My Captain

Chapter 1 - Elias

Who the hell starts their contract a week before the biggest game of the year?

The Ravensburg Reapers, apparently.

Well—me and Tyler. He’s fidgeting beside me, jaw clenched so tight I can practically hear it grind. He’s got that overeager, “please like me” energy that makes the vets circle like sharks.

Cole “Hollywood” Vance is the first to strike. Of course he is. He’s already half-dressed, hair slicked back, phone propped on his shelf for whatever content he’s manufacturing. His grin is sharp and cruel as he points his stick at me.

“Well look at that, boys. Fresh meat. What’s your name, curls?”

I grin back. “Depends. You asking because you wanna know it or because you wanna scream it?”

The room bursts with howls and whistles, sticks smacking the floor. Tyler flushes scarlet. I bask in it, chest out, smirk wide. This is the league. You don’t survive by shrinking. You chirp, or you’re chewed alive.

Cole winks. “Cocky. I like that. Better not collapse your first shift.”

Before I can fire back, Viktor Petrov rumbles from his stall—massive, arms folded, a scar cutting across his cheek. “Hollywood, stop flirting. Kid’s shaking already.”

“I’m not shaking,” I laugh, even though my legs buzz with adrenaline. “Just waiting for one of you to actually impress me.”

That earns a stick tap from Matteo Rivera, who’s lounging like he owns the place. Shane O’Rourke mutters something about curses. Tyler tries to laugh but it comes out strangled.

I’m doing good. I’m holding my own—until the door opens.

Silence slams the room. Every voice drops, tension thickening like smoke.

Damian Kade.

Captain. Enforcer. The reason I play center, the reason I begged for my first pair of skates.

The man whose fights I memorized, whose jersey I begged for at Christmas, whose poster hung above my bed from twelve to eighteen.

I slept under his shadow and touched myself under it too, whispering his name.

Now he’s real. And holy fuck, he’s terrifying.

Tall as a nightmare, shoulders broad enough to crush me. Dark hair spilling around a scar-cut lip, one eye pale ice, the other almost black. Violence carved into a man. Every secret I’ve ever had.

I forget to breathe.

He scans the room once, slow, then pins Tyler and me with that mismatched stare.

“Two new faces,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate my ribs. “We’ll see how long you last.”

Then he walks to his stall like nothing matters. The room exhales. I don’t. My lungs are broken, my skin on fire, my heart clawing out of my chest.

That’s him—my captain—and I’d let him kill me if he asked.

“Breathe, rook.”

Cole smirks as he brushes past, stick slung lazy over his shoulders. Bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. My jaw flexes, hand twitching like I could slap him, but all I do is grin sharper. Never give ’em the satisfaction.

The hallway to the rink is knife-cold. My skates clatter against the rubber flooring, nerves fizzing under my skin like a live wire. I’ve done this a thousand times—walked down tunnels, stepped onto ice—but never this tunnel, never this sheet, never with him waiting at the end.

The doors swing open. Cold air swallows us whole. The arena hums under harsh lights, ice gleaming like a stage.

Practice starts.

Damian Kade doesn’t ease anyone in.

The first whistle sounds like war. Laps, suicides, sprints—no pucks, no drills, just punishment. Every stride sets my thighs on fire. Tyler’s wheezing two laps in, and I almost laugh, but then Damian’s gaze slices across the sheet and pins me in place.

I skate harder.

Whistle. We line up. “Mercer. Brooks. Out front.”

My heart slams. Tyler looks pale. I flash him a grin I don’t feel.

Faceoff, no sticks. Shoulder into chest, grind, shove. Tyler’s strong but sloppy, too desperate. I hook low, twist, take him down. Stick taps follow.

Damian doesn’t blink. “Again.”

This time with sticks. Tyler tries to slash past me—rookie mistake. I cut him off, scoop the puck, and blast down the ice.

“Faster, Mercer.”

The words detonate in my veins. I push harder, until I can barely breathe.

Tyler collapses, doubled over. Damian just watches—one eye cold fire, one abyss.

“Enough.”

Scrimmage. Baptism by fire.

The whistle blows. Suddenly I’m staring down a line of vets who’ve been in this league long enough to eat rookies alive. Viktor on defense. Cole grinning on the wing. Matteo Rivera across from me, posture loose, eyes narrowed.

“Ready, rook?” he murmurs.

“Hope your pension covers embarrassment, grandpa.”

The team howls. Tyler looks like he wants to disappear.

Puck drops.

I explode forward. Matteo’s bigger, heavier, but I don’t care. The puck’s mine. Spite’s a better drug than oxygen. I weave left, then right, shoulder-check Cole. He laughs in my ear, “Careful—you’ll break that pretty face.”

“Better than breaking your scoring record,” I snap, and blow past him.

The bench erupts. I fire the puck—sharp wrist shot, clean. It hammers past Shane into the net.

Goal.

Noise crashes around me. Tyler looks stunned. I pump a fist, grinning wide, chest heaving. Out of spite. Out of survival. Out of the need to prove I belong.

And then I feel it—Damian Kade watching from the bench. Stillness carved from stone, mouth twitching like he could smile but won’t, eyes locking me down.

No time to bask. His whistle cuts through the noise.

“Again.”

We do. Over and over. Scrimmage, reset, drill, repeat. Brutal. My legs burn, my chest splits, Tyler stumbles, the vets are merciless—Cole chirping, Viktor flattening me, Mats hooking my stick just to hear me curse.

