He whimpers.
“You’ll have everything.”
He sobs once. A quiet, broken, perfect sound.
“Now,” I whisper, hips rolling again, slow and deep. “We’re not done.”
The locker room is buzzing. Not loud. Not chaotic. Not like usual. No, this is different. This isfinals.
The air feels tighter somehow, like the oxygen’s been rationed and everyone’s sucking on the same last breath. No one’s chirping. No one’s laughing. It’s all shallow breathing and gear creaking and the low hiss of tape being wound tight around sticks and wrists and ankles.
We made it.
And now we’re facing the Icehawks. They’re not like the Bastards. Not goons. Not brutes. The Hawks don’t fight unless they’ve already won. They're surgical. Precise. We’ve been watching tape for weeks, memorizing plays, learning their patterns. I’ve seen their captain take a puck and pass it like it was planned ten plays ago. I’ve seen their goalie stop a three-on-one without blinking. They don’t flinch. They calculate.
Shane’s already in full gear in the corner, jersey bunched at his elbows, helmet on, eyes closed, lips moving in frantic little whispers. His leg bounces like he’s trying to skate off his sins.
Tyler’s pacing, sweating through his base layer before we’ve even hit the ice. He keeps wiping his hands on his thighs.
Mats and Viktor are stone-cold. Suited up, staring at nothing, syncing their breathing.
Cole’s dead silent. No chirps. No cackles. He's sitting there in his corner of the bench, taping his stick with sharp, aggressive strokes, not even looking up.
Damian’s calm. Terrifyingly so. He’s sitting at his locker, taping his blade with that same lethal precision he uses for everything—me included. His hair’s still damp from warmups, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing with every pull of the tape. And his gaze? It’s not here. Not in this locker room. It’s already ahead, already on the ice, already seeing how this ends.
The ring. Fuck. The ring.
My heart stutters.
I’m fully dressed, skates laced tight, mouthguard tucked into my glove, helmet waiting beside me. I should feel ready. I should feel like I earned this. But instead, I feel like I’m going to puke all over my shin guards.
Because this is it. Game 1 of the finals.
The last climb. The last bloodbath. The last team we’ve got to beat before I get the ring, before I get him. Before I finally get to walk off the ice into his arms and hear the words we’ve been circling around like cowards for two goddamn months.
One more. That’s it. That’s all we need.
And suddenly it feels too real. Too big. Like everything might collapse if I blink wrong.
What if we don’t make it? What if I choke? What if they’re faster than us, sharper, colder? What if Shane cracks? What if I miss a faceoff? What if I let themscore firstand the whole team spirals and Cole breaks something and Tyler can’t handle the pressure and I—
“Pup.” The voice cuts through everything. Low and commanding.
I blink. I didn’t even notice I was staring at the floor, helmet still clutched in both hands, breathing too shallow to be safe. My head jerks up.
He’s looking at me. Just me. Everyone else is moving, talking, stretching, chirping, but not him. He’s still. Focused. “You’re okay,” he says. Just that.
You’re okay.
And I believe him. It’s not loud. It’s not even a pep talk. But something about the way he says it, like it’s fact, unhooks the noose around my lungs.
My fingers relax on the helmet. My pulse steadies. My throat still burns, but the panic starts tobend.
I nod. A tiny one, but it’s enough. He sees it and goes back to his stick, taping the final line with a slow, clean rip. The kind of calm that comes beforeviolence.
God, I love him.
The second we hit the tunnel, the noise hits us like a wall—thick and electric, vibrating up my blades and into my ribs. Drums, chants, clapping, stomping, shrieking. The kind of roar that drowns out your own blood.
