His lashes flutter. Finally, finally, he looks straight at me.
“If you think,” I growl, low and lethal, “that one loss is going to stop me from marrying you, you are out of your goddamn mind.”
He sucks in a breath with trembling lips and his voice cracks when he whispers. “But… but you said… win the Cup, get the ring—sir, you said—”
“I know what I said.” My thumb brushes his cheek, wiping the salt off his skin. “And I meant it. You will win. Because you’re my center and you don’t fucking fold.”
He shakes his head, tears streaking down his cheekbones, blood dripping from his knuckles to the floor. “But if I lose—if I lose you won’t—”
I stop him with both hands on his jaw, forcing him into stillness. “Baby,” I whisper. “The ring’s waiting for you.”
He freezes completely.
“At home,” I add quietly. “I picked it up last week.”
Elias’s eyes go huge—green, glossy and stunned—and he lets out the tiniest, broken sound before collapsing against me, forehead pressing into my chest, fists curling in my jersey like he’s trying to climb inside me. His whole body shakes with the force of the emotion riding him. I wrap both arms around his back and hold him tight, burying a hand in his curls as he sobs silently into me.
I shouldn’t have said it. I know exactly what kind of chaos I just unleashed. I know he’s going to tear the apartment apart tonight searching every drawer, every closet, every pocket for that box. But fuck it. It snapped him out of the spiral. It brought him back to me. And right now that’s all that matters.
I kiss the top of his head. “You hear me, pup? One loss means nothing. You’re mine. You’re safe. And you’re not losing a damn thing.”
Outside the locker room, the Bastards celebrate. In here, Elias shakes in my arms and clings like he’ll never let go.
His breath catches against my chest, still ragged from crying, still clenched tight in the aftermath of panic. I keep my arms locked around him, thumb stroking the back of his neck, grounding him with every slow pass. My jersey is soaked with sweat and tears and blood, and I don’t care. He’s shaking less now. The tension slowly drains from him. He hasn’t let go of my jersey, though, his fists are still balled in the fabric.
And then, quietly, so quietly I almost miss it. “What if I’m not good enough to win it for you?”
My hands go still as he says it like a confession, lifting his head slowly, eyes rimmed red, curls limp, freckles drowned in a storm of pain and doubt—and I see it, all of it, every crack, every bruise, every jagged sliver of pressure he’s been carrying since playoffsstarted, since I told him: win me the Cup, baby, and I’ll give you everything.
I cup his face again, firm but gentle, making sure there’s nowhere for his eyes to run but to mine. “Elias Mercer,” I say, slow and sharp, “if you ever say that bullshit again, I will bench you for emotional misconduct and kiss you stupid in front of the whole damn team.”
He tries to glare. It melts halfway through, mouth twisting like he doesn’t know if he wants to cry again or snap back.
“Not good enough?” I growl, pressing my forehead to his. “You’re the reason we made it this far. You’re the engine. You’re the fucking heart. I don’t give a shit about scoreboards or series leads or playoff stats. I want you. And you—” I press my hand to his chest, over his racing heart, “—are already mine. Cup or no Cup. You understand me, pup?”
His eyes flutter shut as if he’s trying to believe it. Then they open again, softer now. He nods once, barely a movement, but it’s there. That tiny flicker of trust. Of hope. Of belief in something that isn’t the weight of the world he built on his own shoulders.
“Say it,” I whisper.
He swallows hard. “I’m yours.”
“Good boy.” I kiss his temple, then his cheek, his mouth—soft and deep. Not hungry or possessive. Just ours.
The room is silent around us. The team’s still there, sitting, changing, watching. But no one moves. No one dares interrupt.
I’m crouched in front of Elias, carefully tugging at his jersey, unbuckling pads. He’s still sniffling, but the worst of the storm’s passed. His cheeks pink, not red, his eyes wet but no longer overflowing. Still pouty as hell, though. He glares at his own shin guard.
“Stop sulking,” I murmur. “You played like a goddamn demon.”
He huffs, arms limp at his sides, still vibrating under my hands.
Then Coach walks in and the whole room stills. Grant McClellan, old-school tyrant and our unapologetic, cigar-chomping warlord, surveys the room with a single glance. He clocks Elias instantly—crumpled, blood-specked, exhausted, gear half-off, freckles all blotched from crying—and smiles.
Smiles. Not his usual gnarled smirk or that crooked half-grin that means someone’s about to get verbally skinned alive. No. A real smile.
Elias frowns like that expression threatened his life.
“Move, Kade,” Coach says, stepping forward.
