“He is,” I rasp, sipping slowly from the goddamn juice box she shoved in my hand like I’m six years old and not a man who nearly bled out on a gurney. My lips twitch around the straw.
Her eyes go wider. “Are they out of goalies?!”
I grin, letting the smile bloom full and feral. “No. They’re out of patience.”
The camera cuts to center ice, and there he is. Elias. Holy fuck. He’s pacing, drilling the team like his entire marriage depends on it. He’s screaming, commanding, eyes wild and feral, mouth filthy with chirps and threats, full gremlin captain mode in all its chaotic glory.
And God—God, I’ve never wanted him more.
It did start that way—win the Cup, and I’ll put a ring on your finger. But watching him now? Watching him take my team and own it?
I’d marry him either way, Cup or no Cup.
“Is that your boyfriend?” the nurse asks, crunching on a chip like it’s a medical instrument.
“Captain,” I correct without thinking.
She hums. “He’s angry.”
“Good.” I smirk again. “He plays better angry.”
On screen, Elias shoves Tyler into position like a drill sergeant with trust issues. Cole chirps something and gets smacked with a stick. Shane is visible in the stands behind the bench in a wheelchair, double-fisting gummy bears and screaming.
Viktor’s already blocking shots in warmup like he wants to kill the puck for daring to exist.
“Fucking Reapers,” I whisper.
The nurse lets out a laugh beside me, light and easy, like we’re watching a regular game and not standing at the edge ofa battlefield. “You’re gonna be a very smug man if they win tonight, huh?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t, because I’m already gone. Eyes locked on the screen, heart pounding, each beat heavy enough to echo in my throat. I can feel it in my ribs, not from pain this time, but from something rooted in pride. Fear. Obsession. The kind of feeling that only comes when your entire soul is wearing number nineteen.
Come on, pup.
The broadcast pans wide across the Reapers’ bench, catching flashes of movement, noise, barely-contained energy. Tension crackles in the air like static before a lightning strike. Black and red streak across the frame, fists pounding shoulders, teeth bared in anticipation, fire barely leashed. It’s chaos incarnate. My chaos. My boys.
And then the camera finds him again. Helmet off, sweat-slick curls plastered to his forehead, mouth moving a mile a minute, he’s yelling again. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. I know that face. I know that fury. He’s probably barking about stick placements. Probably snarling about blood. He grabs Cole by the jersey and shakes him, spits something furious at Tyler, then spins to the net to knock knuckles with Viktor like they’ve been at this for years. As if nothing’s changed. Like the team didn’t just shove a defenseman in goal and decide to wage war anyway.
And then he looks up, right at the camera, right at me. Like he could feel me watching him, even from miles away. His eyes lock with mine through the screen, electric and steady, full of that terrifying, beautiful focus that’s all his. The storm behind his eyes hasn’t faded, it’s gotten worse. Sharper. Wilder. Controlled only because he wants it to be. His mouth twitches a little. Aflicker of something that’s almost a smile but too wrecked to count as joy.
And then, clear as day, I watch his lips move. “This is for you.”
My grip on the remote goes ironclad. Knuckles white. Like if I breathe wrong, it’ll explode in my hand.
The nurse gasps beside me. “Oh my god. That was for you, wasn’t it?”
I try to swallow, but my throat locks. My body’s lagging behind what my heart already knows. I can’t speak. I can’t. Because he didn’t just say it—he meant it. Like he’d bleed for it. Die for it. For me. For the team. For the black-and-red monster we built from blood and broken boys.
And he’s still staring at the camera. Still staring through it like he knows I’m here—wires in my arm, lungs stitched with pain, watching him like my whole damn world’s behind glass.
Then he grins. Vicious, gorgeous. That lethal curve of his mouth that always means one thing—someone’s about to get destroyed, and he’s going to enjoy it. Then he turns away from the camera, back to the ice.
Message delivered. Time to hunt.
Go get it, pup.
First faceoff of the game. Elias skates in, crouches low, and the second the puck hits the ice, he wins it clean. Textbook perfect. Then he swings, but not at the puck, not at the play. He goes straight for the nearest Icehawk, helmet-to-helmet, a full-body check that sends the guy sprawling against the boards. The whistle blows, sharp and immediate, but nothing’s called, it was clean. Brutal, but legal. Vicious energy bottled into precision.
