Chapter 12 - Damian
Storm’s broken enough that planes are moving again. The airport’s still half a barn—wood panels groaning, lights buzzing like they’ll flicker out any second—but the boards are lit green, flight numbers crawling back to life.
Home. Finally.
Eight hours direct, no layover. Straight shot back to Ravensburg.
Except there’s a problem.
Elias Mercer.
He’s standing three feet from the gate like the floorboards are rigged with explosives.
Bag slung over his shoulder, curls wild, chest heaving like he’s gearing up for war instead of boarding a commercial flight.
His mouth is running—too fast, too sharp, spitting chirps at Cole just to cover the tremor in his voice.
His eyes keep darting to the windows, to the faint flash of lightning still threading through the clouds.
And when the agent calls boarding, he flat out shakes his head.
“Nope. Absolutely not. I’ll walk back to Ravensburg. It’s fine. I’ve got legs.”
Cole grins, already halfway down the jet bridge. “That’ll only take you…what, three months? Perfect. Less time to annoy me.”
Elias flips him off but doesn’t move. Tyler hovers awkwardly at his side like he wants to help but knows better. The rest of the boys shuffle toward the line, grumbling, dragging, ready to collapse into their seats.
But Elias—he’s locked in place.
And I don’t have time for it.
I step into his line of sight. He startles—he always does—but his chin tips up, cocky grin plastered too wide across his face. The mask. Always the mask.
“Nope,” he says again. “Not happening. I’m not getting on that death trap. Do you know how many planes go down in storms? Do you know how many sharks are in the ocean just waiting—”
“Elias.”
He stops. His eyes wide, mouth parted.
I lower my voice. “Get on the plane.”
“No.” His grin twitches, too sharp, too shaky. “You can’t make me.”
My jaw tightens. My hand twitches at my side. I could order him. Could haul him by the back of his collar. But Mercer doesn’t respond to orders when he’s panicking—he spirals.
So I blackmail him.
I step closer, let my words cut low where only he can hear. “You want to be in my lineup next game?”
His head jerks, curls bouncing. “What—”
“On my ice. At my center. Running your mouth at their captain until he breaks? You want that?”
His shakes. He swallows. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Then get on the plane.”
He stares up at me like I just shot him. His breath ragged, whole body vibrating with too much adrenaline. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again.
“That’s—” His laugh cracks, half-taunt, half-plea. “That’s dirty, Captain.”
“Good,” I murmur. My mouth curves at the scar. “Because I’m not asking.”
He swallows again, throat working. For a second I think he might snap, bolt for the doors, try to make a run for it.
Then his shoulders sag. His bag slips a little off his shoulder. He mutters, low, broken: “Fuck you, sir.”
I let my smirk widen. “Get on the plane, pup. Or you’ll be watching from the press box while Cole takes your ice.”
That does it. His face crumples, his mouth twists, and he stomps past me down the jet bridge, muttering curses under his breath like it’ll save his pride. His hair bounces wild, his bag smacks his hip, and I hear him groan loud enough for the whole gate to hear:
“I hate you so much, Captain.”
The words slip out before I even think.
“Tell that to the poster above your bed back home.”
Mercer freezes mid-step, curls bouncing as his head whips around. His eyes go wide, green bright as neon in the cheap airport lights.
“I TOLD YOU THAT IN CONFIDENCE!” he yells, loud enough that three gate agents glance over.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I almost laugh.
Because he didn’t tell me shit.
Until now.
He realizes it a second too late. His face drops, his mouth hanging open. “Wait…”
I cock a brow, silent, steady.
His whine cracks. “No. Fuck. No I didn’t—”
He groans so loud Cole probably hears it halfway down the jet bridge.
Then he drags a hand down his face, stomping forward again like the ground insulted him personally.
The strap of his bag slides down his shoulder, his curls are falling into his eyes, and still—he walks. Straight toward the plane.
And then, just to punish himself, he slams his forehead against the first wall he passes. A dull thud that makes Tyler wince and Mats mutter something in Spanish that sounds like a prayer.
Mercer doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps walking, cursing under his breath, ears red all the way to the tips.
I fall in step behind him, smirk curling faint at my lip, watching the kid vibrate like he’s going to combust before we even get off the ground.
My poster.
In his bedroom.
Over his bed.
Good.
Mercer’s still stomping ahead of me, muttering like a lunatic. Not to anyone in particular—just to himself, voice too low for the others but not low enough to keep from me.
