His voice drops, low and lethal, right against my lips. “I’m gonna fuck that name into you tonight.”
And that’s it. My knees give out. My soul leaves my body.
The anthem is still shaking the air, fans are waving homemade signs, and Cole is now actively dragging Viktor toward the open ice like he’s about to start a conga line—but all I hear is that promise in Damian’s voice.
Start of the season. Fresh ice. New blood. Same chaos.
We took a two-week honeymoon after the wedding and fucked like absolute rabbits. I mean feral, multiple-location, nearly-got-kicked-out-of-the-resort sex. Elias was insatiable. Curious. A menace with lube and no shame. We broke a bed. Nearly drowned in a hot tub. I think he tried to bend the laws of physics at least once in a hammock.
We needed another week to start walking straight again.
And by we, I mean me. Elias just bounced around the house like a freshly wrecked golden retriever in a wedding ring. Grinning. Naked. Sometimes wearing just his damn captain’s “C” and a smug little hickey on his throat like it was part of the uniform.
He’s officially Elias Nathaniel Kade now. Legally. The ID is framed in our bedroom like a trophy. And every time a fan shouts “KADE!” at an event or a signing and we both turn at once? He grins devilishly. Sometimes I think he’s doing it on purpose.
But today—today is opening practice.
I stand at center ice with a whistle in my mouth, clipboard in hand, arms crossed like I didn’t just spend the summer with my husband’s thighs around my head. The barn is colder than usual, fog clinging to the fresh-cut surface, the stands echoing empty except for a few lingering staff and media waiting to see if I’m going to throw a rookie off the roof.
I might.
Because the chaos is already brewing.
Elias skates out first—C stitched on his chest, jersey tight, curls wild under his helmet, that feral Reaper grin already locked and loaded. He looks like sex and violence and fresh sin.
Viktor follows behind him, no C, just the alternate bar like he always wears it. He doesn’t want the captaincy. Never did. Said it years ago when I asked. “I don’t want the crown,” he told me, “I just want to protect the king.” Now, he skates beside Elias like a shadow with teeth.
I blow the whistle.
Cole and Shane come crashing onto the ice, yelling something about matching jockstraps and hydration schedules. Tyler’s already chirping at a rookie. Mats is sipping from a protein shake and filming everyone on his phone. I clock three new faces in various stages of panic and awe, all of them wide-eyed and twitchy, watching the team like they’ve been dropped into a lion’s den wearing meat suits.
Welcome to the fucking Reapers.
“Line drills!” I bark. “Captain Kade, run your centers.”
Elias perks up immediately. His grin goes sharp. “YES, COACH,” he yells, way too loud, and then skates backwards, his curls bouncing. “First rookie to fall gets Viktor’s cup as a souvenir!”
Viktor glares at him. “You do not want this cup,” he says, flat as a blade. “It has history.” The nearest rookie visibly gulps.
Cole skates past me, snaps his gum, and teases, “Nice whistle, Coach Kade. Is it new? Did your husband buy it for you with kisses and oral contracts?”
“Strike one,” I mutter, already regretting everything.
“I’m just saying—” Cole winks, “—you’re glowing.”
Before I can murder him, Shane skates up behind and stage-whispers, far too loudly, “They definitely used the Stanley Cup as a cum bucket—”
“STRIKE TWO.”
The rookies look horrified. I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. Same team. Same circus. But god, it feels good to be home.
The drills begin—tight, fast, organized chaos. Elias takes over instantly, voice sharp, commands clear. He skates like he was born on blood ice, weaving between lines, correcting posture, barking out shifts. The rookies listen like he’s a prophet. The vets just grin. They’ve seen this before. Elias on the ice is Elias in command.
He earned that “C.” Every inch of it.
I lean on the boards, whistle between my teeth, and watch for a moment. The ice, the team, the heartbeat of this madhouse we built. And him.
My husband.
