Chapter 31 - Elias
One month. Exactly thirty days until playoffs.
I can feel it in my body—like every nerve’s been rewired, every muscle sharpened. My jeans don’t sag under Damian’s old jacket anymore. I’m filling it out now, shoulders stretching fabric that used to swallow me whole. And God help me, I like the way his scar twitches when he notices.
Tyler’s puking less too. Progress.
And me? I don’t lose. Not anymore. Not because I’m addicted to winning—though, yeah, the roar of the barn feels better than oxygen.
But the truth is uglier, sharper: I’d rather eat glass than disappoint Damian Kade.
If I had to skate until my lungs bled, I’d do it.
If I had to drag the whole team up the ice on my back, I’d do it.
Anything. Just don’t make me see that look in his eyes—disappointment.
So I don’t.
In the gym, I lift what Cole lifts now. Every rep, every set, I push until my hands shake.
I still wobble on the last one, sweat pouring, teeth clenched, and that’s always when Damian is there.
Broad shadow. Steady hand. Pulling the bar off me before it crushes me.
Growling low in my ear, drilling into me that I need to be fast, not heavy.
But I’m already fast. Fast enough to burn anyone stupid enough to challenge me at center.
Tonight proves it again. We just buried the Portland Phantoms 4–1 in our own barn. Their goalie’s still scraping rubber out of his teeth. I won every faceoff. Damian crushed their captain into the glass so hard the guy saw God. Cole chirped the whole bench into despair. A perfect night.
We’re sweaty, buzzing, walking down the tunnel, sticks clacking against cement, when the vultures appear.
The press.
Microphones, cameras, recorders shoved forward like weapons. I used to blush seven ways to Sunday when they came at me. Fumbled words, stuttered answers, eyes darting to Damian to save me.
Not anymore.
Because now they’re merciless. They go straight for blood.
“What’s the deal with you and Kade, Mercer?”
“Looks like he protects you more than anyone else—special treatment?”
“Are you two… close off the ice too?”
I freeze. My throat locks tight. They didn’t even sugarcoat it this time. They just stripped it down to bone.
I do what I always do—I look up at him.
Damian. My enforcer. My nightmare. My everything.
He meets my eyes. Calm. Stone. And then he does something that makes my stomach cave—he pushes me forward with his stick. A little shove against my hip, subtle, final.
Answer.
My heart slams. My tongue dries out. My curls stick damp against my forehead as every camera tilts toward me.
“Uh—”I cough, square my shoulders under his old jacket, and try again.
Every nerve in me screams to fold. To let him take it. To let Damian bulldoze them with a look.
But he won’t.
This one’s mine.
So I don’t chirp. I don’t grin. I don’t run.
I tell the truth.
“He pushes me,” I say loud enough to carry over the mics. “Because he needs me to be the best. Not for him. Not for me. For this team.”
The tunnel goes still. No scribbling, no whispers, just cameras flashing like lightning strikes.
I swallow hard, but I keep going. “He doesn’t let me fold. Ever. If I screw up in practice, he makes me do it again. If I hesitate, he hits me harder than anyone else. Because if I can survive him, I can survive anyone in this league.”
A beat of silence. The words hang there, heavy as stone.
And then the reporters erupt—questions layered over each other, voices climbing, cameras surging closer.
But I don’t hear them.
I hear him. The rumble low in his chest. A hum, deep and satisfied, right behind me.
And I know. I didn’t disappoint him.
The tunnel is a storm—flashes bursting, voices rising, everyone clawing for blood. I think we’re done, I think maybe I’ve slipped past it with that answer, but then one of them cuts sharper than the rest:
“So, are you guys together off ice?”
My lungs stop. My throat locks tight. Every instinct screams to look at him again—and I do.
Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. Just slides his stick sideways, the cold tape brushing my hip like a leash. Subtle. Silent. Answer.
Fuck.
My stomach free-falls. My ears roar. But my voice—hoarse, wrecked, raw—still claws out of me.
“Yes,” I say, clear, steady. “We are.”
The tunnel detonates. Cameras flash like lightning, reporters shouting over each other, recorders shoved closer. My face burns scarlet, but I don’t backpedal. I don’t take it back. I keep my eyes forward.
Another vulture cuts through the noise. “So is he favoring you on ice?”
I laugh. Reckless, broken right down the middle. “If by favoring you mean giving me more bruises than anyone else, sure.”
The laughter that explodes from the vets behind me nearly shakes the tunnel—Cole cackling like a hyena, Mats muttering holy shit under his breath, even Viktor snorting once like the apocalypse just came early.
But I don’t look at them.
I look up.
At him.
And Damian Kade smirks. Proud.
