They want ours, and I’ll be damned if they get it.
Our line rolls back out with twelve minutes on the clock, Elias at center and Cole already chirping on the wing while I hang left with my blades steady and my jaw locked. Mats and Viktor set up behind us, Shane settles into the net, and the Reapers’ war machine clicks into full tilt like it knows exactly what’s coming.
We line up in orange and black, two wolves and one rabbit, only a stick drop away from violence. Elias doesn’t bounce this time and he doesn’t grin; he stares across the faceoff circle like he’s about to carve his name into the other guy’s chest. The Wrangler tries to lean on him, to bully him off balance.
Elias twitches once—shifts weight, slams the heel of his blade into the dot, and snaps, “Don’t breathe on me unless you’re ready to die.”
Drop.
He wins the puck. Spins out, fires down the middle, flying full-speed into the neutral zone. Cole peels wide, baiting defense, giving Elias a clear path. I shadow left, waiting, watching.
And that’s when it happens. A Wrangler—number 76, cheap fuck—slashes him. Not a poke, not a stick lift, but a full, vicious, two-handed chop right to the back of Elias’s knee, and he drops hard. My vision goes white as the whistle shrieks and the fans scream, Elias curled on the ice clutching his leg, teeth bared. And I lose it; I launch straight into 76’s path, my gloves hitting the ice and my stick flying.
I grab his cage with one hand and slam my fist into it with the other—once, twice—until the fucker stumbles and blood sprays. He tries to swing back, but I already have him by the throat, dragging him down to the ice as the refs blow their whistles like their lungs are on fire.
“You touch him again,” I snarl, voice lethal, “and I’ll carve your fucking name into the boards with your teeth.”
He chokes and whimpers without even trying to fight back, and the crowd is on its feet while the booth is probably melting down in real time. Cole is screaming something behind me—“HOLY SHIT, CAPTAIN’S COMMITTING A FELONY!”—and Viktor is already hauling Elias up by the arm, checking his knee and holding him steady like nothing else matters.
Elias tries to stand and stumbles, and something in my chest snaps hard enough to hurt. The refs finally get their hands on me and haul me off, send me to the box with ten for misconduct, which is fine—worth it. Because when I pass Elias on the way there, his face is pale, his lip split, and his eyes light up the second they land on me.
“Sir,” he breathes, barely a whisper.
My fingers twitch against the boards. “I’ve got you, pup,” I rasp back. “Always.”
Viktor’s dragging Elias off the ice, one arm around his waist, the other bracing his elbow. Elias limps, trying to bite down the pain like it’s not there. But it is. I can tell from the way his left skate drags, the way his mouth keeps twitching like he’s about to scream and doesn’t.
They hit the bench. Cole's still on the ice yelling “REF, HIS NAME IS LITERALLY 76, HE WAS BORN TO SIN!” while Mats body-checks a Wrangler behind the play.
Viktor doesn’t waste time. “Bench,” he orders, low.
“No,” Elias snaps, chest heaving.
“Your knee—”
“I said no.” Elias grits his teeth, ripping his glove off to swipe sweat from his face. “Tape it. I can still skate.”
Viktor’s face doesn’t move. Not an inch. “I call Coach. Get Tyler in.”
Elias’s eyes go feral. “I will die before I let Tyler play center this period.”
“You almost did,” Viktor deadpans. “You fall again, we lose possession. You fold, you get benched and I tell Captain.” As if I can’t hear them from across the ice.
“Tell him whatever you want!” Elias bites, flushed red and furious, curls plastered to his forehead, sweat streaking his eye black. “I’m not folding. I never fold.”
He slams a bottle of water down, grabs a roll of tape, and starts wrapping his own knee with it, the tape crooked and his hands shaking so badly it’s almost ugly, but he doesn’t care. It’s pure feral determination, all teeth and will and refusal.
Viktor watches him for a second, then lifts his gaze across the rink, straight to me. I’m still in the box, trapped behind plexi with blood on my hands, and I lock eyes with Petrov and smirk.Your problem now,my expression says.You’re the one with the “A” on your chest.
Viktor exhales like he’s aged ten years. “Fine,” he mutters. “But you fuck up once and I carry you off.”
Elias grins. “Yes, sir.”
“Not me,” Viktor snaps. “Call him sir. I just clean your messes.”
Elias is already hopping the boards before the tape’s even done, practically vibrating, high off adrenaline and spite. Cole howls and throws both fists in the air when Elias slides up beside him at center.
I don’t take my eyes off him for a second, because he’s not limping anymore—he’s skating for me—and when the final score hits 9–5 Reapers, we haven’t just won, we’ve fucking buried them. Elias stays on the ice like his knee isn’t throbbing, and by the time the horn blares he’s barely standing, collapsing into Cole like a puppet with its strings cut while I’m still serving the tail end of my misconduct, growling behind the glass and twitching to break through it.
