Chapter 4
Ihate flying.
Not in the fun, haha turbulence makes me queasy kind of way. My brother died in a car crash. Not a plane. But panic doesn’t care. It latches onto engines and exits and metal tubes in the sky. Every flight feels like a dare. Every bump, a warning. I hate it. I hate that I still shake.
No, this is full-body dread. Bone-deep, brain-rattling, stomach-twisting doom.
And of course, it has to be raining. Because nothing says crippling anxiety like thunderclouds and a plane that looks way too small to carry a team full of testosterone-sweating giants and their thirty-pound gear bags.
“Can we walk instead?” I ask. Half-joking. Mostly not.
Damian doesn’t answer at first. He turns, hoodie pulled up, shoulders hulking under black-on-black travel gear, and eyes me like he already knows. He always knows. His jaw twitches then he steps closer. Right into my space. “Pup,” he says, low and even. “I’m right here.”
I swallow hard and nod—once, barely enough to count.
“You trust me, right?”
My throat’s too tight to speak, so I nod again. And that’s when he reaches out—quiet, no rush—and takes my hand. Right there on the wet tarmac. No care for the cameras, the teammates loading gear, the crew watching us with tired eyes and coffee breath.
His fingers curl tight around mine. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And he does. He starts walking slow, letting me move at my own pace while the storm clouds crackle in the sky and the smell of jet fuel mixes with rain. His thumb rubs slow over my knuckles, grounding me every step closer to the stairs.
The wind picks up and I flinch.
He squeezes my hand tighter. “Eyes on me, baby. Not the plane.”
I watch his face. That scar. Those mismatched eyes that see everything I try to hide.
The way his mouth softens when I breathe too fast. The way he pulls me in.
I don’t remember the climb. Just that his hand never leaves mine.
And when we’re on board, when the others are still yelling about overhead bins and Cole’s TikTok playlist is already blaring from his phone, Damian pulls me straight into our row, buckles me in himself, then sinks down beside me.
His arm hooks over my shoulder, and my head drops to his chest. I can still hear the rain, but I don’t feel like I’m dying anymore. I feel held.
The moment I sink into my seat, still white-knuckled from the tarmac trauma, something thumps into my lap.
I blink down—gummy bears. The bag is massive, absolutely Shane-sized, and Shane himself is already halfway down the aisle, humming to himself like he didn’t drop sugar diplomacy into my hands.
He tosses a lazy wink over his shoulder.
“What the hell—” I start, but then thud—another object lands in my lap. A bottle this time, filled with clear liquid, the cap still sealed and the label suspiciously in Russian.
I stare at it, then up at Viktor, who’s already walking away without a word, stone-faced like none of it even happened.
“Sniff it first,” I mutter to myself. Because last time? Hell. Liquid hell. I almost died. And Viktor watched me suffer like it was performance art.
As I’m still trying to process that, fwump—something soft lands on my legs, and when I glance down I’m met with a plushie.
A fucking plushie. Big-eyed, floppy-eared, pink.
I look up in horror in time to catch Tyler grinning a few rows ahead, giving me a thumbs up before disappearing into his seat like he didn’t just ruin my life.
I’m frozen, speechless, staring down at the disaster in my lap, and beside me Damian is staring at the plushie like it personally offended his bloodline, his eyes flicking between it and me in slow, murderous calculation.
He opens his mouth, but he never gets the chance, because that’s when Cole appears, sliding into the row behind us and leaning over the back of my seat like a demon with Wi-Fi.
“So,” he chirps, delighted. “Is Cap a cuddler? Does he snore? Who said I love you first? Is his dick really as scary as it looks? I’m doing a poll—”
“COLE—” I shriek, my face going nuclear as I try to pelt him with gummy bears, the plushie sliding off my lap in the chaos. Damian drags me closer, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and levels Cole with a look that promises death.
“Poll’s closed,” Cole sing-songs, flopping back with a dramatic sigh. “God, you two are so boring. No fun at all. Repressing your love in a repressed society.”
I groan into Damian’s chest as the plushie lands back in my lap, and I finally give up and hug it.
The plane lifts off with a low growl and a shudder.
I clutch the damn plushie tighter than I’d ever admit, eyes glued to the seat in front of me.
The bottle of not-water is safely stashed in the side pouch, the gummy bears are in my hoodie pocket, and Damian’s hand is in my hair, slow, steady, grounding me like only he can.
