Page 1 of Hold the Line

The ice feels alive under my skates, that sharp, crisp bite that always sends electricity crawling up my spine. October air hangs heavy in the arena, cold enough to sting my lungs every time I push hard, but inside my chest it’s pure fire. We’re deep into a full practice—lines rolling, drills stacking on top of each other like Damian’s trying to break us before the next road trip even starts. Sweat’s already soaking through my undershirt, my curls sticking to my forehead under the helmet, and I’m grinning like an idiot because this is exactly where I belong.

“Yo, Jace!” I call out, echoing across the sheet as I glide backward on my blades, stick loose in my gloves. The rookie defenseman—Jace Moreno, golden retriever energy trapped in a six-foot-two body—looks up at me with that wide-eyed, eager-to-please expression that makes him impossible not to fuck with. “You skating like that or are you just auditioning for the Zamboni driver position? Move your fucking feet, Texas!”

Jace laughs, a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the grind of blades and barked instructions. He’s still got that fresh-faced rookie glow, cheeks flushed from the effort, but he’s improving fast. “I’m trying, Hollywood! Some of us weren’t born with rocket boosters in our skates!”

“Excuses!” I fire back, tapping my stick against the ice and circling him like a shark. “My grandma could keep up with you and she’s been dead six years. Pick it up or I’m telling Shane to paint a sad little puppy on your locker!”

The rest of the guys on the ice chuckle. Elias skates past with that feral grin splitting his face. “Leave the kid alone, Hollywood. Not everyone can chirp and skate at the same time like you.”

“Bullshit, Captain Pretty Boy,” I shoot back, flipping him off with my gloved hand. “You just don’t want me corrupting your new favorite puppy.”

Before Elias can retort, the whistle cuts through the air like a gunshot.

Damian Kade stands behind the bench, arms crossed, that cane leaning against the boards beside him like a silent threat. Even with the bad leg from the crash last season, he looks every inch the menace he’s always been—maybe more now that it’s official. No more unofficial coach energy. He’s Coach Kade, and somehow that’s made him even fucking worse. His heterochromatic eyes scan the ice like he’s calculating exactly how many suicides we’re about to run because we’re breathing too loud.

“Vance!” His voice booms across the rink, the kind that makes rookies straighten up instantly. “Stop distracting my defenseman and get your ass in position. We’re not running a goddamn comedy club out here.”

I spin toward the bench, flashing my brightest, most shit-eating grin even though my ribs are still aching from yesterday’s battle drills. “Aw, come on, Coach. I’m just building team morale! Jace was looking a little sad. Needed some enrichment.”

Damian’s scarred mouth doesn’t even twitch. He levels me with a stare that could freeze the ice harder. “Enrichment is for dogs, Vance. You want to play games? You can lead bag skates after practice. How’s that for morale?”

Elias, the traitor, snorts from center ice, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief as he glances at his husband. I catch the way Damian’s gaze softens—just a fraction—when it lands on Elias, but it snaps right back to steel when it returns to me. The man is terrifying. Even with the cane, even retired from playing, he’s somehow meaner now. Like all that pent-up captain energy has an official outlet and we’re all just collateral damage.

Viktor skates past me on the blue line, massive and quiet as always, his eyes flicking my way for half a second. No words. Just that heavy, observant weight that always lands somewhere behind my ribs.

“Focus, Hollywood,” Mats calls from the other side, that easy Miami charm in his voice even while he’s dripping sweat. Shane’s in net muttering to his crossbar like usual, and Tyler Brooks is doing his awkward best to keep up on the wing, looking slightly overwhelmed but determined.

I bite back another chirp and drop into position, but my mouth is still running on autopilot. “Yes, sir, Coach Kade, sir. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the legend.”

Damian’s whistle blasts again—two short, angry bursts. “Line up. Again. And if I see anyone half-assing this next drill, you’re all doing suicides until someone pukes. Mercer, set the pace.”

Elias nods, instantly shifting into captain mode, but I catch the quick look he throws back at Damian—the way his expression softens with that quiet worry when he notices the way Coach is favoring his bad leg today. Elias fusses over him constantly now, especially on days like this when the injury flares up. It’s disgustingly domestic and I love it and hate it at the same time.

We run the drill hard. Bodies crashing, sticks clacking, pucks flying. I thread a perfect pass to Elias, who buries it glove-side, and I whoop loud enough for the empty seats to hear. But every time I open my mouth to keep the energy up, Damian’s glare cuts through me like a blade.

Practice drags on like Damian’s personally offended by the concept of mercy today. The whistle blasts again, and I watch as he leans heavier on that cane behind the boards. He’s been ripping into every little mistake with that terrifying calm precision that makes even the vets nervous.

“Vance, if you’re done playing social director, get your head in the fucking drill,” he barks across the ice. “Moreno, tighter gaps or I’ll skate you until your legs fall off. Mercer—pace them, don’t baby them.”

I glide up beside Elias during the next water break, who's pouting every time Damian calls him Mercer even though they're married. The rain’s pounding against the arena roof like it’s trying to drown us all. “What’s up with him?” I mutter, jerking my chin toward Damian. “He’s been an absolute menace since we stepped on the ice. Even meaner than usual, and that’s saying something now that it’s official.”

Elias wipes his face with the bottom of his jersey, those green eyes flicking toward his husband with a mix of fondness and calculation. “It’s raining,” he says simply, like that explains everything. “His leg’s bothering him.”

I snort. Of course. The man could coach through a hurricane and still look like he wants to murder the puck. Before I can say anything else, Elias, the little shit, skates straight toward the bench with that feral, trouble-making grin plastered across his face.

“Coach,” he calls out, voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness as he leans on the boards right in front of Damian. “You look tense. Want me to come over there and help you loosen up? I’ve got some real good ideas for post-practice recovery. Private session. Just you, me, and that fancy office of yours.”

Everyone goes quiet for half a second. Mats chokes on his water. Shane, who’s already looking a little blue around the gills from the brutal conditioning, mutters something that sounds like a prayer under his breath. Even Viktor pauses mid-stride on the blue line, his eyes narrowing.

Damian’s stare doesn’t waver, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Mercer. Save the bedroom eyes for after I’m done working your ass into the ground. Back on the line. Now.”

Elias doesn’t back down. He bats his lashes like some kind of deranged golden retriever in heat. “C’mon, sir. The boys are dying out here. Shane’s turning the same color as the visitor jerseys. One more drill and we’re gonna lose our goalie to hypothermia. I could warm you up real nice if you let us off early…”

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. The audacity of that married man is unmatched. Damian pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly fighting the losing battle between coach-mode and husband-mode, before blowing the whistle twice.

“Fine. Hit the showers. But tomorrow we’re doubling the bag skates. And Mercer—if you flirt with me on my ice again, I’ll make you lead them.”

Elias beams like he just won the Cup. “Yes, sir.”