Chapter 24 - Damian
A week.
That’s how long I’ve kept him.
One night wasn’t enough. Neither was two. I didn’t let him crawl back to his little rookie shoebox. He’s been in my bed every night since, tangled in my sheets, sprawled against my chest like he’s always belonged there.
The first morning after, he limped.
The second, he tried to hide it.
By the time practice rolled around again, he was walking off-center, every stride crooked like his body couldn’t quite forget me.
Of course Cole chirped him.
Of course Elias chirped back.
But now? Now there’s no joking.
Now there’s ice.
My whistle cuts the air sharp as a blade, and the boys scramble, all helmets and tape and clattering blades. I’m not just barking orders today. I’m on the ice with them, gear strapped tight, lungs burning same as theirs.
I drill them hard. Harder than they’ve ever been drilled. Suicides until lungs scrape raw. Board battles until sticks snap. Net-front scrums that leave knuckles bloody. They’ll thank me for it later.
Cole I toss against Tyler, because I know the kid’s going to fold and I want him to.
Cole’s a bastard when he wants to be—loud, sharp elbows, never shutting his mouth.
I can see Tyler’s shoulders sagging already, jaw clenched against tears he doesn’t want to shed. Good. He’ll break and rebuild stronger.
And Elias—
Elias gets me.
His skates cut slow to the circle, confusion strong in his eyes. He knows what it means to go one-on-one. He knows it’s not just sticks and pucks. It’s body. It’s weight. It’s slam and slash and grind against the boards until one man wins.
“You want me…to…what?” he gulps, helmet tipping forward.
His eyes are wide, curls damp under the cage. He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Because going against me doesn’t mean playing—it means bleeding.
“Yes,” I say flat, planting my stick into the ice. “You and me.”
His throat works. He stares at me like the idea alone might kill him. And he’s right. Because he won’t hold back against anyone else if he can stand against me.
“You expect me to—” His voice cracks. “To hit you? You?”
“Yes.”
The word is calm, stone.
Because if he can slam me into the glass, if he can chirp me to my face, if he can bleed and stand tall against the meanest bastard in this league—then he can do it against anyone.
The circle’s cut into ice, fresh lines from drills still jagged under our blades. The others watch from the boards—helmets tilted forward, sticks clutched, waiting like vultures for blood.
Elias stares at me. His stick trembles where it rests on the dot.
The whistle shrieks.
And he doesn’t move.
Not the way he should. Not the way I’ve seen him against every other bastard who’s tried to crush him. He always lunges first—always. He never folds, not once, not since the second I dragged him onto this roster. He takes hits, he mouths off back, he bleeds, he gets up. Every single time.
But against me? He hesitates.
I see it in his legs, the way his weight shifts but never commits. I see it in his grip, knuckles white, but stick still locked in place. He’s frozen.
Because I’m not Cole, or Mats, or some Wrangler trying to shatter his ribs. I’m his Captain. His goddamn nightmare. The one man he’s too reverent, too devoted, too mine to slam into the glass.
And that’s exactly why I have to make him.
Because if he can’t hit me, if he folds against me, then he’ll never reach what I need him to be. He’ll be good—maybe even great—but he’ll never be a legend.
And I’m going to carve a legend out of Elias Mercer whether he likes it or not.
I close the space between us with long, deliberate strides, blade cutting sharp against the dot. His throat works, his stick jerks higher like instinct’s screaming at him to move—but he doesn’t.
I shoulder-check him. Not brutal. Not full weight. Just enough to send him staggering two steps, skates screeching against the ice.
“Again.”
My voice is low, calm, carrying across the rink. The boys on the boards go silent.
Elias blinks, chest heaving. “Cap—I—”
“Again.”
He sets his skates, trembling but upright. He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t hit back.
So this time, I don’t hold back.
My shoulder slams harder into his, weight driving him to the boards. The glass rattles, the sound cracking across the rink. He grunts, pain flashing in his eyes, but stays on his feet.
Good. Not good enough.
“Don’t you dare fold for me, Mercer,” I growl low, loud enough for the others to hear. “If you can’t take me, you can’t take anyone.”
“That’s not true… I can take anyone!” His eyes blaze up through the cage, desperate, stubborn. Then his voice drops smaller, almost a whimper. “…But you.”
The sound shoots straight through my chest. He means it. Every word. He’ll take cross-checks to the ribs, elbows to the throat, fists to the jaw—but not from me. Because I’m his Captain, his god, the man he worships too much to touch.
And that’s exactly why I slam him harder.
