By the time I reach the tunnel, Viktor has one arm under him and Mats has the other, dragging him along while Elias keeps chirping, half-conscious and soaked through, his mouth still running even though his knee is done and his leg won’t bear weight. They haul him into the locker room and now he’s slumped against the wall on the bench, one skate half-untied and the other completely forgotten, sweat slicking his neck and his pads creaking every time he tries to move—and he still hasn’t shut the fuck up.
“Did you see that screen?” he groans, grinning through the exhaustion. “I’m basically the new goalie coach. I taught that puck where to go with my mind.”
Cole howls. “That puck deflected off your ass, Mercer.”
“Exactly,” Elias slurs. “Strategic butt.”
Shane mutters something about Jesus, Viktor looks ready to yeet Elias into a tub of ice, and Tyler keeps inching closer likehe wants Elias’s seat. I step into the room. Silence. Every head swings my way. I don’t speak; I walk as I strip off my gloves and my helmet and drop them in my stall without breaking stride. When I reach Elias, he looks up, glassy-eyed and glowing.
“Cap,” he breathes. “We won.”
“I know.” I crouch in front of him and grip his injured leg gentle. “You didn’t tell anyone it got worse.”
He grins, high on blood and victory. “Didn’t want to be benched. You said win. I won.”
“Idiot,” I mutter, but my thumb strokes slow over his knee anyway. “Good boy.” His lashes flutter and his whole body slumps in relief.
Then I hook my fingers under his pads and start undoing his gear. Elias makes a strangled sound. “S-sir—”
“You can’t move,” I say as I peel off his shin guard and set it aside. “You’re not taking these off alone.”
“I—I could try—”
“Pup.” My voice drops low. “Let me take care of you.”
His mouth shuts and his hands curl around the edge of the bench, knuckles going white as he nods once, small and trusting, and that’s good. I unbuckle the rest of his pads slow and deliberate, peeling off his jersey and sliding the soaked undershirt over his head without rushing or teasing, just handling him and stripping him down to compression shorts, trembling thighs, and the bruises already darkening along his hips.
His breath hitches every time my hands touch skin.
“You played like a demon,” I murmur. “Made me hard from the fucking box.”
He whimpers, and behind me Cole chokes out, “Oh my God, I’m still here.”
I ignore him, my eyes never leaving Elias’s. “You win me Game 4,” I growl, “and I’ll let you come without using your hands. Onthe floor. In my lap. While the team’s still in the building.” Elias moans.
Viktor stands up. “I’m leaving.”
“I was never here,” Mats mutters.
“I need therapy,” Shane whispers.
Cole throws his hands up. “I NEED TO UNHEAR WITH FIRE.”
Elias bites his lip, his whole face red, but he’s panting and nodding already. “Yes, sir. I’ll win it. I’ll—I’ll ruin them.”
“Good boy,” I rasp. And I help him to the showers. Because he’s mine. And he earned it.
By the time we hit the tunnel, Elias is clinging to my back.
His arms locked tight around my neck, his thighs hooked over my hips, chest pressed to my spine. His knee’s shot. He can barely walk. And he refuses to take the wheelchair the arena staff offered.
So I carry him.
Black jacket over his jersey. Helmet clipped to his bag. Curls damp from the shower and sticking to my neck. Every few steps he nuzzles in like he’s trying to fuse with my spine.
Behind us, the rest of the Reapers trickle out. Cole still high off victory, Shane doing a weird dance, Mats texting without looking up, Viktor watching everything. The Wranglers already cleared the other tunnel, sulking and silent.
We’re about to walk straight into a goddamn circus, because the press is waiting—cameras, lights, recorders, mics shoved forward like bayonets. Elias makes a pitiful noise and buries his face in my neck. I tighten my grip on his thighs and keep walking.
