I’m shaking. This was supposed to be ours—this game, this final, this win—and now it’s even. Tied. Dangling by a thread, slipping through our fingers. And Ihateeven.
Third period hits like a goddamn freight train. Every one of us is on edge, coiled tight, teeth grit, breathing ragged through the cages. The locker room was dead silent before this. Only the sound of tape ripping, water bottles clinking, and Shane whispering prayers in Russian like he’s invoking a miracle.
We hit the ice like thunder.
And Damian’s beside me. First shift, he skates up to the line like a predator, shoulders loose, eyes calm. I match him stride for stride, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd.
The puck drops and the Hawks change. They start body-slamming.
Not dirty. Not like the Bastards. No, these fuckers are legal—they hit hard enough to rattle your bones but never enough to draw a call. Elbows tight, shoulders square. No trash talk, no shoves after the whistle. Hit, recover, regroup—like it’s programmed into their blood.
One by one, they start hammering us.
Viktor gets slammed in the corner. Cole takes a clean but brutal hit behind the net. Mats gets sent flying across the blue line. Shane’s screaming from the crease, trying to rally us, but even he can’t mask the panic building.
I get slammed into the boards so hard I see stars—ribs rattling, glass shuddering, the crowd gasping loud enough to echo in my skull.
But I get up. I always get up.
And Damian’s there immediately—like he felt the hit ripple through the ice—skating up beside me without a word, without even a glance, his shoulder brushing mine.
I catch my breath, grit my teeth and I get back in position. Because if these gold-blooded, stone-faced motherfuckers think we’re folding, they’ve got another thing coming.
Next shift, Damian retaliates. The puck hasn’t even dropped yet and he’s already skating tighter, lower, more lethal. That slow, terrifying stillness he wears? Gone. What’s left is pure violence.
I feel it before I see it. The Hawks captain—big, fast, probably smart enough to do taxes in his sleep—has just stepped over the blue line, chasing a loose puck. He doesn’t see it coming. Doesn’t hear the warning. Doesn’t feel the shift in the air.
But I do.
Boom. Damian slams into him like a wrecking ball made of fury and muscle and every unsaid promise he’s ever made to me. The hit echoes. The sound of it ricochets around the arena. The Hawks captain crumples mid-stride, skidding across the ice.
The crowd loses it. Reapers fans scream as the air vibrates with rage, glee, and pure bloodlust.
The whistle comes late—too late.
The ref hesitates and Damian’s already skating off, calm as a god, his expression unreadable behind the cage, while their captain is still trying to remember his own name. He doesn’t even glance at the ref. Because that? That wasn’t a penalty. That was legal. That was the message.
Come for our crease again? You’ll regret it. Come for our captain? He’ll make you bleed.
The Hawks pause for a second, but it’s enough. And in that second, I skate up beside Damian, grab his jersey at the hem, lean in close enough to taste the sweat and thunder in the air, and murmur, “Marry me harder, captain.”
He smirks as he gets back in position.
One second, the puck’s snapping off a Hawk’s stick with sniper precision—low, left side, guaranteed to slip in under the glove. The next, Shane drops into a full split, legs scissoring so fast you can hear the fabric strain, glove flashing out to snag the puck mid-air like he’s been waiting all game for this exact goddamn moment.
SNAP. Whistle.
“FUCK YEAH, GOALIE JESUS!!” Cole screams from the bench, half-standing, punching the glass with his glove. “FUCK ‘EM UP, GUMMIBEAR!”
Shane stays down for half a beat longer than necessary, like he knows how filthy that save was, then flips the puck out of his glove with casual disdain and skates backward like he just did a magic trick.
Reapers fans are howling.
Tyler looks like he’s about to cry from relief. Mats punches Viktor in the chest. I’m shaking with adrenaline and pride and this wild, vicious joy that tastes like metal on my tongue.
Because we’re still in it. Still holding. Still alive.
And Shane just bought us another chance. Another minute to breathe. Another shift to reset. Another shot at glory.
