And then it happens. The goddamn swarm. Cole hits us first, launching, slamming into both of us with a scream that could shatter glass. “Let’s go, bitches!” he howls. “That’s my legend—Someone put a ring on him already!”
Mats barrels in after, nearly takes out my left knee. Viktor yanks Elias off me like luggage and hauls him into a one-armed hug that looks more like a Russian hostage situation. And then Shane skids right up, plants both fists on his hips, and leans close enough to make Elias flinch. “Good game, rookie,” he says, deadpan. “You know, for a suicidal feral gremlin with a knee made of broken dreams.”
Elias flips him off without missing a beat. “Blow me, goalie gremlin.” Then he ruffles Shane’s hair and gives him a light bonk with the back of his glove, a classic helmet tap.
Shane shrieks like he’s been personally assaulted. “Don’t touch my curls!”
Elias laughs harder, face flushed, still clinging to Viktor’s jersey as if he doesn’t trust his legs to hold him up.
My center. My boys. My team.
We ended the Wranglers. We’re onto the next round. And Elias Mercer is still smiling like I hung the goddamn moon.
The party’s a mess.
Sweaty jerseys peeled off hours ago, shirts half-buttoned, music shaking the floor, and someone’s already passed out in the hallway with Reapers facepaint on their chest.
Elias is perched on the goddamn bar like a prince, leg propped, his knee finally wrapped proper by the doc this time. His cheeks are flushed, his curls a disaster, and he’s laughing so hard with Cole and Tyler it looks like he hasn’t stopped vibrating since the puck dropped. “Come on, Hollywood,” he’s saying, elbowing Cole in the ribs. “Buy me a drink.”
“You’re twenty, dumbass,” Cole groans, glancing over his shoulder.
Elias smirks. “And?”
“And I like living.”
Tyler’s useless, doubled over giggling into his hoodie while Elias leans into Cole with wide green eyes and a shit-eating grin. “He won’t kill you, Cole. Probably.”
“Probably?” Cole hisses. “That man choked someone with his skate lace in ‘08.”
“I was three in ‘08,” Elias chirps, tipping his empty glass toward Cole like a royal decree. “Time for reparations.”
Across the room, I lean against the wall, arms folded, one eye on the bar. Viktor stands beside me, hands in his pockets, quiet as ever. And next to him, Coach. He appeared ten minutes ago like a poltergeist in the mirror, holding a cigar that no one saw him light and judging everyone in a ten-mile radius.
And still, his voice is low when he says it. “You did it, Kade,” he murmurs, watching Elias with a scowl that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s got the best center stats in the league. A fucking rookie.”
My throat tightens. I keep watching Elias, bratty, bruised and limping. Laughing like he didn’t drag us into the next round with a knee held together by spite and tape.
Viktor hums low beside me. “His stats don’t show how fast he talks back.”
Coach grunts. “No. But they show how many faceoffs he wins.”
I huff once, but it passes for a laugh. Then I leave them behind. The crowd shifts as I move, players parting without thinking, eyes darting. The music thumps, the lights are low, and Elias is still perched on the bar like temptation incarnate. One leg bent, the other stretched out, mouth curled around a grin so smug I want to wipe it off with my teeth.
He doesn’t see me until I’m close.
Cole does. “Cap—listen—before you say anything—I did not buy him anything,” he blurts, hands up. “He tried to bribe me with a signed jockstrap, and I still said no.”
Elias gasps, scandalized. “Rude.”
I don’t say a word to Cole. Just raise one eyebrow while my hand slides slow to Elias’ thigh. He jolts slightly as I part his legs right there on the bar. The wrap around his knee pulls taut, his other foot hooks against the edge of the stool and I step between his thighs. The brat flushes pink immediately. I feel the heat rolling off him. His lips part, that stupid oversized hoodie falling off one shoulder.
My eyes cut to the bartender, cool. Steady. “Whiskey,” I say. “And something fruity for the brat.”
Elias lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree. His grin breaks across his face so wide it nearly hits his ears. “You’re letting me drink?”
“No,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along the inside of his thigh. “I’m watching you drink.”
Cole groans like he’s been personally assaulted and launches himself backward into Tyler’s arms. Tyler drops him instantly. Elias ignores them both—eyes locked on me. “Mango daiquiri?” he asks sweetly.