Every whistle jolts me. Every order hits like a drug. I should be collapsing, but I’m vibrating out of my own skin. If Damian told me to skate laps until my legs gave out, I’d go until I was crawling.

Because he’s watching. Always watching.

Every shift I hit harder, skate faster. My chest tears itself apart, but I don’t stop. Maybe if I bleed enough into the ice, he’ll really look at me.

By the last round, Tyler can barely stand. I’m twitching at the bench, grin sharp and manic, heart hammering.

Final whistle. Silence.

Guys slump. Gloves drop, helmets drag loose. Even Cole’s bent over, gasping.

But I’m still bouncing on my blades. Every cell screaming for more.

Damian’s eyes catch me mid-vibration. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

The walk back to the locker room is hell—lungs raw, legs trembling, sweat soaking my undershirt. Tyler limps like his skates are bricks, but I can’t stop grinning, cracked open and wired like someone plugged me into a socket.

The room fills with the scrape of skates, Velcro hissing, tape ripping. Gloves thunk, helmets roll.

And then there’s him. Damian Kade. My captain.

He doesn’t hurry. He sits at his stall, silent, peeling tape from scarred wrists. Shoulder pads off, hair damp at the nape, strands clinging to his throat. His lip curved just enough to make my knees weak.

Then he drops the chest protector and tugs his jersey over his head.

My brain short-circuits.

Broad chest, carved shoulders, bruises blooming like violent art. Sweat catching the lights. Knuckles raw, split, badly bandaged. Ruin sculpted into perfection.

And I’m staring.

Cole snorts, smacks Viktor’s arm. I snap my head down, ripping off pads, face hot enough to melt the ice.

Jesus Christ, Mercer. Get it together.

I tug my undershirt over my head, try to focus on the sting of fabric, the ache in my ribs. My eyes betray me anyway. They flick up, helpless, drinking him in—the way he unwinds tape, bends to untie skates, stands like every line of him was built for control.

Drool. Actual drool. I’m going to leave a puddle on the floor.

Shower. Now.

I bolt upright, muttering something about rinsing off before anyone can catch my face. Viktor raises an eyebrow, Cole cackles, Tyler’s too dead to notice.

The showers hiss alive. I duck under the spray, freezing water needling my face. My body’s too tight, too wired. I lean against the tile, groaning. Shit. I’m absolutely destroyed, and all he did was undress.

If I stay under long enough, maybe I’ll stop seeing him when I close my eyes.

Of course that’s when I hear it—the squeak of another handle.

“Jesus, rook, you hiding in here already?”

Cole’s voice, echoing, amused.

I drag my hands down my face. “Fuck me, Hollywood. Don’t you have a mirror to flirt with?”

He laughs, water splattering from the next stall. “Mirror’s broken. Had to settle for you.”

“Tragic downgrade,” I shoot back, finally grinning. Banter is safe.

“Kid’s got teeth,” he snorts. “Thought you’d fold after that skate. Tyler looks like a ghost puked him up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Tyler.”

“No shit. You’ve got a motor on you. Keep vibrating like that and you’ll piss off half the league before Christmas.”

“Good,” I tilt my head back. “They can chase me. I’ll just skate faster.”

His laugh echoes, warmer this time. “Cocky little bastard.”

“And you love it,” I fire back. For a moment it’s just hockey, just boys giving each other shit in the showers. No captain. No wreckage in my veins.

Water hisses everywhere. The showers fill fast—steam rising, voices bouncing. Viktor’s low grumble mixes with Shane’s manic cackle, Mats deadpans about curses, and suddenly a bottle of shower gel flies like a puck.

I duck, laughing so hard my ribs ache. “The fuck was that, Hollywood? Your aim’s worse than your plus-minus.”

“Almost ate shit first drill,” he barks.

“Almost,” I grin. “You still couldn’t catch me.”

Chaos swells—bottles flying, chirps sharp, soap foaming underfoot. My chest’s sore, my legs dead, but for the first time all day, I feel like I belong.

Cole claps a hand against the tile, smirk wicked. “You did good today, curls.”

The words hit harder than a check. Heat rises up my neck.

And then it happens.

A low hum from the stall behind me.

Damian.

Goddamn.

He steps into the showers, towel slung low, hair damp, eyes scanning the steam like he owns it. Which, apparently, he does—because the noise softens, subtle but real.

My whole body seizes. Naked. Everyone’s naked. My captain is right there, bruises mapped across ribs. I can’t blink without imagining dropping to my knees.

I nearly choke on steam.

And then he steps fully under the spray, calm as if it isn’t the end of the world.

Every nerve in me tunes to one place—him.

I risk it, just one glance. Through haze and water, his eyes catch mine for a heartbeat. Not by accident. Just long enough that my lungs forget how to work, long enough that the chaos of fifteen men collapses into silence inside my skull.

Then he turns away.

As if I’m nothing.

As if I didn’t just come undone against the tile.

My heart goes feral, battering my ribs, trying to break free and sprint across the space between us.

No. I lunge out of the spray, snag my towel, bolt. Someone yells after me—Cole, probably—but I don’t stop. Dripping everywhere, dragging on sweats with shaking hands.

If I don’t move fast, I’ll forget there’s a team, a room, rules. Forget everything except him. And then what?

I slam my laces tight, shove gear into my bag, breathe like I’m still skating suicides. My skin burns, my chest hollows.

Christ. It’s day one, and I’m already done for.