And then Viktor turns to me. I’m still sitting, clinging to air. But he doesn’t let that slide. He storms right over, grabs me by the front of my jersey, and yanks me up so fast my feet barely touch the floor.
His face is right there.Eyes like steel. Voice a snarl that vibrates in my bones. “You don’t choke today, pup. You hear me?”
I blink. My throat closes. I can’t—
“He’s watching. You know he is.”
My heart stutters, my chest caves, and I nod—I nod—and Viktor lets go as we walk.
The hallway is loud, vibrating under our skates. The Reapers move as one—black and red and teeth. My head’s spinning, butmy feet move. Out of the tunnel, into the blinding lights of hell itself.
The arena erupts.
I can’t even hear the music. Just screams—black and red banners waving, Reapers flags flapping, gold flashing from the opposite side of the stands. My name is being screamed from somewhere. And I skate forward, fast and deadly, because this is it.
First period blows open. The puck hits ice and vanishes in the chaos, Viktor slams back into the net, Cole takes the left wing, and I take center like it’s my last breath. We explode across the ice.
Two minutes in, Cole scores and the barn goes nuclear. Our bench explodes, and I scream so hard my throat burns. But the Icehawks strike back, coiled and ready; five minutes later, they tie it. Viktor growls in net, slamming his stick against the post so hard it echoes, and I see it in his eyes—ice-cold, surgical focus settling in.
We circle again. Another shot blocked. Another rebound missed. The period spirals fast, devolving into a grind where every second feels like teeth, and every shift costs blood. I skate until my lungs shred, hit until my shoulders go numb, and scream at Steve from the bench—he’s on backup now in case Viktor keels over, and I swear I will die before that happens.
The final shift of the period, I set up Cole again—shot, post, in.
2–1, Reapers.
The buzzer screams. And so do we. We flood off the ice like wolves with blood in our teeth, and the crowd’s still howling like hell opened under them.
One period down, two to go.
I slam onto the bench, heart in my throat, lungs blazing. My fingers tremble as I rip off one glove and grab my phone from the cubby in my stall.
One new message, from him.
That’s my pup. Good boy.
The world stills. I swear I stop breathing for a second. Just stare at the screen like it’ll vanish if I blink. My throat burns, my eyes sting, and I press the phone tight to my chest trying to absorb the words straight into bone.
He’s watching. He saw me. And a slow, feral grin curls across my mouth as I shove my glove back on.
Game on.
We reset, hit the ice. The second period opens like a firestorm. Cole breaks the line, threads the puck to me—shot. Saved. But Mats crashes the crease on the rebound and slams it in.
Goal.
The bench erupts but the Icehawks retaliate fast. They’re moving quicker now, but it’s messy, desperate. They tie it up within minutes, clawing back with everything they’ve got.
We come at them again. I draw defenders like a magnet and drop the puck back. Cole’s already there, hammering it in from the blue line.
3–2.
But these bastards don’t quit. The Hawks come screaming back and score again. By the time the buzzer sounds, it’s a 3–3 tie, and the air is vibrating with tension thick enough to choke on.
Back to war.
I slam down on the bench so hard my stick rattles between my knees. My chest is heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. Beside me, Cole flops into his seat, helmet half off, curls a mess, panting.
I grab his jersey, yank him toward me, and snarl straight into his face, “They’re not taking this from us.”
