He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose like the very thought has physically aged him. I’ve never seen a man look so done and yet so completely aware he’s about to cave anyway. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this,” he mutters. “You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
I grin, not bothering to hide the satisfaction curling in my chest. “Then come see the Reapers. You’ll understand.”
He sighs again, slower this time. He crosses his arms, stares down at me, and finally relents. “Fine,” he grits out. “Fine. But I’m setting the terms.”
“Name them,” I say immediately, not even blinking.
“You wear a portable heart monitor the entire time. You don’t take it off. Not for photos. Not for a speech. Not for any goddamn reason.”
“Done.”
“You don’t walk on your own. Crutches, chair, whatever’s necessary. You don’t strain yourself. At all.”
I pause and shrug. “No promises.”
He glares, sharp and exasperated. “That one’s not negotiable. I’ll have your nurse tackle you.”
I roll my eyes, dramatically and without remorse. “Fine.”
“And,” he says, holding up a final finger, “I’m sending my best IV-trained nurse with you. You want to be there? You’re taking medical supervision with you.”
I arch a brow. “As long as they don’t get in the way when I kiss him senseless, deal.”
He mutters something under his breath in what might be Latin for this man is going to be the death of me and starts scribbling on a chart.
“Room’s booked,” I add casually. “Plane leaves at six. You’ve got four hours to pack.”
He stops writing and stares at me. “You already planned all this?”
“You’re late to the party, Doc.”
Flying without him felt wrong.
It felt fucking wrong.
Every bump, every rumble, every flicker of turbulence sent my nerves spiraling until I was gripping the armrest. And not even just the flight—everything. Waking up without Damian’s voice. Packing without his lists. Boarding without his stare drilling into the back of my head like don’t fuck up, pup.
He wasn’t there to say it.
But Cole was. He slid into the seat beside me like he’d been waiting for me to unravel. Didn’t even tease, just grabbed my hand and held it. Real quiet. Real firm. And I didn’t let go the whole flight.
Now we’re back in enemy territory. Icehawks ice. Gold everywhere. And I’m freaking the fuck out.
I’m sitting in the locker room, legs bouncing, sweat already slick on my spine, heart hammering loud enough I swear Shane—who’s sitting in the corner in his damn wheelchair like he might duct tape his leg and crawl into net—can probably hear it.
Viktor’s in the crease, our official captain right now, but even he looks tight today, focused, sharp. Mats keeps checking his gear over and over, like if something’s off, it’ll be his fault. Tyler’s chewing his mouthguard. Cole’s doing his best to keep the energy up, cracking jokes and bouncing on his skates, but even he looks nervous under the surface.
And I’m sitting here texting a man who can’t be on the ice with me.
Sir. I’m trying to breathe but it’s not working. It’s Game 7. What if I screw it up? What if we lose? I need you.
I stare at the screen. No reply yet. Doesn’t matter. I just needed to say it. Needed to get the panic out before it devoured me whole.
I tuck Captain Jr. under my arm—his stupid fuzzy face smushed against my ribs and lean forward, pressing my forehead to my taped-up stick. “Please,” I whisper. “Please let me skate this right.”
Viktor cuts through the noise. “Let’s win this.”
Everyone jerks up. Sticks hit the floor. Pads creak. The entire room shifts from chaos to mission in seconds.
