Shane yells, “Don’t touch him, he’s sacred!”
I collapse under the spray and let the water slam into me, the force of it hitting like another check. Chest heaving like I ran through hell, because I did.
The water’s not even warm yet. I don’t care. I press my forehead to the tile, dripping, trembling, burning from the inside out, and whisper, “We did it. We fucking did it—”
And then it hits, the stomp of skates, the clatter of gear, the shriek of laughter, followed by the entire team barreling in after me.
Cole tackles me sideways, helmet to helmet, screaming “YOU PSYCHOPATH LEGEND!”. Shane dumps his water bottle on the shower spray for dramatic effect. Mats slides across the floor on his knees and crashes into my leg like a bowling pin. Tyler’s laughing, yelling. “I passed! I passed!”
I’m on the floor in a dogpile of chaos, soaked, exhausted, and I’m laughing.
The chaos is deafening. Water everywhere, steam rising, gear flying, Cole shrieking something about “SHOWER CAKE,” Shane howling because Mats tried to shampoo his hair mid-celebration, and Tyler absolutely failing to escape a group hug turned hostage situation.
Then silence falls—not gradually, not in the way it usually creeps in after a win. This silence cuts through the room like a blade.
Damian is still in full gear, every inch of him soaked in the aftermath of war. His shoulders are squared, chest rising in that slow, deep rhythm that means he’s not done yet. The tape around his wrists is peeling, loose and curling. There’s dried blood arcing along his jaw from some brutal hit nobody even saw, and sweat clings to the column of his throat.
His skates strike the tile once, then again, each step echoing with weight—louder than it should be, slower than it needs tobe, an announcement that turns every head and even makes Cole shut up.
Damian doesn’t speak. He stands there, taking up the whole goddamn doorway, and scans the room like a warlord returning to survey his battlefield.
And then his eyes find me. I don’t try to get up. I blink up at him dazed and completely wrecked in a way only he could have done.
He doesn’t speak either. His presence is louder than anything he could say. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts one gloved hand. His finger extends, silent, commanding as he points to the door.
That’s all it takes. No words. No explanation.
The boys don’t argue. Not one of them dares. They scatter like roaches under a floodlight, scrambling and slipping, tripping over gear, hauling ass in every direction. Cole grabs Shane by the hoodie. Mats is already laughing. Tyler’s yelling, “I’M NOT LOOKING, I SWEAR!” while somehow looking everywhere, and still, no one dares delay.
The door slams shut.
And just like that, we’re alone.
Steam curls thick around us, wrapping everything in heat and haze, the water hissing in the background as it crashes into tile. My chest heaves, muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline, every breath dragging through lungs that still feel like they’re on fire.
Damian steps forward at an unhurried pace, every inch of him carved from control and quiet menace. He doesn’t rush. He lets the distance close on his terms, until his shadow swallows me whole and he’s towering there, undeniable and inescapable.
Then he crouches in front of me. Not gently. Not with care. He lowers himself with predatory intent, deliberate and precise, like something closing in on prey that’s already too wrecked to run, and knows it.
One hand lands on my chest, firm and anchoring. The other reaches up, grabs the edge of my helmet, and tugs it off with one fluid motion before tossing it behind him without looking. The sound of it hitting the tile barely registers.
I blink up at him.
“You ran,” he murmurs, voice low and dark.
I nod, dizzy from the closeness, from him.
“You scored.”
I nod harder, desperate for more—for anything he’ll give.
“You’re mine.”
“Always,” I whisper, wrecked.
He growls low in his throat, eyes black with need, and then his hands are on me, peeling away my gear. One piece at a time. Each of them discarded with methodical ease. Then he grabs the bottom of my jersey and rips it over my head in one smooth, brutal motion.
I gasp, shivering under the spray.
