He lets out a sound—half gasp, half groan—and his eyes roll back for a second, lashes fluttering like he short-circuited from the hit. His head tips back against the wall, exposing his throat like something offering itself up to be gutted.
Then the little bastard tries to fight me again.He throws his weight forward, fist cocked, teeth bared like a fucking dog. “Fuck you!” he snarls, eyes wild, pupils blown. “You think I’m scared of you, you freaked-out, silent, psych ward fucking goalie—”
I don’t let him finish. I grab him by the throat and drag his ass across the ice, boots skidding, still snarling and writhing like a possessed animal. I haul him to my net, rip a fresh roll of black tape from the crossbar where I always keep it, and without a word, Itape the fucker to the goddamn post.One strip across his chest. Another across his wrists. Two more to pin his hips and shoulder.
He’s squirming like mad the whole time. “What thefuckare youdoing?!” Julian howls, writhing in place, teeth gnashing, head whipping around to glare at me like I’ve personally
burned down his childhood home. “Get this shitoffme! You psychotic, mute, six-foot-fiveprison guard from hell!What the fuck is this—duct tape jail?!”
I slap another strip across his waist just to shut him up. “You’re going to stay here,” I say, low and lethal, “until you remember that this ice is mine.”
Julian jerks against the tape, panting like an animal, his eyes wild and shining and locked on me with pure, unfiltered disbelief. “This is fucking illegal!” he snarls. “You can’t tape people togoal posts!This is—this iskidnapping!Torture! Rink-sidewar crimes!”
I crouch in front of him slowly, meet his fire with quiet steel. “It’s called keeping the fucking peace,” I mutter, voice inches from his mouth, “because if you come out herehigh again, picking fights with my team, skating like you’ve got a death wish,I will break your legs myself and tape you to a stretcher instead.”
Julian thrashes hard, the tape creaking under his back, breath hitching, still snarling like he doesn’t know whether to spit at me orbite.
Then he stops struggling. Just like that. Goes still in the net, chest heaving, taped down and panting like he’s just gone ten rounds with death and still wants one more. His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed into slits like he’s calculating how many teeth he could knock out if I gave him one arm free.
And then, the little shitspitsat me. Right next to my mouth. Hot and furious, slick against my cheekbone, sliding down slow. He snarls like an animal when he does it—no words, no insults. Just pure, uncut defiance. His message is loud, clear, and wrapped in saliva.
I don’t move. I lean in instead—breath brushing his ear. “Open that mouth again,” I whisper, , “and I’ll tape it shut and fuck you through it.”
Just a threat. But he moans. Soft. Shocked. Furious at himself for making the sound.
I lick the corner of my mouth, taste the salt and heat and fuck-you fury of it, and smile. Then I tear another strip of tape off the roll. And I slap it over his mouth right across the lips, sealing in every curse, every threat, every scream he was about to throw at me.
He growls behind it, thrashes once, hard enough to make the net rattle, but I just lean in—close enough for him to feel the heat off my breath—and pat his cheek.
“Feral little shit,” I murmur, smirking.
And he’s still glaring at me like he’d kill me with a spoon if he had one. But he’s not going anywhere. Not until I say.
I crouch again, close enough to see the sweat running down his neck, the tape straining over his mouth every time he breathes too hard through his nose. His eyes are still fire. Still spitting rage. But there’s something quieter underneath now—something rawer. Not submission. Not even close. But the kind of quiet that comes right before somethingcracks.
I tilt my head, voice low, calm. “You feel better now?”
Julian just stares at me, breathing hard. The tape crinkles with every inhale.
Fine, I don’t need a response.
I push off the post and turn, grabbing my mask, slipping it on like nothing happened. Because practice isn’t over. And now I’ve got two things to protect—my net… andhim.
The others return to the drills, and they don't hesitate. Not even with Julian duct-taped to my post like a rabid mascot.
Pucks start flying. One whistles past his ear. He flinches. Barely. The next one comes faster—top shelf, scream-speed. I snap my glove up just in time, catching it inches from Julian’s face. He growls behind the tape, a furious, muffled noise like he’s about to tear through it with his teeth.
I don’t even look at him.
Another puck comes and I catch it. He flinches again.
I smile under the mask.
Every single shot, I make sure to catch itright in front of his face, just to watch that little twitch, just to feel the fury vibrating off him like static electricity.
Julian growls again, full-bodied now, fighting the tape like a wolf chained to a wall. But I don’t untie him. Not until he’s burned through all of it. Not until he finally understands whose rink he’s on.
7
