Chapter 196: Shut up, Kain

​A sudden, sharp hitch caught in my throat, and another quiet, heavy tear slipped past my lashes.

​Reid’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his grey eyes instantly flicking over. The second he caught the glint of tears on my cheek in the dim glow of the dashboard, his pine scent flared—thick, dark, and heavy with a fierce, protective worry.

​Without a word, he pulled the car over to the curb under the yellow light of a streetlamp, shifting into park.

​"Kain?" Reid murmured, his voice rough and uneven as he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned across the center console. His broad hand reached out, his thumb gently smoothing over my cheekbone to wipe away the dampness. "What happened? What is it?"

​I didn’t have the energy to explain. I just turned the phone toward him, letting him read Marina’s message.

​Reid scanned the screen, his jaw clenching tight as he absorbed her words. He let out a slow, quiet breath, setting the phone down into the cup holder before wrapping both of his large arms around me, pulling my upper body tightly against his chest in the quiet cabin of the car.

​"I’m burning everyone down with me, Reid," I rasped out into his skin, my fingers digging desperately into the back of his jacket as the tears finally spilled over. "She shouldn’t have to carry this. None of you should."

​"Shut up, Kain," Reid growled softly against my ear, his broad arms tightening around me until there wasn’t a single bit of air left between us. His large hand cupped the back of my head, holding me flush against his neck as his scent wrapped around me, thick and unyielding. "She does it because she loves you. I do it because you’re my whole damn world. You’re not dragging anyone down. We’re standing here because we chose to stand with you."

​I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the steady, powerful thud of his heart drown out the spiraling noise in my head, anchoring myself to the only solid thing left in the storm.

We sat there in the quiet cabin of the car as the first fat raindrops of the storm began to slam against the roof, echoing like gunfire against the quiet street.

​I let my forehead rest heavily against the notch of his collarbone, my chest heaving with silent, shuddering breaths until the bitter guilt in my throat finally began to ease. Reid didn’t pull away. He just kept his arms locked around me, his thumb methodically stroking the nape of my neck right below my compression collar, keeping me anchored while my world threatened to spin out of control.

​"We go home," Reid murmured after a long while, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "You get in bed, you rest, and tomorrow we tackle the Wolves. One thing at a time, Cap."

​I let out a slow, shaky exhale into his shirt, my fingers slowly uncurling from the fabric of his jacket. "Okay," I rasped softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. My eyes were burning, but the sharp, cold edge of resolve was slowly returning behind the haze. "Home."

​Reid shifted back into the driver’s seat, his hand instantly finding mine across the center console, his thumb rubbing firm, steady circles over my knuckles all the way back to the penthouse.

​By the time we pulled into the underground garage and took the private elevator up, my body felt like a lead weight. The combination of the heavy physical strain, the alcohol rejection, and the emotional wrecking ball of the night had completely drained whatever reserves I had left.

​The moment the front door clicked shut behind us, Reid didn’t even ask. He simply scooped me into his arms, ignoring my quiet grunt of protest, and carried me straight into the master bedroom. He stripped off my shoes and jacket, pulled the heavy comforter back, and tucked me into the plush mattress like I was something priceless that might shatter if left out in the cold.

​He climbed in right behind me, pulling my back flush against his chest. His thick arm wrapped securely around my waist, his broad palm pressing flat, warm, and possessive over my lower stomach—his silent guard over the fragile life taking root inside me.

​"Sleep, Kain," Reid whispered into my hair, his rich pine scent wrapping around me like an impenetrable fortress against the thunder rolling over the city outside. "I’ve got you."

​I closed my eyes, letting the heavy, rhythmic beat of his heart wash over me, and for the first time that night, the darkness pulled me under into a deep, dreamless rest.

​The next morning, the film room at the Serpent’s facility was pitch black except for the bright, flickering glare of the projection screen.

​It was 8:00 AM sharp. The entire team sat in tiered leather seats, the heavy smell of stale coffee and pre-skate sweat hanging in the cool air.

​On the screen, footage of the Wolves played on a loop—their lead lines executing brutal, bone-crunching body checks along the boards, skating with a vicious, relentless aggression that made the Vipers look like amateurs.

​"Look at their defensive trap here," Coach Devin barked, tapping a laser pointer against the screen where the Wolves’ primary defense pair pinched the blue line. "They don’t care about the puck; they target the center’s hips and lower back to disrupt the breakout pass. They play dirty, and they play to break you."

