Third period. Tied again. 2–2, and this bloodbath won’t let up. The Wranglers are playing desperate, violent, and dirty, just like they have every damn game in this round. Orange streaks across the ice like roaches trying not to die.
But I’m not watching them. I’m watching him. Fastest center I’ve ever seen. Most vicious little fuck I’ve ever coached. And the only one dumb enough to throw himself into a final playoff game with a knee that looks like it should be in a brace, not under skates.
Viktor tried to bench him before the game. Pulled me aside in the locker room and muttered, “It’s too risky. We’ve got Tyler.”
And Elias laughed and said, “With all due respect, Vik, you’re notfucking me. He is. And I’m still the best damn center you’ve got.”
He wasn’t wrong.
So now we’re here. Last ten minutes of the last period in what better be the last game of this goddamn series. And I’ve got my defensemen playing closer to the line, I’ve got Mats tailingElias like a bodyguard, and I’ve got my fists curling every time a Wrangler gets near my center.
Elias’s skating has a hitch now. Barely noticeable if you don’t know him, but I know every twitch, every pivot, every shift of his goddamn weight. His right knee flares up every time he turns too sharp, and his teeth grit through it—but he doesn’t stop. He’s snarling on ice, chirping back at the vets, slamming shoulders into glass harder than anyone else on our team except me. Like he’s forgotten what restraint is.
And I swear to God, I’ve never wanted to fuck someone more than when I see him like this—feral and flashing teeth, curls flying, blood on his jersey from a collision that wasn’t even his fault.
“Back the hell off, orange boy, or I’ll gut you,” Cole shouts across the ice after some Wrangler defenseman tries to hip check Elias into the boards. He always the first to chirp, but this one’s got venom in it. That’s the thing about him—he jokes until he doesn’t. And when someone goes for Elias, he stops pretending.
The ref doesn’t catch it, but Mats does. The next shift, he slams that same Wrangler into the glass hard enough to leave an imprint. The guy wheezes as he goes down, stick skittering across the ice. Cheers erupt in the stands and the bench loses it. Shane’s roaring in the goal, barely keeping it together with how many shots he’s blocked this period. He’s been muttering superstitions all period. Latin, maybe? Or just goalie demon tongue. He’s locked in, white-knuckled, foam flecking from under his mask.
I’m seconds from snapping my stick over someone’s neck. Not because we’re losing. We’re holding. Barely. But because they keep gunning for him. They see Elias wobble once, and now every bastard in a Wrangler jersey thinks they’ve found the weak spot.
But that’s the thing about Elias Mercer. He’s not weak. He’s pain in the form of speed. He’s rage stitched into skates. He’s my center, and the second someone actually lands a hit to that knee—I’ll fucking end them.
I don’t even feel the ache in my ribs anymore. Took a bad stick earlier, maybe bruised. Doesn’t matter. My eyes are on him.
Puck drops again and Elias bolts like he’s on fire, wins the draw clean, and shoves past two Wranglers without blinking. His shoulder smacks hard into the captain’s cage. The guy flinches. Elias laughs.
The puck swings right. Cole catches it and skates lightning fast down the edge of the rink, with Elias on his tail.
Viktor calls something in Russian behind me. And all I can think, watching Elias slice through orange jerseys with that damn smirk on his face, is that he’s two different fucking people. A cocky, bloodthirsty menace on ice. A puddle of “Yes, sir,” in my bed.
Fuck, I love him. “Come on, baby,” I growl under my breath. “Finish it.”
But the chaos moves in the crease. Shane’s crouched low, teeth bared under his mask, a whole swarm of orange trying to bury the puck under his pads. The crowd’s a hurricane, pounding against the boards like they can force the clock to bleed slower. One Wranglers wing is ramming Shane’s stick, another slaps the puck again and again, every shot sharper, hungrier.
I see red, and I’m there in a heartbeat—glove down, stick dragging behind me, eyes locked becausehe’s mine. I yank the puck out of the chaos without thinking, just moving on instinct, and Shane’s snarling behind me while the crease turns into a war zone. But I don’t pass. I don’t even look. I launch it with every ounce of force I have left. Glass shatters in the roar of the arena as the puck skids across the ice—fast and vicious—right into his stick.
Elias catches it clean like it was made for him, and the second he has it, he bolts. God, the sound of his blades cutting into the ice is obscene. His body leans low into the speed, curls flying, black-and-red streaking like sin and vengeance down center ice. Every breath in the arena holds. Even the Wranglers know.
They lunge after him. Too late. Because Elias isn’t skating like he’s part of a team anymore. He’s skating for blood. His eyes lock on their goalie like it’s personal. One shot. One brutal shift of his weight.
And then—crack. The puck screams past the goalie and rips into the back of the net so hard it shakes, and Elias lets out a scream that shakes the fucking boards. I hear it in my ribs. In my teeth. His momentum nearly barrels him straight into the goalie’s arms, but he pivots—last second, brutal on that knee—and slams into the boards instead, chest first, one glove up, face cracked wide with a snarl of victory.
Horn.
The arena detonates in red and black. And Elias is still pressed against the boards like a war god who just ended a kingdom, glowing.
I’m skating before I even know it. So are the others—Cole screeching like he’s possessed, Mats slamming his stick against the ice, Viktor muttering something vicious under his breath as he barrels across the rink.
I get to him first. I grab him, lift him clean off the ice, and slam my mouth to his in front of the entire goddamn stadium. Because he earned it. Because he’s mine. And because that goal didn’t just end the game. It ended the Wranglers.
Elias drops his stick and reaches straight for me. His hands rip the helmet off my head first, then his own, curls soaked in sweat, green eyes blazing like he’s already forgotten we’re on the ice, in the middle of an arena roaring for blood. And then he clings. Legs around my waist, arms locked around my neck, mouth onmine so hard it rattles my jaw. I taste sweat, spit, adrenaline. He’s shaking in my arms, half-laughing, half-wrecked, and I don’t care that the whole world’s watching.
I kiss him back harder. Grip his ass like he’s mine in every sense of the word. Because he is.
“Cap,” he gasps against my lips. “Cap—I told you I’d do it—”
“I know, pup,” I murmur against his mouth. “I saw.”
