But tonight isn’t about the team.
Tonight’s about Elias Mercer.
The little brat opened his mouth in the locker room, whined at me in front of everyone, accused me of favoritism. He questioned me.
And he’s going to pay for that.
Which is why I’m parked in front of his apartment building, engine idling low, the black of my SUV humming steady like it’s waiting for him too. The dash glows dim, shadowscarving across my hands on the wheel. My jaw ticks once, steady.
The door slams on the passenger side and there he is—Elias, curls damp, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking nervously through the shadows. He’s in street clothes now, still tugging at the hem of his hoodie like it’ll save him, like he hasn’t already given me everything twice over.
His lips part when he sees me behind the wheel. That little intake of breath, sharp and soft at the same time, like he wasn’t sure I’d actually be here waiting.
“Captain,” he says.
I tilt my head once. Nothing more.
He swallows hard. His throat works. Then he climbs in, the weight of him sinking into the leather seat, his scent filling the cab instantly—soap and sweat, a little leftover adrenaline.
I don’t speak.
Just drop my hand to his thigh, heavy, steady, until he twitches under it.
“Buckle up,” I say at last.
He scrambles for the belt, clicks it home fast, like he thinks speed will save him.
It won’t.
Not tonight.
Because tonight I’m going to remind him exactly what happens when he forgets the rules.
The SUV rumbles low as I pull away from the curb, headlights carving through the quiet street. Elias is wound tight in the seat beside me, hoodie tugged to his chin like it can hide the blush crawling up his throat.
My hand stays steady on his thigh.
“You forgot the rule tonight,” I say, almost conversational. The kind of tone that makes him squirm more than if I’d shouted.
His green eyes flick to me, wide, then down again. “Sir—”
“Don’t talk back,” I cut him off, pressing my thumb into the muscle just above his knee. “That’s the rule, isn’t it?”
He swallows so hard I hear it. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I nod once, turning us onto the highway. “Say it again.”
“Yes, sir.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Louder.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice cracks, desperate already, his thighs twitching under my palm.
I drag my hand higher, slow, inch by inch, the pressure deliberate. His breath hitches with every movement.
“You open your mouth when you shouldn’t. You whine. You accuse.” My thumb brushes just under the edge of his hoodie, skin hot underneath. “What do you say to that, pup?”
“Yes, sir,” he gasps, hips jerking minutely against the seat.
