Because if he can’t hit me, if he folds against me, then he’ll never reach what I need him to be. He’ll be good—maybe even great—but he’ll never be a legend.
And I’m going to carve a legend out of Elias Mercer whether he likes it or not.
I close the space between us with long, deliberate strides, blade cutting sharp against the dot. His throat works, his stick jerks higher like instinct’s screaming at him to move—but he doesn’t.
I shoulder-check him. Not brutal. Not full weight. Just enough to send him staggering two steps, skates screeching against the ice.
“Again.”
My voice is low, calm, carrying across the rink. The boys on the boards go silent.
Elias blinks, chest heaving. “Cap—I—”
“Again.”
He sets his skates, trembling but upright. He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t hit back.
So this time, I don’t hold back.
My shoulder slams harder into his, weight driving him to the boards. The glass rattles, the sound cracking across the rink. He grunts, pain flashing in his eyes, but stays on his feet.
Good. Not good enough.
“Don’t you dare fold for me, Mercer,” I growl low, loud enough for the others to hear. “If you can’t take me, you can’t take anyone.”
“That’s not true… I can take anyone!” His eyes blaze up through the cage, desperate, stubborn. Then his voice drops smaller, almost a whimper. “…But you.”
The sound shoots straight through my chest. He means it. Every word. He’ll take cross-checks to the ribs, elbows to the throat, fists to the jaw—but not from me. Because I’m his Captain, his god, the man he worships too much to touch.
And that’s exactly why I slam him harder.
My shoulder drives into his chest, crushing him into the glass. His helmet rattles, his stick clatters against the boards. My hand fists into the bars of his cage, yanking his face up until mismatched eyes burn straight into wrecked green.
“And if someone just as mean as me comes against you?” My voice is a blade, cutting through the quiet rink. “What then, pup?”
He gasps, hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to shove me or cling to me.
“Hit me,” I snarl, shaking his cage once, hard enough to make his teeth clack. “Or I’ll make you bleed.”
The whole team is silent. Cole’s grin has died on his mouth. Tyler looks sick. Mats and Viktor just watch, stone-faced, waiting to see if the rookie folds or if I break him into something more.
Elias’s breath tears ragged out of him. His throat works under the strap of his helmet, pupils blown wide with panic, reverence, fire.
He’s at the edge.
He still doesn’t move.
His hands twitch on his stick, his lips part like he’s about to—but then he freezes again.
The hesitation grates.
So I go for the one weapon that always cuts deepest.
“Christ, Mercer,” I growl. “I thought you were supposed to be a mouthy little shit. What’s this? Puppy got no bite? Just wag your tail for me and roll over?”
His throat works. Nothing.
“You fold for me, you’ll fold for anyone. That what you want? To be known as the kid who can’t throw a hit unless Daddy Captain holds his hand?”
