“I missed that block,” he whispers.
“No, you didn’t,” I snap. “That wasn’t your man. That was the ref swallowing his whistle and the bastard slipping coverage. You skated your heart out, pup.”
Elias sways on his blades.
Cole tries again, gentler. “Baby, it’s one game. First we’ve lost all playoffs. First you’ve ever lost. It’s okay to feel like shit. But it’s not your fault.”
“I scored,” Elias says again. “And we still lost.”
“You played your best fucking game yet,” Cole says, fierce now. “You were a demon out there. If anyone says otherwise, I’ll bite their goddamn face off.”
Elias finally looks at him. Just for a second. Then at me and whispers, “I can’t lose again.”
My hand curls around the back of his neck tight and grounding. “You won’t,” I say. “You hear me? You won’t. Not with me. Not with us. We’ll take the next game and make them bleed for this one.”
Cole nods, stepping up beside him. One arm loops over Elias’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. “Next time, babe. You and me? We’re gonna make them regret ever stepping on our ice.”
Elias nods.
We’re forced into the handshake line, but Elias barely participates. He doesn’t shake. Doesn’t chirp. Doesn’t nod or pretend to tolerate the ritual. He skates past every single Bastard with his chin high, jaw locked, and eyes cold enough to kill frostbite.
Some of them still try. One reaches out and Elias flinches so hard I almost slam my stick through the guy’s ribs. Cole mutters “Jesus Christ” and pats Elias’s back as if to say good job, you petty little gremlin, but even he doesn’t joke too loud. Not now.
Because Elias isn’t sulking. He’s fuming, and it’s leaking off him like radiation.
The second the line ends, we head toward the tunnel, sticks down, helmets off, sweat slicking every inch of gear. Shane is dead silent. Mats is mumbling to himself in Spanish. Viktor hasn’t unclenched his jaw since the buzzer.
And then the press swarms us. Flashes start going off before we even hit the mouth of the hallway. Mics shoved in our faces. Questions flying. The team knows the drill—keep walking, don’t react, don’t say anything stupid.
But Elias…
Elias gets swarmed.
“Elias! Elias! This is your first playoff loss. Are you okay?” one reporter shouts, pushing forward.
He doesn’t even register the question. “What?” he blurts, wild-eyed.
“How do you feel? Are you disappointed in the team performance? Is it personal?”
I grab Elias’s elbow before he can answer. His eyes snap to me, huge and glassy and barely holding it together. “Tunnel. Now,” I mutter low, shoving past the cameras with him close to my side.
Cole blocks another reporter with his whole damn body. Viktor growls at someone. Shane barks something about shoving a mic up someone’s ass. I walk faster, Elias beside me like a storm tethered on a leash.
Elias hits the locker room. A full-body explosion of panic, rage, and heartbreak. His stick clatters to the floor, his helmet bounces once, twice, and then he slams his fist into his locker door so hard the metal caves inward with a sickening crunch. Blood splatters when his knuckles split instantly. He jerks back, staring at the mess like he can’t tell whose blood it is, chest heaving, curls plastered to his temples with sweat. The entire room freezes. Cole shuts up mid-sentence. Mats stops unlacing his skates. Even Viktor halts.
But I don’t think. I’m at his side in two strides, catching his arm before he punches again, shoving myself between him and the dented metal. “Pup!” I growl, grabbing his shoulders before he can swing at anything else. “Look at me.”
But he’s somewhere else. Somewhere spiraling. His breaths come sharp and too fast. He pushes against me, not hard, but desperate, fists trembling, voice breaking. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”
“Baby.” I cup the back of his neck, force him to look up. “Look at me. It’s okay.”
“It’s not!” Elias chokes, slamming his bloody hand against my chest like he’s trying to shake the truth out of me. “What if we lose?? What if—we—what if the Bastards—Damian—”
Myname. My fucking name. It lands like a punch to the ribs. He’s said “sir,” “captain,” “cap,” “you,” “hey asshole,” but never that. Not to me. Not when it mattered. And now he’s using it like a lifeline, wrecked, eyes wild, like he’s begging me not to break him in half.
I grab his face immediately, gentle, but firm, hands on his cheeks, foreheads almost touching, holding him still. “Elias. Eyes on me, pup.”
He tries, but panic keeps jerking his gaze away, every blink a new wave of fear. So I hold tighter. “Eyes. On. Me.”
