Chapter 13 - Elias #2
But we’re not here to skate. Not today. Not after Haverton, not after the storm, not after whatever the hell that layover turned into.
We’re here because this is where all our cars are. Home base. The place we scatter from, back to our own corners of the city, until Harrow drags us back again.
The bus sighs to a stop. No one moves. Not until Coach flicks his hand once, dismissive.
Then the aisle clogs with bodies, gear clattering. Like we just survived something worse than the Phantoms.
Cole and I are mid-jab war by the time we hit the lot, both of us hauling bags, both of us running on plane sleep and way too much chaos.
“Face it, Hollywood,” I shoot, curls bouncing as I half-stumble over my gear. “You only scored that second-period breakaway because their goalie got distracted by your hair product blinding him.”
Cole clutches his chest like I just shot him, sunglasses slipping down his nose. “You wound me, rookie. This is all-natural shine.”
I bark a laugh, jogging to keep up with him as we cut toward his obnoxiously red convertible—the same one I’ve been hitching rides in since I landed here last week. “All-natural? Bro, you smell like an entire Sephora. If I lit a match near you, we’d all explode.”
He grins, sharp and smug, tossing his keys up in one hand. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t miss me if I went up in flames.”
“Miss the smell of burning hair gel?” I chirp, grinning. “Not a chance.”
We’re still bickering, still trading jabs, when it happens.
A weight. Heavy, deliberate.
A hand—massive, calloused—lands at the back of my neck. Not rough, not soft either. Just…final. Constant pressure that pulls me clean off course.
I jerk, stumbling sideways, my mouth still open around the taunt I was about to fling at Cole.
“Hey—what the—”
Cole’s grin widens instantly, wolf-bright. He throws me a two-finger salute as I’m redirected like a shopping cart. “See ya, curls! If you make it.”
The words slice through me like a blade. My stomach drops. My eyes go wide, my neck craning back, up—because of course. Of course it’s him.
Damian.
Towering, silent, eyes unreadable under his hair. His grip is iron at the back of my neck, steering me without a word. My bag shifts awkwardly in my hands as I half-jog to keep from tripping, my heart banging loud in my ears.
My mouth goes dry.
“Captain—” My voice cracks.
But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Just angles me straight toward the hulking black SUV at the far end of the lot. His.
Cole’s laugh echoes behind us, high and smug and way too pleased.
And I’m vibrating.
Because suddenly I’m not headed for the obnoxious convertible I’ve been riding in all week.
Damian doesn’t even break stride. Doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge the fact that I’m tripping over my own skates and gear bag trying to keep up with the hand clamped on my neck.
He reaches the SUV, pops the trunk one-handed, and wrenches my bag clean out of my grip like I’m five years old. Mine and his both land in the back with a heavy thunk.
The next sound is the door hinge creaking, the massive passenger-side door swung open like it weighs nothing.
“In.”
One word.
And my body betrays me. A sound rips out of my throat—half-breath, half-moan. Quiet, humiliating, automatic.
I scramble up into the seat anyway.
The door shuts behind me, sealing me in. And holy hell—this thing is terrifying from the inside too. Black leather, dark trim, everything smelling like smoke and steel. The dash glows faint red, humming low like the car itself has a pulse.
It swallows me whole. I sink into the seat, dwarfed by it, by him. My chest heaves once, too fast, my palms sweaty against my knees.
Because it’s not Cole’s stupid convertible anymore. No music blasting, no trash talking the whole way home.
It’s Damian’s SUV.
It’s silence.
The door slams on Damian’s side, heavy enough to rattle my bones. The engine rumbles to life, deep and low, vibrating through the seat like the car itself is growling.
He pulls out of the lot with calm, mechanical precision—shoulder checking, signal flashing, every move clean. It’s terrifying, because it’s the same way he is on the ice: controlled, unreadable, inevitable.
And I’m vibrating out of my skin.
