Gold is everywhere. Not just on the jerseys—the fans, the glass, even the lighting. It’s like skating inside a goddamn chalice, gleaming and pretentious, and I hate every second of it. The air reeks of expensive aftershave and smugness, as if everyone here was born rich and has never been hit in the face with a puck. Their anthem singer had glitter on his mic. Glitter.
Now we’re losing—and losing hard. Third period, and the scoreboard taunts us: 5–2, Hawks. They’re clean, sharp, cold as hell, like they studied every second of our last two wins, broke down our rhythm, dissected our shifts, memorized every pattern we had, and came back with upgraded software and zero hesitation.
And we’re crashing. Cole missed a one-timer he’d normally bury in his sleep. Mats got bodied at the blue line and spun out like a rookie. Shane’s screaming into his glove between whistles. Tyler looks two seconds from puking on the bench. And Elias?
Elias is sitting on the bench, because I had to pull him.
He was spiraling so hard last period—breath too fast, hands twitching, passes off, eyes everywhere but the puck. He missed a wide-open net, snapped his stick across the boards, and nearly bodychecked our own defenseman.
So I grabbed him, yanked him down and now he’s sitting next to me, helmet still on, curls plastered to his face, mouth open and desperate for air he can’t seem to catch.
I don’t look at him, but I feel him shaking.
“Cap,” Cole pants, sliding onto the bench beside me after another failed shift. “They’ve got us. I don’t know how, but—they fucking have us.”
I nod once.
We’re not getting sloppy. That’s the worst part. We’re playing our game. But they’ve anticipated it. Read it. Countered everything. It’s like fighting a mirror that learned how to hit harder.
Elias twitches beside me. I glance down and see his gloves clenched so tight, the padding strains around his fists.
“Pup,” I say, low and quiet just for him, enough to reach through the noise.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on the ice, wild and feral, but not focused. It’s not hunger I see—it’s panic.
I lean in closer, my voice cutting sharper now. “Elias.”
His head snaps toward me.
“You’re not broken,” I tell him. “You’re just overheating. Let me cool you down.”
He swallows hard, then gives a single, sharp nod. But I can see it, clear as day, he doesn’t believe it. Not fully. And the clock keeps ticking.
I don’t send him out yet. Not until I see him again. Not until his eyes stop darting like he’s about to pass out or puke or cry.“Look at me,” I say, low and sharp, fingers curling around the back of his neck.
He flinches, but he looks, and for one second—one heartbeat—I see it: him, that fire, that rage, that desperate need to earn me.
“Breathe.”
He does, rough and shaky.
“Again.”
Slower this time, deeper, and his gloves loosen just a bit.
“You’re not losing,” I say. “Not the game. Not me. Not yourself. You’re still in this, pup. But you have to choose to be.”
His jaw ticks. His helmet shifts when he nods.
“Good,” I mutter. “You’re with Cole next shift. Get me that fucking goal.”
He blinks. “With Cole?”
“Yeah.” I lean in closer. “Because that bastard chirps so loud it drowns out everything else, and I need you to stop thinking and start skating.”
And then I stand, grip the boards. “Vance. Mercer. You’re up.”
Cole’s already flying over the wall. Elias stumbles, then moves. And the second his blades hit the gold, he locks in. It’s not perfect. His first shift is messy. The puck wobbles. He overcorrects once. Nearly gets clipped by a Hawk defenseman. But Cole’s screaming at the top of his lungs, “LEFT, CURLS! CUT LEFT YOU SEXY BASTARD!” and something clicks.