“…fuckin’ posters…why would I even say that…stupid mouth, always running, god, what’s wrong with me—”
He shoulders his duffel up and keeps going.
“Three. I had three of them. No, wait—four. Two on the ceiling, one on the closet, one over the bed—Christ, I can’t believe I just admitted that—”
I take my time down the jet bridge, smirk tugging at my scarred mouth as he keeps unraveling.
“And then I go and tell him—I jerked off to those—Jesus Christ, Elias, shut up—since I was, what, twelve? Thirteen? Fuck. He didn’t even ask. He didn’t even ask.”
He’s red to the roots, dragging a hand down his face, still cursing under his breath. “And it wasn’t even, like, casual jerking off—oh no. It was like religious practice. Every damn time his fight highlights came on TV—”
The kid’s killing himself with his own mouth. And I let him.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t correct him.
I don’t say a word.
I just file away every syllable.
Every number. Every confession. Every filthy little detail about what he did under those posters with my face staring down at him.
Because one day soon, when the leash is tighter and he’s begging proper, I’ll use it all.
Seats shuffle, bags slam overhead, Cole’s already bitching about legroom.
Viktor grunts something about killing him if he moves an inch closer.
Mats smirks like he knows more than he’s saying.
Shane’s muttering prayers about flying steel coffins.
Tyler looks like he’s considering faking a seizure to get out of this flight.
Mercer drops into the seat beside me, still buzzing, still whispering curses about posters and ceiling stains and what the fuck is wrong with me.
I let him spiral. Let him burn.
Because tonight, I don’t need to do a damn thing but listen.
“And then—fuck—I used to watch that fight reel on repeat. You against Chicago, you remember that? You ripped that guy’s helmet off with one hand. Jesus. I thought—yeah, that’s it. That’s what a man is. Didn’t even care you got benched after. I taped it. VHS. Wore the fucking tape thin.”
The engines spool higher, louder, the plane shuddering forward toward the runway. His voice pitches sharper, words spilling faster like he’s racing the roar.
“And abs. Christ, the abs. I was fourteen and I thought—fuck, I thought I’d sell my soul to look like that.
Posters didn’t do it justice, y’know? They never got the scar detail right.
Always airbrushed. I liked the real thing better—bloody lip, bruises.
Had a whole folder on my computer—Jesus Christ, Elias, shut the fuck up—”
The nose jerks, the plane tilts into its roll. And that’s when his hand clamps onto me.
Fingers fisting my sleeve, knuckles white. He doesn’t even look down—his eyes are squeezed shut, mouth still running a mile a minute like his own voice is the only thing keeping him breathing.
“Your first hat trick against Montreal—I recorded it on my phone. Watched it in the locker room at juniors before every game. Coach thought I was psyching myself up, but it was just—you. Fucking you. Every goal, every glare, every time you dropped the gloves. Christ. You ruined me before I even met you.”
The plane surges, heavy and fast, the engines a roar beneath us. His grip tightens, dragging the sleeve of my jacket taut over my forearm. But his mouth doesn’t stop.
“God, and the hair. Long, dark, bloody—like a fucking villain in a movie. I thought about that more times than I’ll ever admit. Thought about you pinning me—fuck, fuck, I’m admitting it now—”
We lift off. Wheels leave ground. The tilt throws his head against the seat, his chest jerking with the force of it, his breath catching.
“I wanted to be you. I wanted to have you. I wanted—you don’t even know—posters, highlights, the jersey I stole from a garage sale—oh my god—Captain, I’m such a fucking mess—”
The plane steadies. The city lights drop away below. And still, Elias Mercer clings to me, muttering filth that would’ve gotten him killed if anyone else heard it. His grip’s trembling, his throat raw, but at least he’s not panicking.
The plane hums steady under us, lights dimmed, the roar of engines filling the cabin. He keeps muttering against the static in his own head.
“You don’t get it—no one gets it—do you know how many nights I fell asleep with your highlights on? With your fight reel looping? You were the soundtrack to my whole fucking teenage life, Cap. Jesus. No wonder I can’t—no wonder I can’t—”
Then the plane bucks.
Not much—just a jolt, an air pocket maybe, a shift in the current. But it’s enough.
Mercer flinches hard, his whole body jerking. And without hesitation—without even looking—he grabs my hand. Not my sleeve this time. Not a fistful of fabric. My hand.
His palm slams into mine, fingers clawing tight, desperate. His grip is wild, panicked, shaking. But it’s still mine he takes. Out of twenty men on this flight—he anchors to me.
I don’t pull away.
I let him.