Chapter 1

The puck hasn't even dropped yet, and Damir can already tell this is going to be one of those games.

Yorkton's new center --- Damir doesn't know his name, doesn't care to know his name --- is chirping before they've even lined up for the face-off. Some generic bullshit about the Citadels' last loss, about Damir's plus-minus, about his age. Amateur hour stuff. Damir's heard it all before, heard it better, and he's not impressed.

"You done?" Damir asks, settling into his stance. His Karelian accent is thick, deliberately so. He knows it pisses people off when he leans into it.

The Yorkton center --- number 19, brown hair escaping from under his helmet, can't be older than twenty-three --- grins. It's not a friendly grin. "Just getting started, old man."

"Old man," Damir repeats, shaking his head. "Is that best you have?"

The referee holds the puck above them, waiting. Around them, the other players are locked in position, sticks ready. The crowd noise is a constant rumble, a mix of boos and cheers depending on which end of the ice you're looking at.

"That's not all I got," the kid says, and there's something in his voice now, something sharp and mean. "How's it feel being the league's biggest faggo-"

Damir doesn't let him finish.

The gloves are off before he's even consciously decided to drop them, and he's got the kid by the jersey before the referee can blow the whistle. The puck clatters to the ice, forgotten.

"What did you say?" Damir's voice is deadly quiet, but in the sudden hush that's fallen over their immediate vicinity, it carries. "Say again. I want to hear."

The kid's eyes go wide --- he wasn't expecting this, wasn't expecting Damir to actually do anything about it --- but he's committed now, and stupid enough to double down. "You heard me, you-"

Damir's first punch catches him square in the jaw.

The thing about Damir Zaitsev is that people forget --- they see him now, see the softness he allows himself off the ice with Nash, see the Picto posts and the charity work and the Pride tape on his stick, and they think he's gone soft everywhere. They think coming out has somehow filed down his edges, made him safe, made him nice.

Those people are fucking idiots.

Damir is, and has always been, an asshole. A talented asshole, a successful asshole, an asshole who's going to the Hall of Fame someday --- but an asshole nonetheless. And the only person who gets the non-asshole version of him is Nash, and maybe Nash's parents if they're lucky, and occasionally his own teammates when he's in a good mood.

Everyone else? They get this.

The second punch is harder than the first. The kid tries to get his arms up, tries to defend himself, but Damir's been doing this since before this kid learned to skate. He's fought Magnus Hagen in his prime, fought guys five inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, and he's still here. Still standing. Still winning.

The kid's helmet comes off. Damir doesn't care.

"You want to say it again?" Damir snarls, landing another punch. The kid's nose is bleeding now, blood bright against his white jersey. "Come on. Say it to my face."

"Zaitsev!" That's the referee, finally skating in, but Damir's not done. Not even close.

"Say it!" Another punch. The crowd is roaring now, but Damir can't tell if they're cheering or jeering and he doesn't care. "You think because I suck dick, I won't beat your ass? You think is making me weak?"

The kid is trying to turtle now, trying to cover his face, but Damir hauls him back up. There's a sick satisfaction in it, in feeling the kid's jersey crumple in his fist, in watching his cocky smirk disappear under a spray of blood and panic.

"Zaitsev! That's enough!" Multiple officials now, and someone's grabbed Damir from behind --- one of his teammates, probably, trying to pull him off.

"Is enough when I say is enough!" Damir shouts, but he lets himself be pulled back, lets the referees step between him and the kid. His knuckles are screaming, split open and bleeding, and there's blood on his jersey --- not all of it the kid's --- and his heart is hammering in his chest like he's just finished a marathon.

The kid is being helped off the ice by his teammates. He's not getting up on his own. Good.

The referee is in Damir's face now, shouting penalties --- five-minute major for fighting, two minutes for instigating, game misconduct --- and Damir just nods along, breathing hard. His brain is still buzzing with adrenaline, with rage, with the sheer audacity of that little shit thinking he could say that and get away with it.

"You're done, Zaitsev," the ref says, pointing toward the tunnel. "Game over."

"Da, da, I know," Damir says, and he can feel his mouth curving into a smile. A sharp, mean, satisfied smile. "I know the rules."

The ref skates away to sort out the mess at center ice, and Damir starts toward the penalty box, even though he knows he's about to be ejected entirely. The Ironwood crowd is on their feet, and the noise is deafening.

Damir stops halfway to the box.

He turns to face the crowd, the home crowd, his crowd, and raises both hands above his head. The gesture is clear. Louder. Cheer louder for me. Love me for this.

And they do. Oh, they do.

The roar that goes up is thunderous, a wall of sound that rattles the glass and makes the ice itself seem to vibrate. People are on their feet, arms raised, jerseys waving, voices hoarse from screaming. Signs bob in the air --- "OUR FUCKING CAPTAIN" and "DAMIR THE GREAT" and one that just says "FUCK YEAH" in four-foot letters.

Damir's smile widens into a full grin, cocky and unrepentant. He waves at them, soaking it in, and the crowd loves it. They love him. They love that he's still the same vicious, uncompromising bastard he's always been, that coming out didn't change the fundamental truth of who Damir Zaitsev is on the ice.

He blows a kiss to the crowd, because why not, and the roar somehow gets even louder.

"Zaitsev!" The ref again, less patient this time. "Let's go!"

Damir shrugs, unconcerned, and skates the rest of the way to the tunnel. He passes the Yorkton bench on the way, and he makes sure to catch the eye of their coach, makes sure his smirk is firmly in place.

The coach looks like he wants to jump the boards and strangle him. Damir winks.

As he disappears down the tunnel, he can still hear the crowd chanting his name. "ZAITSEV! ZAITSEV! ZAITSEV!"

Yeah. He's not fucking soft.

---

The locker-room is empty when Damir gets there, everyone still on the bench or on the ice. He strips off his gloves --- carefully, because his right hand is already swelling --- and sits down heavily on the bench in front of his stall.

His phone is in his jacket pocket, charging. He should probably leave it alone, should wait until after he's showered and iced his hand and dealt with whatever media shitstorm is about to descend, but-

He pulls it out.

Twelve text messages already. Five from Nash, two from his agent, one from Zara (how does she always know), and one from an unknown number that he immediately deletes without reading.

Nash's messages are a progression.

Kai: Holy shit

Kai: DAMIR

Kai: Are you okay?

Kai: That was insane

Kai: Call me when you can

Damir huffs out a laugh and types back: I'm fine. He deserved it.

The response is immediate: I'm not saying he didn't. Are you HURT?

Sam: My hand is fine. My face is fine. I won.

Kai: Jesus Christ. I'm watching the replay now. You demolished him.

Sam: Yes. I know.

There's a pause, and then: I know you probably don't want to hear this right now, but you're going to get a call from the league.

Damir rolls his eyes: Let them call. I don't care.

Kai: Baby.