The questions come like bullets—marriage, favoritism, playoffs, what the hell do we do in hotels. Every mic shoved so close I could bite it if I leaned forward.
“All right. Enough for today.”
And just like that, the storm breaks. Not gone, not quiet, but crushed under the weight of his tone. Cameras still flash, voices still chase us, but Damian’s hand presses firm against my back and I move. Down the tunnel. Past the vultures. Straight into the locker room.
The door slams behind us.
And the place detonates.
“OH MY GOD!” Cole howls, sunglasses crooked, leaping onto a bench like he’s a cheerleader. “HE FUCKING SAID YES!”
Tyler shrieks like his soul just left his body. “I—I—he just—YOU—” He points at me with both hands, jaw hanging open. “You said it! You actually said it!”
Mats clutches his chest, leaning back against his stall like he’s just witnessed divine intervention. “Christ, Mercer.” His smirk’s so sharp it could cut steel. “Straight into the mic, huh? No hesitation?”
Shane crosses himself and mutters something about forgiveness, but he’s grinning too. Even Viktor’s mouth curves the smallest bit, which in Viktor-speak means the world is ending.
And me?
I’m nuclear.
Scarlet. Head to toe. My ears, my throat—it all burns. I tug Damian’s jacket higher on my shoulders like it might swallow me whole, curls falling into my eyes, green as hell, and the boys keep screaming.
Cole fans me with a towel like I’m about to faint, shrieking, “OUR LITTLE ROM-COM STAR! GODDAMN CURLS, YOU’RE A LEGEND!”
I bury my face in my hands and groan, muffled: “Kill me now.”
The room howls louder.
Behind me, Damian leans against his stall like he planned this entire circus.
I can’t take it anymore. The towel fanning, the shrieks, Cole hollering about wedding bells—I snap.
I whirl toward Damian, curls sticking to my forehead, face still flaming red. My voice cracks, splintered and whiny, but it flies out anyway:
“You said you’d make me a legend—on ice! For playing! Not for sucking you off!”
The words echo. Loud. Too loud.
And then the silence hits.
Every man in this room hears it. Helmets half-off, tape dangling from gloves, towels frozen mid-swipe. Fuck.
I realize what I’ve done right as Damian straightens in his stall.
“You mouthing off at me, pup?” he asks. One single chance wrapped in a few words.
My throat slams shut. My knees wobble. I know a warning when I hear one.
“No, sir,” I blurt fast, gulping, shoving my mouth shut so hard my teeth click.
The room holds its breath.
Damian doesn’t move. Just lets his eyes pin me like nails, the weight of them heavier than a whole goddamn team. Then, slow, he smirks again and leans back, like I passed the test by keeping my mouth shut.
The boys don’t breathe until I sag back onto the bench, curls falling into my eyes.
“He’s still scary…” I whisper to Cole.
Cole cackles, slinging an arm around my shoulders like he’s about to die laughing. “No shit, curls. He’s Damian fucking Kade.”
The locker room detonates again, louder than before.
The chirping doesn’t stop. Not when I yank my pads off, not when I slam my helmet into the stall, not even when I grab my towel and stumble toward the showers like I’m sprinting to salvation.
Cole’s voice follows me down the row, cracked and gleeful: “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white—”
“SHUT UP!” I yell over my shoulder, face on fire, curls sticking to my forehead. The only answer is Mats howling and Shane actually trying to harmonize.
By the time I slam the shower handle on, steam bursts up around me, hot water pounding across my shoulders. I brace both hands on the tile, eyes closed, trying to drown out the echo of wedding songs bouncing off the locker room walls.
Christ. I’m never living this down.
I tilt my head back under the spray, hot water slicking curls down my neck, soap burning my eyes—but then everything stops.
Because he’s here.
Damian.
The water shifts hotter with the size of him, his shadow cutting through the steam before I even open my eyes.
Then—his body presses in behind me. Solid.
Immovable. One hand clamps firm around my waist, dragging me back against him, while the other slams heavy against the tile beside my head, caging me in.
“Mouthy little pup,” he rumbles.
My breath catches. My knees damn near buckle. I clutch the tile harder, steam burning in my lungs.
“Sir—” My voice cracks, undone already.
His grip on my waist tightens. The spray hisses hotter over both of us, soap running down my chest, and I’m trapped between stone and fire—tile in front, Damian behind.
And I should shut up. I should bite my tongue, take the warning, behave.
But I don’t.
Because I’m Elias Mercer, reckless little shit, and my mouth has always been my worst weapon.
So it slips out—stupid, reckless as hell: “Maybe you just like it when I mouth off, Captain.”
The second I say it, the steam itself freezes.