He wins the first faceoff so clean it makes the air snap.
The Bastards try to swarm, but we’re faster. We’re meaner. We’re starving. Mats lands the first hit—beautiful, brutal, bone-rattling. Cole puts one of their forwards into the glass so hard the crowd gasps. And I slam into their captain three times in the first five minutes, just to set the tone. You don’t make our center cry and skate away clean. You don’t break Elias Mercer and expect mercy.
Elias scores first.
Of course he does. Dangles through traffic like a ghost, jukes left, spins, fires glove-side top shelf. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t yell. He skates back to center, breathing hard, ready for more. It’s not joy on his face. It’s vengeance.
They score next. Bastards always do. Dirty move, screen in the crease, but we don’t blink. Shane glares death through his mask, Cole chirps the ref so hard he gets a warning, and we push harder.
Viktor scores next. Slapshot from the blue line so loud it rings off the boards. The bench erupts. The Bastards try to respond with elbows, slashes, but we don’t bite. Because Elias gets another faceoff. Wins it and snaps the puck to me like we practiced a thousand times. I catch, pivot, pass to Cole, Cole back to Elias—boom. Net. Third goal of the game. The barn goes nuclear.
Elias is chasing something deeper than glory. He wants that ring.
I skate up beside him at the line, lean in, and murmur low enough that only he can hear. “You’re perfect, pup.”
He doesn’t smile, but his shoulders shake. A stutter. Just enough to know he heard me.
By second period we’re up 4–2. And the Bastards are cracking. They hate not being in control. They hate that Elias isn’t rattled. That Shane isn’t breaking. That I’ve got blood on my jersey and haven’t stopped smiling once. We hit harder. We skate faster.Elias is playing the best hockey of his life. Fast, unhinged and precise. Every pivot brutal. Every glance toward the bench a question he already knows the answer to.
Yes, baby. I see you.
Yes, I’m watching.
Yes, I’m going to marry the fuck out of you.
The third period starts with us leading, but I know the Bastards aren’t done. Their fans are already foaming, screaming down from the rafters. Green and silver flags wave like a threat, and the ice itself feels rigged, warped boards, sticky patches, chipped corners that weren’t there at warmup.
Still, we own them. They’re trying to play hockey, but we’re hunting.
Elias is glowing. He’s skating like he’s got jet fuel in his veins. Every shift, he wins the faceoff. Every shift, he breaks past the blue line. He’s grinding them down by sheer willpower, curls plastered to his forehead. And I know the signs, I know the way his knee’s starting to lag, the way his breaths are coming shorter, the way he keeps slamming into the boards as if he’s forgotten pain exists.
So I bench him. One shift, that’s all. One shift off. Just to keep his legs from blowing out before the series even ends.
The second I tap his shoulder and tell him to sit, he snaps. “What?” he barks, yanking his helmet up so hard his curls fluff. “Why?”
“Rest,” I mutter, calm. “One shift.”
“I don’t need rest,” he growls. “I need blood.”
“Mercer—” Coach tries.
Elias hisses at him.Hisses. Then turns back to me, eyes wild. “I’m not fucking tired.”
I arch a brow. “Pup.”
“Don’t ‘pup’ me, sir,” he snaps back, loud enough to make half the bench stiffen. “I’m fine. I’m good. I can skate—”
“You’re limping,” I growl.
“I always limp.”
“Not the point—”
“I’m scoring! I’m winning! I am—” He cuts off, chest heaving, eyes manic. And then he throws his gloves. Just hurls them down the bench. They bounce off Shane’s pads, and Shane glares at him like he’s about to stab him with a skate blade. Cole’s eyes go wide. Mats bites his lip.
He stomps down the bench like he’s about to fight me next. “I swear to fuck,” he growls, jabbing a finger at me. “You better win this shift without me, or I’m going back in myself and killing someone.”
I lean down, close enough to catch his collar in my fist, and snarl right against his mouth. “Sit down, Mercer, or I’ll tie you to the fucking bench.”
