Damian skates up last. The eye of the storm. He grabs my cage with both hands, leans in close, and growls, “Good. Fucking. Boy.”
I don’t even have time to reply before he pulls me into a bruising kiss through the bars, crowd roaring around us.
We won Game 1. And I want that damn ring.
I barely make it to the locker room before they descend—the press, like vultures circling blood. There’s no time to strip down, no time to feel. I’m still soaked in sweat, jersey clinging to my ribs, lungs wrecked from screaming and skating and surviving that last brutal shift, when the cameras hit me.
“Elias!”
“Mercer! Over here—!”
“Take us through that final play—”
I blink into the lights, frozen mid-step, heartbeat still pounding in my throat. The roar of the crowd still rings in my ears, distant now, muffled, replaced by mics, phones, and half a dozen voices firing at me all at once.
Breathe. Just breathe.
My hands are shaking. My legs are numb.
I should feel unstoppable, cocky, victorious, loud. But instead, I feel like I ran through fire and came out blistered. My chest still heaves, my throat’s raw, and all I can do is stare into the nearest lens, mouth dry, brain blank.
I force out a single sound, “Uh—”
And then he’s there. Sliding in behind me, one hand landing firm and heavy on my lower back. He doesn’t say anything to them. His presence alone is enough to make the press take a collective pause, the chaos pausing long enough for my body to remember how to breathe.
I inhale, then exhale and find my voice. “I heard him,” I say, hoarse and frayed. “Damian—Captain. He yelled for me. And I just… I ran.”
More questions crash in—louder, faster, hotter.
“How’d it feel?”
“Were you scared?”
“Was it planned?”
“No,” I answer honestly, blinking into the lights. “It wasn’t planned. It was everything. That’s what we do. He gives the order, I follow. That’s our game.”
A hush falls for a second, and I feel Damian’s hand slide higher possessively.
Then Cole screams from the hallway. “MOVE, PRESS WHORES, HE NEEDS A SHOWER AND A HUG!”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and lean back an inch, into Damian’s chest, grounding myself against the only thing solid in the room.
“You did good,” he murmurs low and quiet. “You gave me everything.”
I tilt my head up to look at him, lips parted from exhaustion and adrenaline. “I’ve got more,” I whisper. “One game down. Three to go.”
His smirk is slow, like he already knows. “That’s my pup.”
The second the locker room door slams shut behind us, I drop. Right to my knees. My legs buckle, hands catching on the floor, helmet still on, gear still strapped, and I can’t breathe because everything hits at once. The adrenaline, the screaming, the sprint, the goal—
Holy shit.
I crawl in full gear, half laughing, half crying as the room spins around me and my hands slap against the wet tile, dragging myself into the showers like it’s the only place left to fall apart.
Cole’s voice chases me in, cackling. “SWEET MOTHER OF CHRIST, HE’S CRAWLING—HE’S FULL EXORCIST CRAWLING—SOMEONE GET THE CAMERA—”
Mats shouts, “He’s broken!”
