Chapter 11 #2
The entire room goes dead silent. Gear stops clattering. No one even dares to breathe too loud. I look up from my stall and there he is—locked on me like I’m the sole reason the Reapers exist to disappoint him. His scarred jaw is tight, shoulders rigid with barely-contained fury.
“What the fuck was that?” he growls, voice rising with every word.
“You punch your own teammate on the ice? In front of the entire goddamn arena? You played like a reckless fucking child out there tonight, Vance. Head not in the game, swinging at your own defense because you’re pissed off.
I should bench your ass for the next three games just to teach you some goddamn discipline. ”
The words land hard, each one sharper than the last. My face burns.
I can feel the eyes of the entire team on me—Elias looking worried as hell, Shane half-frozen with his jersey halfway off, Mats trying not to grin at the drama.
But it’s Damian’s disappointment that stings the worst. He’s not yelling like a normal coach.
This is pure, cold captain-to-player venom, the kind that reminds you exactly why he’s terrifying even with a bad leg.
Before I can even open my mouth to defend myself, Zara steps forward, tablet clutched like a weapon, her sharp eyeliner doing nothing to hide how done she is with my shit.
“And while we’re at it,” she cuts in “the media is already losing their minds. You just gave them the juiciest locker room drama they’ve seen all season.
‘Cole Vance punches teammate after being seen with new boyfriend’—that’s the headline writing itself right now.
I’ve got fifty messages asking if there’s internal team conflict, if you’re unstable, if this has anything to do with your ‘mystery man.’ You’re turning every game into a soap opera. ”
I clench my jaw, staring at the floor as my bruised knuckles throb in time with my heartbeat. Great. Just fucking perfect.
Viktor shifts from his stall a few feet away, that massive frame moving like he’s about to step in. His voice is low, calm, the way it always gets when he’s trying to defuse something. “Kade—”
“Stay out of this, Petrov,” Damian snaps, spinning on him so fast the cane thuds against the floor. His glare is pure fire now. “This is your fault.”
The words hang in the air for half a second before half the locker room loses it.
Shane snorts so hard he chokes. Elias bites his lip trying not to laugh.
Mats whistles and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “called it.” Even Roman has the audacity to smirk from the corner.
Apparently the entire team knows. Of course they do.
We’ve been dancing around this thing like idiots.
Viktor freezes, his eyes flicking toward me for the briefest moment before he looks away again. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say shit. Just sits back down like the brick wall he is.
I drag a hand down my face, the ache in my chest mixing with the burn of embarrassment and leftover rage. The locker room feels too small, too loud with unspoken things, and all I want to do is disappear.
The silence after Damian’s words is deafening, but it doesn’t last. I can feel everyone staring—waiting for me to shrink, to apologize, to sit back down like a good little soldier.
Fuck that. I shove to my feet so fast the bench scrapes loudly against the floor, grabbing my street clothes from my stall with jerky movements.
I don’t bother with the showers. I rip off the rest of my gear right there, jersey, pads, everything hitting the floor in a messy pile.
My skin is still damp with sweat, my hair a disaster, but I don’t care.
I yank on my hoodie and sweats, shove my feet into my shoes, and snatch my bag.
I look straight at Damian, meeting those terrifying eyes without flinching. “I’ll be off the rest of the week.”
I don’t wait for permission. I don’t wait for anything.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk out, shoulder checking the door open hard enough that it bangs against the wall.
Behind me I hear Elias’s voice cut through the tension—“Cole!”—raw and worried, already moving like he’s going to chase after me. But Damian’s low growl stops him cold.
“Mercer. Sit down.”
The door swings shut behind me, cutting off whatever else gets said.
I don’t look back. My heart is hammering against my ribs as I storm down the hallway, past arena staff who give me wide-eyed stares, past the lingering press that I ignore completely.
The cold night air hits me like a slap when I push outside, but it does nothing to cool the rage simmering under my skin.
My car is waiting in the players’ lot—a sleek red convertible that usually makes me feel like a cocky asshole in the best way.
Tonight it just feels like an escape pod.
I throw my bag in the back, drop into the driver’s seat, and slam the door so hard the whole frame shakes.
My sore hand connects with the steering wheel once, twice, three times—sharp pain shooting up my arm again but I welcome it.
“Fuck!” I hiss between clenched teeth, forehead dropping against the wheel for a second.
Everything hurts. My hand, my chest, the stupid fucking hope I’ve been carrying around.
I start the engine, the roar cutting through the quiet lot, and peel out way too fast. The tires squeal as I gun it onto the road, speeding through the city streets like I can outrun the mess I just left behind.
The speed limit signs blur past. I don’t slow down.
Not for yellow lights, not for the way my phone starts lighting up with texts in the cupholder—Elias, probably Zara, maybe even Damian.
I ignore all of it, one hand gripping the wheel too tight, the other still aching from punching a goddamn Russian who won’t even look at me anymore.
The apartment building comes into view faster than it should. I whip into my spot, kill the engine, and just sit there in the sudden silence, staring at nothing through the windshield. The ache in my chest feels bigger than the arena, bigger than the team, bigger than anything I know how to fix.