And still, a question worms into my brain and stays. Who said I love you first?
Nobody did. We’ve said everything but that—sir, pup, mine, good boy. But never that. The thought doesn’t shake me. Not exactly. It just buzzes. Itches. Like my chest knows something my mouth won’t admit.
Damian’s fingers drag through my curls again, and I can feel his eyes on me. That look he gets, smirking down like he knows all my secrets, like he’s already written the ending to every question I’ve ever had.
I tilt my head back to look up at him. And fuck, he’s unreal.
Scar at his lip pulling with amusement, mismatched eyes glowing under the cabin lights.
I still can’t believe it sometimes. I used to have posters of him on my walls—real ones, the big glossy kind with him mid-fight, fist raised, lip bloody, absolute monster on the ice.
My mom thought it was because he was my favorite player.
She didn’t know I used to press my hand to the glass over his face and whisper, someday.
Now I live in his pocket—sleep in his bed, wear his hoodie, take his orders, scream for him, skate for him—belong to him in ways that don’t feel fair, because no one should get this lucky, not when they’re me and not after fucking up this much.
His fingers tighten slightly in my hair like he can feel the spiral starting, and when I blink up at him he smirks. “Something on your mind, pup?” he murmurs, his voice low enough to rattle the hollow parts of me.
I could say no, play it off, bite my tongue and bury the question, but instead I breathe out, soft. “…Do you ever think about it?”
His brows tick. “Think about what?”
I hesitate before whispering, “Who’ll say it first,” and he lets that smirk curl deeper as his hand trails down, his thumb dragging slow across my jaw while his gaze stays locked on me. Then he leans in, his mouth brushing my temple as he murmurs, “I already say it every time I call you mine.”
I don’t reply because I can’t; I’m too busy melting, my throat locking and my eyes burning while I pretend it’s the pressure from takeoff. I bury my face in his chest, and he doesn’t stop stroking my hair.
The soft rumble of the engines pulls at me like a lullaby, until his voice cuts through the haze, low and close to my ear. “Wake up, pup. We’re home.”
I blink blearily against his shoulder, everything slow and warm and safe.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember his hand in my hair and the way his thumb stroked behind my ear until the world faded out.
Now the lights of Ravensburg blur outside the tiny window, streaked gold and wet from the rain.
I groan into his chest and immediately regret it.
“Two minutes,” I mumble. “You woke me up for the two-minute warning?”
His lips graze my temple. “Figured you’d want time to fix your brat face before the team sees you drooling on me.”
“I don’t drool,” I grumble, swiping at my chin anyway.
He just smirks. Doesn’t let me up until the wheels kiss the runway and the cabin lights flicker back to life, bathing us all in sterile orange.
The groans start immediately. Cole’s fake snoring morphs into actual whining, Tyler yawns so wide I think his jaw might unhinge, and Shane’s slapping his cheeks to keep from falling asleep again.
“God, this plane is cursed,” Cole mutters loud enough for the whole front row to hear. “I need pizza. I need bagels. I need carbs.”
“You need silence,” Viktor grunts from two rows ahead.
“YOU need a hug!” Cole chirps, smacking him on the back of the head as he passes. Viktor doesn’t even flinch. I think his soul left mid-flight.
I haul my gear bag onto my shoulder with a groan. My knee twinges, reminding me it still hates me, but I don’t care. We won. We fucking won.
Four games, done, which means it’s finally break time—no Wranglers, no bus rides, no violent assholes slamming me knee-first into the boards. Just home, bed, and Damian.
I’m still in zombie mode when we shuffle off the plane and out into the night, a gaggle of half-dead hockey players clunking through arrivals like the world’s angriest migration. Coach appeared somehow just before landing, cigar stub in hand. He’s probably been sleeping in the overhead bin.
Outside, the team bus looms like salvation in the drizzle, its headlights glowing soft in the dark, casting pale gold across the wet pavement. I shiver once, hoodie pulled tighter around me, still not fully awake, and then his hand finds mine again.
I glance up at him through sleep-blurred lashes, and his mouth quirks in that subtle way that says everything without needing to speak, but he doesn’t say a word.
And then the airport doors hiss open. Instantly, I’m blinded—flashes firing in every direction, screams bursting through the air, and something wild hits the floor near my foot. Glitter? Candy? What the hell—“Mercer!! KADE!!”