My glove fists the bars of his cage, jerks him into the wall. His back hits concrete, hard. My other hand rips the helmet off clean, tossing it down the tunnel where it clatters against the floor.
He gasps.
Doesn’t even have time to mouth off.
Because my mouth crushes his.
The taste of him is sweat and blood and victory. His lips part on instinct, his moan muffled against my tongue when I drive it deep, claiming every desperate sound he makes. His body melts against mine, grin gone slack, hands clutching at my jersey like he’ll drown if he lets go.
“For assisting three goals,” I growl against his mouth, words hot, “for burying one yourself, for being my good pup—”
I slam him deeper into the wall, kiss him harder, teeth catching his lip until he whimpers, raw and desperate.
“—for getting back up.”
He shudders. Melts. Every nerve in him sparks against me, his eyes fluttering, his chest heaving like I’ve stolen the last of his air. He doesn’t care the boys are just ahead, doesn’t care anyone could look back—he just clings.
Damian’s fingers are heavy at the back of my neck, steady, unmovable, guiding me down the tunnel like I’m a dog on a leash. Which, let’s be real, I probably am. My legs don’t feel like mine after that kiss—my knees still jelly, my lips still bruised—but his grip keeps me upright, keeps me moving.
Until the press blocks the hallway.
Cameras. Mics. The swarm that always waits outside the locker room after a rivalry game. I’ve seen it a thousand times on TV, even dreamed about being the one walking through it—sweaty, victorious, fresh off a win. But not like this.
Not with his hand still on me.
Not with those mismatched eyes pinning me in place while flashbulbs pop.
My whole body goes rigid. The blood rushes so hot into my face I swear steam’s about to hiss out of my ears. I can feel it—my cheeks blazing, the red crawling down my throat,painting me cherry-tomato stupid under every light in the hallway.
“Captain Kade!” someone shouts. “Hell of a fight out there—was it about the late hit on Mercer?”
The question slams into my ribs harder than any Wranglers defenseman. Because Damian doesn’t move his hand. Doesn’t loosen it, doesn’t drop it, doesn’t pretend for the cameras that I’m just another rookie trailing behind him. His palm stays firm, hot against my nape, fingers curled steady like I belong right there.
And Christ—every lens in the hallway catches it.
My lungs seize. My mouth goes dry. The whole world feels like it’s narrowed down to that grip and the press leaning in, voices stacking sharp over each other.
“Captain, is Mercer your project?”
“Do you think the rookie’s ready for a bigger role?”
“Mercer—how does it feel to have the captain in your corner like that?”
My brain short-circuits. I can’t. I can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t think of a single word that doesn’t sound like I’ve just been fucked up against a wall. Which—well.
Damian moves. Not much. Just enough. His thumb drags once against the side of my throat—subtle, quiet, but it feels like a brand under my skin.
“Mercer earned his spot tonight,” he says. Every mic tips closer like it’s gospel. “Faceoffs. Assists. Goal. He got up when they tried to bury him. That’s what makes a Reaper.”
The air catches in my chest. My pulse stutters so hard I almost sway into him. He didn’t have to say my name. Didn’t have to say anything. But he did. And now the whole hallway is buzzing with the weight of it, cameras flashing like fireworks while my captain keeps his hand steady on my neck.
“Mercer!” a reporter calls, louder this time, aimed straight at me. “What’s it like playing on a line under Kade? He pushes you harder than anyone else—what’s your reaction to that?”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Just a strangled little wheeze that might as well besir. My curls are damp, and every camera’s pointed right at me waiting for an answer that doesn’t exist.
I glance up. Wrong move. Because the second I do, those mismatched eyes slice down into mine. Telling me without a word exactly what to say.
“Better than I deserve,” I blurt.
