4. Chapter 4 #2
“Oh, I can make anyone cry if I try.” Matt grins.
“Get him off the ice and the third line collapses,” Zed tells them, then turns back to the room.
“Jesus, Z. That’s brutal.” Addams chuckles.
“It’s accurate.” No malice, no pride—just fact.
He clicks the marker shut and sets it down. “If we pressure their second line and bait the third, we’ll force the top unit to overextend. That’s when you strike. Quick cycling, low-high play. Exploit the rotation gap behind their net. They always leave space at the back door.”
He looks at me last. “They’ll target you, Dom. Let them.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. I gathered most of that from the few games I’ve watched, but he’s got the insight.
“And their new goalie?” I ask.
“Carter’s good. Not great. Leaves the right post on lateral slides. Five-hole opens when he pushes hard on the blocker side. Put it there.”
“Right,” I say, nodding .
“Okay, but, hypothetically,” Tanner says, raising his arm, “if you left the Blazers… would you do this to us?”
Zed’s pale greenish-blue eyes slide to him slowly. “I intend on staying, Tanner.”
Someone chuckles. “Thank fuck.”
Zed turns back to the board, the marker clicking open again. “We’ll anchor pressure with Addams. He’s the best gap closer we’ve got. Matt’s unpredictable. That’s good. They won’t know how to shadow him. I say we use him on the second shift and draw their top line into overcommitting.”
Matt blinks like he’s unsure if that was a compliment.
“Jace’s slapshot off the left point is our trigger. But he needs time. One second more than he thinks he has. Tanner, you’re fast and ambitious, but you’re sloppy on the puck when cornered. Don’t get pinned on the boards.”
Tanner opens his mouth to protest.
“Don’t argue,” I tell him. “It’s true.”
Zed finishes drawing the final play and caps the marker. “That’s all. Thanks for the attention. ”
“No, man. Thank you.” Jace points at him, and a few guys echo him.
Zed steps back and heads for his locker, my eyes following him.
Yeah, I’m proud. Any captain would be. You don’t land a player like Zed Mercer and not feel the weight of it, not realize what a goddamn gift it is to have him in your locker room instead of tearing through you from the other side.
But underneath the pride is a nagging pull. I’ll never stop wondering what happened to the kid I remember.
Now it’s like someone took that kid, pumped him full of muscle, added ten inches of height, and ripped his soul out as payment.
He’s still Zed. But it’s like looking at a reconstruction of him. When I talk to him, I catch glimpses of the boy I knew. But he’s so far away, too deep to reach, and too dark to drag back into the light.
The boys are on their feet again, towel-snapping each other and getting dressed. My phone buzzes on the bench next to me, and I glance down at a new notification from Tinnie .
My heart kicks at the subject line.
“Jessica Brooks’ Conditions Attached.”
Well, fuck me.
I grab the towel, wipe the water from my neck, and stare at the glowing screen.
Can’t lie, there’s heat in my chest, a curl of anticipation.
She took her time, let me stew, let me wonder.
Smart little thing.
Subject: Jessica Brooks’ Conditions Attached To: Dominic Moreal From: Christine Varela Time: 11:43 AM
Dom, As requested, below are the terms sent over by Miss Brooks. I’ve reviewed them, and while I find some questionable, she insists they remain unedited. Proceed accordingly. – Tinnie
I tap the attachment and find bullet points. My eyes automatically read the first one.
Creative Control: Miami Blazers Styling. I will be granted full creative direction for all Miami Blazers formalwear used for events.
She wants to dress the team. The whole team.
“What’s that face?” Jace glances over .
“She wants to style you idiots,” I mutter.
“You reading the conditions?” He perks up. “Oh, she wants to feel you up.”
I don’t dignify that with an answer. I keep reading, jaw tight. She’s promoting her designs using our franchise.
Smart. Too smart.
I feel my lip twitch—annoyance or respect. Hard to tell.
Personal Styling Autonomy: I will maintain full autonomy over my own styling choices for every appearance made alongside Captain Moreal.
She wants to show up on my arm in whatever she wants to wear. It’s a promo tactic.
My brows lift. “That’s easy,” Jace says, peeking again, and I shove his face away.
This woman is trying to build a brand on the back of my last name, and she isn’t even subtle about it.
Content Independence: Captain Moreal will not monitor, limit, or otherwise interfere with my social media output unless legal liability arises.
She wants full freedom on social media. Fine, as long as she doesn’t post anything reckless. I don’t have time to hunt down every motherfucker who likes the post.
I reserve the right to reevaluate terms at any point if the captain becomes ‘difficult’. Captain Moreal will conduct himself with basic civility and be nice to me.
“Difficult.” She quoted it.
“Basic civility? Be nice to me?” Jace makes a face. “What the hell have you done to the girl, man?” He laughs.
