But all I see is Damian not being here.
I can’t do this.
I can’t fucking do this. My chest tightens, fast and brutal, and I double over on the bench, palms pressed hard to my thighs. My hands won’t stop shaking. My breaths come short and choppy. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”
The panic eats me alive, fast and ugly. There’s no captain to glare me into place. No deep voice grounding me. No one to call me pup like it means I can breathe again.
“I can’t do this—” The words rip out of me, raw and loud. My voice breaks halfway through. I’m gasping, shoulders heaving, heart beating so violently I swear it’s echoing across the ice, thudding loud enough for the whole team to hear. I’m seconds from bolting. From puking. From collapsing right here in the middle of practice because everything’s too loud and too bright and too much.
“Mercer.” Viktor's voice cuts clean through it, snd somehow, it silences every ounce of the static screaming in my head.
I jerk my head up, breathing like I sprinted a mile, every muscle twitching under my skin. Viktor’s standing right in front of me, massive, and terrifying. His gloves are off, tossed somewhere behind him like this isn’t hockey anymore, it’s war. His mouth is a hard line. And his eyes? They’re ice.
“Stand up,” he says, cold enough to freeze blood.
I shake my head before I can stop myself, the motion fast and scared. My stomach turns over. “I—no—I can’t—”
“I said,” he growls, louder now, sharper, cutting through every excuse, “stand the fuck up.”
My knees lock on instinct and I stumble forward, scrambling upright, everything inside me still screaming no while I force myself to move. My skates drag against the ice.
And then Viktor grabs a fistful of my jersey, tight, dragging me in until we’re nose to nose. There’s no hesitation in his grip. No gentleness. Just sheer force of will.
“You wanna win that Cup for your captain?” he growls. “Then you skate. You lead. You take that ice and you make the Hawks bleed for every goddamn inch.”
Viktor doesn’t let go. His hand stays fisted in my jersey, locked like a vice, and his eyes never leave mine. "You fall apart now,” he snarls, vicious, each word snapping, “and he flatlined for nothing.”
It hits like a goddamn puck to the ribs—pure, precise, perfectly aimed—and all the air punches out of my lungs in one brutal rush. My chest caves around it. My knees almost give. The truth of it lands so hard I physically flinch.
I gasp, trying to breathe around the wreckage he just forced me to see. And then I nod once, because that’s all I can manage.
But it’s enough.
Viktor lets me go immediately, like I passed some invisible test, like yanking me apart for one second was all he needed to do. His hand drops, his eyes flicking away. “Good,” he mutters, turning back toward the ice. “Now go warm up. You’ve got a Cup to win.”
Steve looks like he’s two seconds from tossing his breakfast all over his pads. His helmet’s crooked. His gloves are inside out. His stick is taped like a toddler did it in the dark. And his eyes are wide and terrified.
Absolutely not ready for a Cup game.
I grab his mask gently but firmly, and yank him a little closer until we’re eye to eye. “You hold that net,” I say, deadly calm, Damian calm, “and I’ll get the goals.”
Steve whines. Whimpers, actually. “Oh my god. Oh no. Oh shit. No pressure—”
“You’re fine,” I growl, giving his shoulder a shove. “You’ve been training with Shane all year. This is your shot. Don’t fuck it up.”
He sways on the spot. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“That’s fine,” Shane says from behind us. “Just don’t do it in my crease.”
I turn and glare at his leg. “Are you sure it’s broken?”
Shane lifts his pant leg to show the boot. The cast. The fresh-ass Reapers sticker Cole slapped on it. “Wanna sign it again, sweetheart?”
“I wanna kick it.”
Cole snorts. “Do that and he’ll make you share his wheelchair.”
“I’ll drive the damn wheelchair if it means he gets back in net,” I mutter.
