Six–four. Reapers.
Elias spins at the whistle, howling and launches into my arms mid-stride. We crash into the boards, helmets slamming together, and for one second he forgets the crowd, the cameras and the other players. His breath pants hot through his cage as he mutters, “Sir. That one was for you.”
My glove closes around the back of his neck and he shudders. “Good boy,” I growl, low enough only he can hear it.
Viktor skates past, deadpan. “Next time, wait until locker room.”
Cole howls behind us. “DON’T ACT LIKE YOU’RE NOT HARD, PETROV!”
The bench erupts in chaos, and the horn blares for the second intermission. 6–4. Two periods down.
But I don’t take my eyes off Elias—not even as we skate toward the tunnel, backs soaked in sweat, helmets hanging from our gloves. He’s buzzing. Shining. Fucking radioactive with adrenaline.
And if any Wrangler lays one dirty hand on him next period, I’ll put them in the hospital.
The second the door swings open, chaos detonates.
Elias and Cole stumble in first, laughing so hard they can barely walk straight. Cole’s wheezing clutching his ribs with one hand and his stick with the other, and Elias—Christ—he’s red to the roots, curls soaked, jersey clinging to him like a second skin.
“You—” Cole gasps, pointing at Elias, tears in his eyes. “You fucking—‘Daddy in the booth?? I can’t—I’m dead—”
“I panicked!” Elias chokes out, doubled over in laughter. “I blacked out! The chir just happened!”
They stumble past Viktor, who just raises one eyebrow as if he’s disassociating from this entire team.
Mats smacks Elias on the back with a towel. “That’s gonna be on every replay highlight, bro.”
“Good,” Elias says between dying wheezes. “Let them hear who their daddy is.”
The vets cackle and Tyler shrieks while Shane mimes a heart attack in the corner, the whole bench dissolving into noise and chaos. Then I step inside, and the sound cuts in half like I flipped a switch, helmets clattering back into their stalls and gloves hitting the floor as even Cole backs up a step.
But Elias—my fearless center—whips around instantly, blurting, “Did you see that, Cap?” with green eyes shining, still high from the goal and still lit up like nothing else in the room exists.
I stare at him as his grin widens, and when I speak—“Yes, pup”—I’m already pulling the tape off my wrists. “I was right behind you.”
The room chokes on the silence that follows, and then Cole, because of course it’s Cole, slaps a hand over his heart and gasps, “Sir. Yes, sir. Did my chirping make you proud, sir?”
Elias snorts so hard he nearly folds in half again.
I don’t look at Cole. My eyes stay locked on Elias until I see his knees twitch and his grin falter a little under the weight of it, because he knows—he feels it—and he knows I’m proud.
Viktor clears his throat once. “Intermission?”
Right.Focus.
“Bench quiet,” I bark. “Get your asses rehydrated and listen up.”
Everyone scrambles as bottles crack open and tape gets peeled, Cole fake-pouting like I personally stole his spotlight while Elias drags his jersey off and slumps back onto the bench, curls matted and chest heaving, still laughing like he can’t help himself.
I step in front of the stalls, plant my feet, and let my voice cut clean through the hum. “We’re up two, and they’re bleeding for this win, which means they’re coming out in the third like dogsoff a leash. You let them bait you into stupid penalties and you’re benched, and if you let them touch our center, you answer to me.”
A ripple moves through the room as Elias bites his lip, and he fucking glows.
“Play smart. Play fast. Keep your heads. And for fuck’s sake,” I growl, gaze slicing toward Cole, “keep your mouths shut.”
Cole throws both hands up. “I am the mouth! You knew this when you drafted me, Cap!”
Shane snorts and Mats groans while Elias, still red as hell, looks like he’s fighting for his life not to giggle again. The horn blares and the third period starts, and the Wranglers come out swinging—not smart and not tactical, just rage strapped to skates. Their sticks get looser, their hits get higher, and I can see it in the way they grind their teeth behind the cages that they’re done playing hockey and hungry for blood.
