June second. Twenty-one. The little brat hasn’t shut up about it since morning skate, chirping nonstop about how he can finally drink without asking for permission, how I can’t ground him anymore, how he’s legally allowed to make bad decisions now and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Still under my contract, pup,” I muttered into his ear when he tried to sneak an extra gummy from Shane’s stash. “Your ass is mine until playoffs are over.”
And Elias, smirking, bright-eyed and panting, looked over his shoulder and said, “Then fuck me into next season, sir.”
I nearly called practice early.
But we didn’t.
We drilled hard—pushed every rep, every shift, to the edge—because the team knows. The Cup’s close now. One more monster left, one last brutal climb, and none of them—not a single damn one—wants to see Elias cry again.
The rookie’s theirs now—ours—and every man on this team would fight to the death just to see him skate that trophy. He’s grinning, curls soaked and plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging to his chest, doing that obnoxious bunny-hop thing he does whenever he’s trying, and failing, not to look proud of himself.
“Pup,” I call from the bench, one hand still loose on my stick, the other gripping my water bottle like it’s the only thing keeping me from grabbing him right here.
He skates over, panting, flushed, eyes bright, grin wide enough to split him. “Yessir?”
“Happy birthday.”
He blinks, surprised. Tilts his head like I just broke script. “No sarcastic remark? No you-still-skate-like-a-rookie?”
“I was going to say you still owe me twenty suicides.”
He groans.
I smirk. Then I lean in, slow, enough to make him wait for it, fist curling in his cage as I drag it down to meet mine. “But I’ll let you off early today.”
His brows lift. “You will?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes locked on his mouth. “Because I’m gonna ruin you later, and I want your legs working for it.”
Elias makes a sound that is absolutely not legal to produce on ice.
Cole yells from behind us, “SOME OF US HAVE INNOCENT EARS, YOU PERVERTS!”
“Who?” Shane says. “Name one.”
Cole points.“Tyler’s innocent!”
Tyler startles so hard he nearly drops his stick.“What did I do?!”he yelps, wide-eyed like he got accused of murder.
Viktor snorts. “You were born.”
“Rude,” Tyler mutters, hugging his water bottle.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Cole chirps, skating over and slinging an arm around the poor kid’s shoulders. “You’ll lose your virgin ears eventually. Just not in this locker room.”
“That is not comforting,” Tyler says, looking mildly traumatized.
Shane skates by and pats Tyler on the helmet. “I lost my innocence in warmups, bud. It’s tradition.”
Elias is cackling now, leaning into me. “God, they’re so fucking loud.”
“You’re one to talk,” I mutter, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him in. “You scream louder than all of them combined when I’m three inches deep.”
The chaos erupts again.
Tyler dies inside. And Elias just turns red and chirps right back. “That’s because I enjoy my cardio,sir.”
