I feel Elias still beside me. His chest is heaving. He throws his gloves the second that buzzer screams, rips his hands free, skates to dead center ice, and with every ounce of exhausted, triumphant, petty rage still left in his bones—flips off the scoreboard. Both hands. Fingers high. Arms stretched like he’s claiming the whole world.
The crowd loses it.
Cole tackles him from behind mid-celebration, knocking them both into a heap, and they roll across center ice. Elias is shouting something incoherent, Cole’s echoing it louder, and somewhere in the stands a Reapers flag is waving.
I watch—helmet in one hand, stick resting across my shoulders—just watching him.
Becausethat? That’s the face I want to see after every goddamn game. Curls wild, mouth split open in a feral grin, body lit up like it runs on fire and joy and spite in equal fucking measure. That’s the boy I chased. That’s the one I’ve bled for. That’s mine.
Coach claps me on the shoulder once as he passes. Doesn’t say a word, just smirks like the bastard knows exactly what I’m thinking. And then he disappears, vanishing into the tunnel like a goddamn phantom before the press can get their claws into him.
They'll get to me instead. They always do.
We’ve got one more game to win before we touch the finals.
One more war.
But right now? I’ve got my boy smiling again. And that’s enough.
Elias skates straight into me like he’s been waiting for this moment all game. His gloves are still off, jersey loose around his hips, cheeks flushed pink from exertion, mouthguard dangling from his teeth. He grabs handfuls of my jersey on either side of my ribs, tugs hard, and tilts his face up toward mine with those stupid, shining, bratty green eyes that see straight through every wall I’ve ever built. His curls are a sweaty mess, but I push them back anyway. He’s grinning. My thumb brushes his cheek, and I lean in low, so no one but him hears. “Good boy,” I whisper.
He lets out the softest sound, barely audible, and drops his forehead straight to my chest like I short-circuited his entire goddamn brain. I wrap one hand around the back of his neck, steady and low, keeping him there for a second longer, enough to ground him, to own him. Just long enough that the entire barn knows who he belongs to.
“I NEED CARBS!!” Cole screams from somewhere near the blue line.
Elias cackles into my chest.
Fans are going wild in the stands. Security’s barely keeping the chaos back. And then, because apparently tonight’s not done being unhinged, a teddy bear comes flying out of the crowd and lands with a soft plop at Elias’s skates. It’s dressed in a little Reapers jersey. Number 19 stitched on the back.
Elias shrieks. Actually shriek-screams and drops to snatch it up. He holds it high like Simba on Pride Rock, turns to show Cole, who’s wheezing so hard he might need CPR, and yells, “LOOK, IT’S ME!”
This goddamn team.
This goddamn boy.
I don’t even bother to hide the smirk as we start heading toward the handshake line, Elias still holding the bear like it’s made of gold, fans still screaming like we won the Cup.
The second Elias spots the press near the tunnel, his whole posture changes. He straightens his spine, adjusts the curls on his forehead with an unnecessary amount of swagger, and marches toward the reporters.
They descend—microphones, flashing lights, questions lobbed at rapid-fire.
“Elias! That was a hell of a finish. How do you feel about the win?”
“Do you think you can keep up this momentum into the next game?”
“Elias, who were you pointing at when you flipped off the scoreboard?”
He just grins. Smug. Sweat-slick and panting, but completely in his element.
And then someone asks the question.
“Elias, that teddy bear the fans threw, it seems like it hit you right in the skates. And you’ve held onto it ever since. Is it, uh… significant?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even hesitate. “It’s my son,” Elias deadpans, cradling the bear with dramatic reverence. “His name is Captain Jr. I’m a single dad now. Gotta win the Cup for him.”
Silence.
Then Cole howls from behind him. Shane starts choking on a bottle of water. I’m two steps away, jaw clenching like I might actually explode from the secondhand embarrassment, but also, fuck, the pride.
