The Mauler swings and misses, and Elias erupts in the same breath, launching off the ice and slamming him into the boards with enough force to rattle the entire bench, plastic shaking and glass groaning as every Reaper surges to their feet in one violent, collective motion.
“THAT’S MY FUCKING PUP!” I bellow, voice like thunder cracking across the barn. “FUCK HIM UP, MERCER!”
The Mauler folds like wet laundry. Elias doesn’t blink.
Viktor scoops up the loose puck with all the casual grace of a man who’s seen this shit before, skates right through the chaos, and slaps the puck top shelf past the Mauler goalie so hard I think the net shifts.
5–1.
I roar from the bench. Elias turns toward me, grinning, panting, blood streaking down his jersey, none of it his. He points to the Mauler writhing on the ice and winks.
Five-minute major and Elias grins the whole way to the box. He skates past the ref like he owns the league. “Was that not a clean hit?”
The ref glares, tight-lipped. “Benched. Five.”
Elias winks. “Fair. I needed a water break anyway.”
Cole’s howling, losing his mind on the ice. Mats tries to high-five Elias mid-escort. Shane’s in the crease, beating the glass with his glove like it’s a drum solo and we’re the headline act.
I’m grinding my teeth so hard I might crack one. I don’t want to bench him. Not when he’s fire incarnate. But five minutes is five minutes and we need a fucking center.
I turn to the bench. All eyes are already on me. “Brooks,” I growl. Tyler’s face goes pale. “Get in there. Take the faceoff.”
He blinks. “Me?”
“No, the ghost of Wayne Gretzky. Yes, you. Get your ass in.”
He scrambles, helmet askew, mouthguard dangling, stick half-taped like he just got drafted five minutes ago. I shove him over the boards before I can regret it. The poor bastard lines up across from a Mauler twice his size, hands shaking.
I lean over the bench. “Win it, or I bench your ass for life.”
He nods, a little too fast, like he might cry.
Elias is lounging in the box, slouched like it’s a VIP lounge, sipping bright blue Gatorade, legs wide, mouth running. “Hey,” he calls across the ice to the Mauler goalie, all sweet menace. “I liked it better when you cried after I scored. You okay, sweetheart?” He knows what he looks like. Blood on his lip, jersey clinging to sweat, legs sprawled like a fucking prize. And he knows I’m watching. That this isn’t punishment. It’s foreplay.
The goalie flips him off.
Elias winks.
God help me, I’m hard and homicidal.
The puck drops and somehow—by divine spite or sheer dumb fucking luck—Tyler wins it. Barely. Scrapes it back with the heel of his stick. Mats scoops it and hauls ass out of the zone.
The bench erupts. Cole’s laughing so hard he nearly topples over the boards. Shane’s pounding the glass like he’s got front row tickets to the apocalypse. Even Viktor raises a brow from across the ice.
Elias shoots upright in the penalty. “DID TYLER JUST WIN A FACEOFF?!”
Tyler turns, grinning like a golden retriever on crack. “I DID IT!”
“DON’T TALK TO THE OTHER TEAM,” Elias yells. “YOU’LL JINX IT!”
I bury my face in my gloves, trying not to laugh. Because yeah, somehow, the fucking rookie won a draw, and now he looks like he just earned a Medal of Honor.
I glance at the clock. Four and a half minutes until I get my center back just as the Maulers score.
Motherfucker.
Shane slams his blocker into the post so hard the whole net rocks. His mouthguard hits the ice and his stick almost joins it.
