Me, Cole and Tyler launch like wolves off a chain. No hesitation. No mercy. We go full rabid, charging the ice likewe’re not athletes but goddamn soldiers. There’s no finesse, no pretty plays, no structured formation.
Cole’s skating like his blades are on fire, flipping the puck and slamming it home for a goal that sends the crowd into chaos—but it doesn’t matter. We’re still drowning.
I line up for the next faceoff, teeth clenched, every muscle thrumming with frustration. The second the puck hits the ice, I don’t hesitate. I explode forward, driving through two. I don’t slow. Don’t blink. I snap the puck so hard it flies past their goalie with a vicious little whistle, hits the back of the net, and sings with another beautiful goal.
But it’s not enough.
It never is. Because thirty seconds later, the Hawks punch back. Not one. Two. They’re taunting us. No, not us—me. The scoreboard flashes, glowing: twelve to seven.
Twelve. To. Fucking. Seven.
The horn blares, shrill and mocking. The crowd loses its mind, the whole arena vibrating with noise, cheers, chaos. It should fuel me. It should push me harder. But all it does is sharpen the fury already tearing through my bloodstream.
I’m still standing at center ice, rage boiling under my skin, and when I turn slowly and lock my glare straight onto Steve, our goalie, our problem. He’s already shrinking, helmet off and pads sagging, eyes wide and mouth moving like he’s searching for an explanation that won’t save him, and he doesn’t even make it off the ice before I start skating toward him.
Viktor grabs my jersey and mutters, “Do not kill him on national television.”
“No promises,” I snarl.
Cole leans in, still breathless from the last shift. “Can I watch?”
Damian looks up the second I burst through the door like a hurricane, still in half my gear, sweat dripping, helmet marks still pressed into my forehead.
He’s smiling, as if the world isn’t collapsing. As if the Hawks aren’t one win away from stealing the Cup. As if Steve didn’t let twelve goddamn pucks through the net like they were VIP invitations to hell.
“I hate Steve so much!” I snarl, stomping across the room with all the fury of a rabid toddler, tearing off my gear and launching it at the nearest chair. “I hate his stupid pads. I hate his stupid face. I hate his entire existence.”
Damian blinks—calm and unbothered, half-reclined in a pile of hospital blankets like he’s some mafia king draped in luxury, watching his brat throw a tantrum from the throne. “Nice to see you too, pup,” he says, raspy but amused.
I groan, slap my palms to my face, and collapse into the chair beside the bed. I don’t even care that I stink. That I’m still in my socks. That I’m dripping sweat and rage all over the sterile tile floor.
He was smiling. I love that smile. “I swear to god I’m gonna murder Steve,” I mutter into my hands. “I’m gonna shove a puck so far down his throat they’ll have to Zamboni him off the ice.”
“Pup.”
I lift my head, scowling.
Damian’s still smiling. “Did you come here just to complain about Steve?” he asks, all warm and slow like honeyed whiskey. Bastard.
“Yes,” I snap. “And to sob. And maybe throw myself out a window. But mostly Steve.”
He chuckles—fucking chuckles—and I nearly lunge for the call button to narc him out to the nurses for being smug and medically annoying. “I watched the whole game,” he says softly, eyes not leaving mine. “You skated like a monster.”
“Didn’t matter,” I mumble, slumping again. “They still won. One more game and they take the Cup.OurCup.”
Damian doesn’t answer right away. He watches me like he’s memorizing something. Then finally, he says, “You’ve got two more games too. And you're not done.”
“I can’t do this without you,” I blurt. It rips out of my chest, raw and true. I don’t even mean to say it. It just explodes. Like the words have been sitting under my ribs for days—festering.
Damian’s smile falters. And for the first time since I stormed into the room, he looks serious. The kind of look he only gives me when he’s about to say something I’ll carry until I die.
He shifts on the bed slowly, reaches one arm out, grabs my hoodie, and pulls.
I don’t fight it. He drags me in until I’m half sprawled over him, head on his shoulder, breath still shaking. His heart’s beating slow under my ear. “Yes, you can,” he murmurs. “You were always going to.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard.
“You’re ready, Elias.”
