Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

Reid came barreling into the circle, his broad frame completely cutting Ballard off from the play.

With a brutal, perfectly legal hip check, Reid shoved the Vancouver captain back three feet, effectively neutralising the threat and giving me the room I needed to break away.

​"Move, Cap!" Reid barked, his voice sharp and commanding over the roar of the crowd as he extended his hand down.

I looked at him. Truly looked at him. So this time, he came to my rescue, huh? Typical Reid. He’s the only one allowed to be the villain to me, is that it?

I laughed under my breath and took his hand. Well, for the game, I’ll give you credit. But it doesn’t wash away your sins.

​I scrambled back to my feet with his help, my blades catching the ice as I tracked the loose puck sliding toward the neutral zone.

Ballard was entirely out of position now, blinded by his own rage, and the rest of the Vancouver squad was scrambling to adjust to Reid’s aggressive intervention.

​The game was turning into an absolute dogfight, and we were barely a minute into the first period.

Ballard was clearly out for blood, but with Reid tracking my every move on the ice, reading my plays before I even made them, we had a lethal counter for every flimsy trap they tried to throw at us.

I took the puck on the fly, my skates carving a deep, jagged arc into the ice as I swept it across the blue line into the neutral zone.

Russo was already driving hard down the right flank, pulling their remaining defenseman with him, creating a beautiful, open lane right through the middle.

​"Reid, trail me!" I yelled over the deafening roar of the crowd, knowing without a doubt he was already there.

​I didn’t even have to look. The clean, sharp scent of frozen pine was right on my heels, cutting through the heavy, stale air of the arena like a blade.

Ballard was somewhere behind us, screaming at the linesman for a penalty that was never going to come, completely checked out of the play.

​Two of Vancouver’s backchecking forwards tried to pinch me at the red line, their sticks reaching out to poke the puck away. I faked a drop pass, drawing their eyes for a split second, and then executed a tight, smooth spin-o-rama, shielding the rubber with my wide frame.

As I spun out of the check, I tapped the puck softly behind me, sending it sliding perfectly into the open ice.

​Reid picked it up seamlessly in full stride. His number 7 jersey was a blur of blue and white as he exploded into the offensive zone.

The final Vancouver defenseman scrambled backward, desperately trying to gap up on him, but Reid’s raw speed was too much. He looked up, his smoky grey eyes locking onto the top corner of the net, giving the goaltender a classic, heavy shooter’s glare.

​The goalie cheated to the post, expecting another vicious wrist shot.

​Instead, Reid deftly slid the puck right back across the crease. A perfect, unselfish tape-to-tape pass.

​I burst through the slot, my stick already planted firmly on the ice. I met the rubber with a hard, authoritative one-timer, slamming it into the wide-open side of the net before the goalie could even attempt to recover.

​BANG.

​The red goal horn wailed for the second time, a piercing, beautiful scream that sent the entire stadium into absolute hysterics.

The jumbotron immediately erupted, flashing the new score in giant, brilliant numbers: 2-0. Two goals in less than two minutes. The stadium lights spun in wild, dizzying patterns of blue and white, the fans chanting our names in a rhythmic, deafening thunder.

​"Unbelievable! That’s how we play hockey!" Coach Devin roared from the bench, slamming his clipboard against the boards in pure excitement as the arena shook.

​Russo came flying in from the side, practically tackling both of us into the plexiglass. Miller and Gerald jumped over the boards for the line change, swarming us in a chaotic, celebratory huddle.

​Through the sea of gloves and thumping shoulder pads, Reid’s massive frame locked right against mine again. He didn’t break away from the huddle right away. He kept his heavy arm draped securely over my neck, his visor pressing right against the side of my helmet.

​"Look at that," Reid murmured against my ear, his low, arrogant chuckle vibrating straight through my chest padding. "Two assists for the rookie, two goals for the Captain. We really are the perfect match, aren’t we, Evans?"

​I gritted my teeth, planting my stick on the ice to push myself back toward our bench.

My heart was pounding, my body still singing with that terrifying, effortless power his proximity provided. He was still an insufferable demon, a blackmailing pervert, and a complete asshole—but out here under the bright lights, we were absolutely untouchable.

​"Line change, McCoy," I gritted out, keeping my face a hard, unreadable mask of stone as I skated toward the gate. "Don’t get cocky. We still have fifty-eight minutes left."

Reid snickered behind his visor, a low, buzzing sound that stayed locked between us as he finally let his arm slide off my shoulder padding.

"Whatever you say, Cap," he murmured smoothly, gliding off toward the bench with that same infuriatingly effortless stride.

​The rest of the game became a blurred, high-octane war of attrition. Ballard and the rest of the Vancouver squad stopped trying to play standard hockey altogether; their sole objective shifted to making us pay in blood for that humiliating first two minutes.

Every single shift became a relentless cycle of heavy board battles, dangerous slashes away from the puck, and massive Alphas trying to take off my head.

​But our first line kept the pressure suffocating. By the third period, the scoreboard above center ice was a chaotic, high-scoring testament to the dogfight: 5-3.

​The clock was ticking down to the final three minutes of the game. The ice was tracked with deep, snowy ruts, the air thick with the sharp tang of sweat and melting ice.

My lungs were burning, my legs finally starting to feel the true, agonizing weight of the shifts. The buffer Reid’s pheromones had given me was wearing thin, and my focus was starting to fracture.

​I collected a loose puck along our own blue line, looking to dump it deep and kill the remaining time. I was so intent on the clear that I didn’t see the white and red jersey looming from my blind spot.

​BOOM.

​Ballard came out of absolutely nowhere, leaving his feet to drive his massive, heavy shoulder directly into my exposed ribs.

​The impact was catastrophic. The sheer force of his Alpha weight slammed me violently into the rigid plexiglass, the cracking sound of the boards echoing through the entire arena bowl.

My helmet smacked against the shield, and a blinding explosion of pain flared through my left side. I actually saw stars, the bright stadium lights blurring into dizzying, painful streaks as the air was violently stolen from my lungs.

​"Finally got you, you weak bastard!"