gave me the lead, and the rest fades into noise. And when the game is over, I’m going to reward him for it—slow enough that he forgets how to breathe.
Next shift, I’m on the ice with him. And we’re vicious. Elias lines up at center. He bounces on his blades, neck twitching side to side, mouthguard chewed down to a stub, sweat slicking those blond curls against his forehead. I see the way the Wrangler across from him leans on his stick, already tired and stupid.
Drop the damn puck.Let the kid tear him open.
The ref does, the whistle shrieking sharp through the noise, and Elias explodes into motion like it only flipped a switch in him. Faster than sin and cleaner than steel, he wins the draw without breaking rhythm and sends the puck flying to Viktor like he doesn’t even need to look. Then he pivots, cuts clean between two orange jerseys, and takes off up center ice.
I chase left, Cole flanks right. We’re a goddamn trident.
Wranglers scramble, trying to collapse the zone, but Elias slices through like a scalpel. He toe-drags around their defenseman, spins off a shoulder hit, keeps possession even while he’s chirping mid-sprint.
“You breathing heavy already?” he taunts. “Or is that just Daddy up in the booth watching me fuck you?”
The Wrangler lunges—too late. I’m there first.
My shoulder slams into the fucker’s ribs, sending him flying into the boards. His stick skitters uselessly and the crowd erupts in booing rage.
Elias screams, “THANK YOU, CAPTAIN!” and buries the puck deep in their zone.
Mats recovers it and dishes wide to Cole, who’s laughing as he chirps, “Suck my whole dick, Orange County!” before firing a sniper pass back to me across the slot. I don’t hesitate for a second as I wind up and unload a slapshot that’s clean and brutal, the puck ringing off the crossbar, clipping the goalie’s shoulder, and going in.