​Sitting in the front row, I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees, my eyes tracking every single movement on the tape with razor-sharp intensity. My body held only a dull, manageable ache, and the nausea from the previous night had faded back into a quiet background hum.

​Beside me, Reid sat like a coiled spring, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his grey eyes tracking the Wolves’ left winger with a lethal, predatory focus.

​"Russo, Miller, Evans," Devin said, turning off the projector and flipping the overhead lights back on. The room flooded with harsh fluorescent light. "You three are running our tactical response. What’s the read?"

​I stood up slowly, stepping toward the front of the room with every single drop of Captain Evans locked back into my posture.

​"They push high on the blue line because they expect the center to absorb the hit," I said, my voice echoing cold, clear, and steady through the quiet room. "So we don’t absorb it. We bait the pinch, Reid clears the lane, and Russo flips the long pass straight to the far wing before their defense can set the trap."

​Russo nodded from the second row, his face an unreadable mask of veteran coldness. "It works. But it leaves Evans taking the trailing hit if the wing collapses."

​"The wing won’t collapse," Reid growled smoothly from his seat, his voice cutting through the room with absolute, terrifying conviction. "Because I’ll be hitting them first."

​A low murmur of approval swept through the team. Devin smirked, shutting his clipboard with a sharp snap.

​"You heard your Captain," Devin ordered. "Gear up. We’ve got four days to perfect it."

The next four days passed in a blur of bone-chilling cold, relentless physical strain, and an unwavering, quiet solidarity.

​Out on the ice, the line executed the bait-and-switch breakout play until the movement became pure, unthinking muscle memory. Every time the practice squad tried to pinch high, Reid was already there—stepping into the lane, taking the brunt of the collision, and clearing a pristine path for me to glide through. He skated with a fierce, possessive precision, enforcing a strict perimeter around my body that left Devin grinning with sadistic pride.

​Off the ice, the routine was rigid. Hot baths at night to soothe my throbbing hips, freezing ice baths at 7:00 AM sharp to kill the deep-tissue inflammation, and high-protein meals cooked in the quiet sanctuary of our penthouse kitchen. Through it all, Reid stayed glued to my side—checking my adhesive patches before every skate, carrying the weight whenever my strength wavered, and holding me tightly against his chest each night while the rain drummed against the glass.

​Then came Friday night. Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

​The arena was an absolute pressure cooker. Twenty thousand fans screamed until the glass vibrated, the atmosphere electric with a brutal, suffocating tension.

​The Wolves skated out like animals starved for meat. They were bigger, faster, and infinitely dirtier than the Vipers. In the first period alone, their lead defenseman tried to drive his elbow straight into my ribs during a battle along the boards. But before the blow could land, Reid slammed into him like a runaway freight train, crushing the defenseman against the plexiglass with a thunderous BOOM that sent shockwaves through the stands.

​We traded heavy hits and sharp wrist-shots for three agonizing periods. My body was pushed to its absolute limit—my lower back throbbing beneath the compression gear, my lungs burning, and my mind fighting off waves of sheer physical exhaustion. But every time I faltered, Reid was right beside me, his grey eyes burning with an unyielding promise.

​I’ve got you, Cap.

​With two minutes left on the clock in the third period, tied 2-2, we executed the play we had drilled to perfection.

​Russo baited the Wolves’ blue-line pinch, flipping a high, arching pass cross-ice. I dug my blades into the ice, accelerating into the open lane. The Wolves’ hulking center came charging in for a dangerous, blindside body check—but Reid exploded into his path, leveling the center into the ice with a bone-shattering hit.

​The path to the net blew wide open.

​I didn’t hesitate. I snapped my wrists back, driving the puck with lethal, surgical precision straight into the top-left corner of the net.

​PING!

​The red light flashed. The horn screamed. The entire arena erupted into a deafening, thunderous roar.

​Goal. Game 1 was ours.

​As the team swarmed the ice, cheering and pounding my shoulders, Reid skated right up to me. He pulled me into a fierce, suffocating bear hug amidst the roaring crowd, his helmet pressing against mine as his large hand cupped the back of my neck.

​"One down, Cap," Reid growled in my ear, his voice vibrating with raw, triumphant pride. "Three more to go."

​I leaned into his grip for a single, fleeting second, my chest heaving as a sharp, lethal smirk broke across my face.

​"Three more, McCoy," I rasped out, tapping my stick against the ice. "Let me know when you’re ready for Game 2."