Reapers fans are everywhere. Half the arena’s a sea of black and red—jerseys, war paint, glitter signs with my number sharpied over hearts. I clock one sign on the dash glass that says PUCK ME, MERCER and another one with CAPTAIN’S PUP in all caps with a sketch of a dog collar under it.
I shouldn’t love that, but I do.
Hawks fans are louder, though, at least for now. Their colors bleed gold and deep red, sleek and polished and arrogant as hell. They chant in waves. Unified. Not wild like Reapers fans. Not chaotic. But…solid. Like they expect to win.
But Reapers fans? Reapers fans are feral.
As I skate out behind the first line, something catches my ear through the thunder. High up. Unhinged. “I LOVE YOU, MERCER!”
I grin before I can stop it, sharp and fast and crooked. Damian’s beside me, a few strides ahead, and I swear he heard it too—he doesn’t react, but I know that jaw clench.
Our fans aren’t just loyal, they’re rabid. And tonight, packed shoulder to shoulder in a stadium that’s already vibrating with noise and need, they don’t want a win.
They want blood.
The Hawks are already on the ice. Lining up, barely looking at us. Their captain is tall, clean-cut, efficient. Doesn’t smirk. He waits and I hate him already.
I circle once, heart jackhammering, lungs burning too fast too soon, and try to remember everything Damian drilled into me this week. Stay low. Anticipate their pivot. Don’t overskate the puck. Let Shane see—they crowd the net.
But all I can feel right now is the ice under me and the thousands of screaming voices above and the weight of everything this game means.
The second the whistle blows, we swarm. Tight formation, jerseys brushing, skates slicing little halos into the ice. Viktor looms behind me. Cole leans on his stick, breathing hard but silent. Mats cracks his neck. Tyler fidgets, he’s trying not to puke.
Shane’s crouched in his crease, gloved hand twitching, mask angled down. He hasn’t said a word in minutes. He’s been still. Watching. Waiting.
I skate up to him.
I don’t tap his helmet. I grab it. Fist tight around the grill, yanking it down until we’re eye to eye through the bars. His pupils are dilated. He’s vibrating.
Good.
“Make them regret coming close to you,” I snarl.
Shane growls deep in his throat, eyes flaring. I shove his helmet back into place and turn fast, skating into position before the ref can say shit about it.
Behind me, I hear Shane slam his stick against the post once. Twice. Then again.
The crowd erupts. The puck drops and game 1 begins.
The first period is hell. Not bloody. Not wild. Worse. It’s clean.
Every pass. Every shift. Every movement from the Icehawks is like watching a machine dissect us in slow motion. They don’t throw hits. They don’t chirp. They don’t need to. They keep coming—cold and calculated. Every time we think we’ve got a lane, they’re already there. Closing it. Reading it. Breaking it apart.
And still, we hold.
Nobody scores. Nobody breaks.
I’m skating like my bones are trying to outrun my brain. Every shift, I’m drenched. Every shift, I’m second-guessing. Every breath, I’m scanning, thinking, what did I miss? what did I miss?
Cole’s not talking. That’s how I know it’s serious. His jaw’s locked. He’s skating fast and hard, backchecking, but he hasn’t made a single joke. Not even to me.
Damian? Unbothered. He’s moving like this is what he was made for. Gliding between defensemen, calm and lethal and already seeing five plays ahead. When we switch lines, he taps my shoulder once and says nothing else.
Shane is a wall. A wall. Not flinching, not cracking. Every shot that comes his way, he absorbs like he’s been waiting for them. Two, three, five—he takes them all. Every save makes the Reapers fans scream louder.
“Let’s go, Reapers!”
“Mercer! We love you, baby!!”