She put “be nice to me” in an official document.
Melodramatic, ridiculous, and spoiled.
Yet I still laugh under my breath. “Nothing she didn’t deserve,” I mutter.
Jace barks a laugh. “And now she wants your balls in a jar.”
No woman has ever put reins on me.
Jessica Brooks just walked into the arena, tossed them at my feet, and expected me to kneel and put them on.
I would laugh if I had any air in my lungs. But it’s gone as soon as my eyes skim the last condition .
Residency Requirement: For logistical, scheduling, and safety purposes, I will reside at Captain Moreal’s primary residence for the duration of the agreement.
My brows dip together, and my free hand curls around the bench.
I reread it.
She wants to move into my house. During playoffs.
The audacity is diabolical.
I stare at the words again, slower.
Reside. Duration of the agreement. Move in.
“Oh, she’s bold,” Jace says.
“She’s delusional,” I say flatly.
Bold isn’t the right word. She’s shameless.
Does she want access to me? Some kind of proximity?
Heat crawls down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s arousal or anger. Both. The two blend together when it comes to her.
She thinks she has leverage, and somehow, fucking unbelievably, she kind of does.
She came to play. And she plays mean.
Good .
I close the email and pocket my phone before anyone can get curious.
What kind of childhood trauma produces a woman bold enough to demand moving into a stranger’s house?
Beside me, the door cracks open, like someone’s scared to enter. Frankie, one of the equipment guys, pokes his head in.
“Uh… Captain?” He looks at me nervously, like he’s about to tell me someone keyed my car.
Everyone turns to Frankie. No one interrupts him. That man handles our gear like priceless art.
“Yeah?” I say.
He swallows. “Uh, your… girlfriend… she’s trying to skate.”
The fuck?
“…What?” I blink at him.
“She’s out there. On the ice.” Frankie winces.
The locker room goes dead silent.
“What the fuck?” Jace mutters.
“Run that back.” I stand, towel sliding from my knee .
Frankie lifts both hands like he’s surrendering. “I swear I’m not messing with you. She’s on the ice. On skates.”
My brain stalls.
Jessica Brooks. On my ice?
I repeat it to myself like I’m trying to translate a foreign language.
“She’s… what?”
“She walked in with a pair of skates and… look, Captain, I’m just telling you what I saw.” Frankie looks like he’d rather chew glass.
“I heard you,” I snap. “I’m asking why. Who gave her skates?”
He shrugs helplessly.
“No fucking way.” Jace bursts out laughing.
I whip him a glare, but he’s right. None of this makes sense.
She’s not supposed to be anywhere near this building. She’s not supposed to be on the ice without clearance. She’s not supposed to—
Fuck.
I’m already grabbing my shirt.
“Captain?” Frankie asks quietly.
“Yeah?” I snap, shoving my arms through the sleeves.
“You, uh, might wanna hurry. She’s not… very good at it.”
I don’t answer. I’m already gone, storming out of the locker room, boots half-laced, shirt clinging to my damp skin.
My pulse is a drumline under my ribs. What the hell is she doing here? Who let her on the ice? And why did she think this was a good idea?
And why the hell is there a curl of heat in my gut at the thought of seeing her again?
Fucking great. Exactly what I need.
My steps echo down the tunnel, hard and fast. I hit the corner and see her through the glass.
Jessica Brooks really is on the ice—alone and unsteady, clinging to the boards like a baby deer that’s never seen its legs before. Something in my chest punches tight.
I push through the door onto the bench, jaw locked.
“What the hell are you doing? ”
She turns, bright-eyed, breathless, and proud of herself. “Hi!”
Her skate wobbles and she nearly eats ice. I’m already stepping onto the rink.
Her hair is slightly messy, cheeks flushed, breath fogging. I curse under my breath as I walk up to her, cutting across the sheet with heavy strides.
“I asked you a question?” It comes out in a snap.
“Tiny told me to come talk to her,” she explains, trying to let go of the boards.
“It’s Tinnie.” My voice is flat.
“That’s what I said,” she huffs, gripping the boards tighter as one skate slips. “Anyway, she told me to wait, so I’m waiting.”
“Here?” I gesture at the ice beneath her blades.
“I got bored.” She shrugs.
She got bored.
There are three floors in this facility. A lounge. Two cafés. A restaurant. A rehab pool. A literal spa. And she chose the ice.
“You know,” I grind out, stepping closer, “there are cafés downstairs. A bakery. A restaurant. An entire lobby. You couldn’t check any of those before deciding to break your neck?”
“She didn’t tell me I wasn’t allowed on the ice.” Her chin lifts.
“Guess she overestimated your common sense,” I bark.
She snorts. “You really think I’m going to sit in a café for half an hour?”
“Yes,” I snap.