The silence is unbearable. Worse than Coach’s clipboard. Worse than turbulence at 30,000 feet. Worse than the storm.
So, naturally, my mouth kicks in.
“Nice car, Cap. Real cozy. Definitely screams I could bury a body in here and no one would ever find it.”
Nothing. His profile stays carved out of shadow, eyes on the road.
I keep going. “Leather, huh? Real classy. Bet it’s easier to clean blood out of this than cloth.”
Still nothing.
My leg starts bouncing. “Do you, uh…do you keep all your rookies in here? Is this like—a hazing thing? You drive them around in the Deathmobile until they cry? Because I’ll have you know I don’t cry, sir.
Not unless you count when you tape my wrists too tight.
Which you did. Yesterday. Kind of rude.”
His jaw ticks once. That’s it.
So I lean in, grinning too wide, reckless fire spilling out of me. “Or maybe this is the secret initiation. You trap me in your SUV, scare me into silence, then—”
The words never finish.
Because suddenly his hand is in my hair, fisting, dragging me across the console. His mouth crashes into mine, hard and deep, swallowing every chirp before it can leave my tongue.
My phone slips from my hand, forgotten. My chest caves, my grin shatters, and I melt into it—into him. Into the heat, the pressure, the weight of him controlling even this.
He kisses me like he’s silencing me forever. Like every reckless word I’ve ever thrown into the air belongs buried under his mouth.
When he finally pulls back, my lungs are wrecked, my lips bruised, my words gone.
His hand stays curled in my hair.
“Better,” he growls, low and final.
And for once—for once—I shut the fuck up.
His hand stays locked in my curls, firm, steady, like I’m leashed to him even with the SUV rolling smooth under us. Every time I so much as shift in my seat, the grip tightens just enough to remind me: don’t.
So I sit there in silence, my pulse thundering loud in my ears. Every nerve in me screams to fill the silence, to run my mouth until the tension cracks. But every time I glance at him—his profile carved, mismatched eyes flicking between the road and me—the leash holds.
I’m not breathing calmer again until I realize where we’re going.
My stomach flips.
The SUV turns abruptly, tires humming low, and the streets blur by—familiar streets. Too familiar.
And then we’re pulling up outside my building.
My building.
I freeze, staring out the window at the brick facade, at the crooked number above the door, at the same shitty streetlight that flickers at night.
My chest seizes. Slowly, mechanically, I turn to look at him.
“…How the fuck do you know where I live?”
His eyes don’t leave the road. His hand doesn’t leave my curls. He just shifts the SUV into park with terrifying calm, the engine still rumbling like a growl under us.
My mouth goes dry, blood roaring hot.
Because I never told him.
And he’s never been here.
Not once.
But here we are.
Finally, finally, his eyes cut to me. My stomach drops like the plane all over again.
“I know your goddamn blood type, Mercer,” Damian says. “Of course I know where you live.”
…What.
My brain bluescreens. I gape at him, lips parting, sound stuttering in my throat. “I—what the—why the fuck do you—how the fuck do you—”
He almost smirks. Almost. Just the faintest curl at the scar on his lip, like he’s watching me short-circuit and enjoying every second.
“It’s my job,” he says simply, final as a hammer dropping. “You’re mine to look after. My team. My responsibility. That means I know the things that matter.”
My lungs forget how to work. I’m glitching like some busted video game.
Blood type.
Address.
Probably my goddamn middle name, which I never tell anyone.
Holy shit.
I scrub both hands down my face,skin burning hot. “Jesus Christ. You’re like…you’re like a mob boss mixed with a stalker—what the fuck, sir—”
The grip in my curls tightens. My rant cuts off in a strangled squeak.
And he just looks at me.
“My responsibility,” he repeats, like that’s all there is to it.
And the worst part?
The part that makes me want to slam my head against the dash?
That word—that weight—doesn’t scare me.
It makes something in my chest go quiet. Safe.
And I’m so fucked for it.