My shoulder drives into his chest, crushing him into the glass. His helmet rattles, his stick clatters against the boards. My hand fists into the bars of his cage, yanking his face up until mismatched eyes burn straight into wrecked green.
“And if someone just as mean as me comes against you?” My voice is a blade, cutting through the quiet rink. “What then, pup?”
He gasps, hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to shove me or cling to me.
“Hit me,” I snarl, shaking his cage once, hard enough to make his teeth clack. “Or I’ll make you bleed.”
The whole team is silent. Cole’s grin has died on his mouth. Tyler looks sick. Mats and Viktor just watch, stone-faced, waiting to see if the rookie folds or if I break him into something more.
Elias’s breath tears ragged out of him. His throat works under the strap of his helmet, pupils blown wide with panic, reverence, fire.
He’s at the edge.
He still doesn’t move.
His hands twitch on his stick, his lips part like he’s about to—but then he freezes again.
The hesitation grates.
So I go for the one weapon that always cuts deepest.
“Christ, Mercer,” I growl. “I thought you were supposed to be a mouthy little shit. What’s this? Puppy got no bite? Just wag your tail for me and roll over?”
His throat works. Nothing.
“You fold for me, you’ll fold for anyone. That what you want? To be known as the kid who can’t throw a hit unless Daddy Captain holds his hand?”
His eyes flare, a flash of green fire under the cage, but he still doesn’t lunge.
I smirk. “What, you waiting for permission to grow a spine? Or you planning to bat your lashes at Wranglers defense until they let you pass?”
That gets him. His lips twitch, his stick jerks up an inch, breath coming sharper.
“Maybe I should tell the press,” I keep going, words lethal, steady. “Their golden rookie’s just a lapdog. Can’t even slam a body unless it’s for show. Maybe all that chirping’s just covering the fact you don’t got the stones to—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Elias cuts me off. His curls bounce under his helmet as he jerks forward. “I’m not a lapdog—and I’ll take down anyone on this goddamn ice, including you!”
The boards explode with noise—the boys howling, Cole cackling loud enough to echo, Tyler gaping like he just saw God. But Elias doesn’t hear them. His eyes are locked on me, feral, finally snapping into the fire I’ve been carving out of him for weeks.
Good.
Now we can start.
I let the silence stretch half a beat. Just long enough for the boys on the boards to hold their breath. Then I slam him.
Hard.
My shoulder drives into his chest, rattling his cage against the glass, the boards shrieking under the impact. His gasp tears out raw, the sound of pain tangled with fire, and my hand fists back into the bars of his helmet, shoving him harder until the glass hums.
“Show me, pup,” I snarl, hot against his ear. “You say you’ll take anyone? Then take me.”
He’s wild under the cage, teeth grit as he fights to stay upright. His stick clatters, his gloves twitch, his whole body trembling with rage.
And Christ—my cock twitches in my cup.
Because I can feel him snapping back, finally, finally, the hesitation breaking into fire. Because my pup doesn’t just obey—he fights, he bleeds, he lives for me, and nothing gets me harder than watching him burn.
The boards creak with the weight of us, my hips pressing him deeper into the glass. Every muscle in him is straining against me, but he doesn’t fold. He doesn’t beg. He bares his teeth like he’s ready to sink them straight into my throat.
The boys on the bench are howling, Cole screaming something about “Curls vs. Cap!” like it’s a prizefight. I don’t hear them.
All I hear is Elias’s ragged breath, all I feel is his body shuddering with fury under mine, all I see is the fire in him as he finally slams his weight back into me.
He shoves back.
Not clean. Not polished. But with every ounce of rage I’ve been trying to carve into him. His shoulder slams into mine, his skates screech against the ice, his stick jerks up like he’s finally ready to use it.
Good.
I step back. Just enough. One hand digs into my pocket, pulls a puck, drops it to the circle between us.
“Live.” My voice cracks across the rink. “One-on-one. Show me.”
The sound of it cuts the bench into silence. No chirps, no laughter, no noise. Just sticks tapping once against the boards, nervous, eager.
The puck bounces once, spins, stills.
Elias stares at it. His throat works, his gloves twitch like he’s deciding whether to crawl or burn. Then his eyes snap back to mine, blazing hot, and I see it—the decision.
He lunges.
Stick slaps the puck off the dot, blades biting as he cuts toward the blue line. I chase, hard strides ripping across the ice, stick angled low.
He doesn’t grin. He’s gone silent, fast and feral, like a rookie possessed.
I catch up at the hash marks. Stick hooks his, body weight driving into his side. His ribs buckle under the hit, but he doesn’t fall. He digs in, claws the puck free, slams it against the boards to keep it alive.