Goddamn it.
Fifteen minutes of mayhem. Of skating until my legs scream. Of blocking shots with whatever part of me’s still working. No one scores. Not them. Not us. Every man's bleeding. Every soul's on fire. I’m gasping, blinking through stars. Someone screams to bench me. “Don’t you fucking dare!” I bark, wobbling but upright. “I’m fine!”Lie.I’m not fine. I’m a pile of twitching muscle and stubborn rage. One shift away from being stretchered out. But I won’t leave. Not until that goal horn screams or I’m scraped off the ice.
And then I remember—I have one card left. I skate up behind him. My captain. My monster. “Caaaaaap!” I whine, dragging it out with every ounce of brat I’ve got left. “Make it stoooop!”
He turns, slow and lethal, eyes locked on me like I’m prey that begged for it. “Yes, pup,” he growls. And fucking scores. Wrister from the circle. Clean, precise and devastating. The puck sails top shelf, netting behind a Mauler goalie too stunned to react.
The horn explodes, the arena combusts, and I crumble. Right there on the ice. Helmet gone. Jersey stuck to my spine, every muscle shaking. I collapse in a panting heap, legs trembling, vision blurred with stars and sweat and him.
I don’t even know if it’s celebration or chaos when the boys crash into me. Cole’s shrieking. Viktor’s roar shakes my ribs. Mats is screaming something in Spanish. Shane’s cackling. And Damian—God, Damian is somewhere behind them, watching.
And I’m panting on the ice. Not from exhaustion—though, yeah, I’m wrecked. Not from victory—even if that goal just ended the longest damn OT I’ve ever played. But because Cole fucking Vance is clinging to me like a gremlin on a sugar high, cackling in my ear, screaming something about me being his emotional support brat. And I can’t stop laughing. We’re a tangle of limbs on the ice and Cole is definitely sitting on my ankle, but I’m too far gone to care. We’re just laughing. Wheezing. Collapsing intoeach other like idiots while the crowd loses its mind above us. “That was disgusting,” Cole pants between wheezes. “You little feral shit—that was art.”
I think I moan in agreement. Or maybe I just choke. Either way, I’m still smiling when a giant shadow looms over us.
“Handshake line,” Viktor deadpans, already grabbing Cole by the back of the jersey.
“Viiiik!” Cole whines, flailing as he’s hauled up.
But Viktor’s already turning, still clutching Cole, when his other hand snags me too. One massive gloved fist curls around my arm like a vice and drags us both. “Come on,” Viktor grumbles. “Act like professionals.” He’s not dragging us. He’s containing us. Because that’s what Viktor does. He holds the team together when the seams threaten to rip open.
“Too late!” Cole yells, eyes wild, legs flailing as he’s pulled toward center ice.
I stagger after them, still laughing, barely able to walk in a straight line.
Our helmets are off, gloves tucked under arms, cheeks flushed with heat and hysteria. I swear, we look like drunk chaos demons being marched to church by our long-suffering dad. “Ow, ow, ow—my knee!” I whine dramatically.
“Cry more,” Viktor mutters.
Cole yells something about medical malpractice, and I lean into him, both of us still giggling as we stumble into the line, hearts pounding, lungs still raw, grins wide. I glance back just once, and I see Damian, waiting and watching, his mouth curled into a private little smirk meant only for me. Yeah. We earned this one. Together.
I barely make it to the handshake line without tripping over my own blades, still high on adrenaline and Cole’s feral joy, when I feel it. A touch. Light and warm through my glove. I glance to the side and he’s there. Skating right behind me.One hand ghosting over mine, knuckles brushing, thumb sliding once across my glove. The other? Already locked in the firm rhythm of handshakes, one Mauler after another, ruthless grace in every movement.
But he doesn’t say anything, he’s just there, quiet and massive, touching me like a tether, a reminder that I’m never alone.
The line moves. Cole is chirping even now, smirking at every Mauler who flinched during OT. He tries to high-five one and gets ignored. “Rude,” he mutters. I snort.
And then Shane. Helmet on, cheeks flushed, mouth twisted in a snarl-grin combo. His gloves are still on, still clenched. This is what he lives for—mayhem, miracles, and that split second where no one can touch him. Our chaos. Our crown. Our goalie god.
The boys swarm. Cole gets there first, slamming into him with a loud, “Goalie fucking God!” and a helmet bump that almost knocks Shane sideways.
Then Mats crashes into him too. Viktor grunts and taps his forehead to Shane’s. Even Tyler throws himself into the pile yelling “Holy shit, Shane!!” He looks stunned. I shove my way in, grinning, lean forward, and bump my helmet to his. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters, chest still heaving.
“Right back at you,” I whisper, smiling so wide it hurts.
Behind me, I feel Damian’s presence still thick, watching it all.
His team.
His win.
The store is too bright.
Fluorescent lights hum like mosquitoes, bouncing off glass cases lined with diamonds, sapphires, emeralds—all the things men with too much money buy to patch bullet wounds in relationships they already let rot. I walk past them all without slowing. There’s only one case that matters. Only one order that’s been sitting in the back of this place, just waiting for the playoffs to crack open wide enough for me to come collect.
“Mr. Kade?” The woman behind the counter straightens too fast, hands twitching like she’s already braced for impact. She knows who I am—not from the games, not from the banners or the fights, but from the tab.
