Elias gasps, scandalized. “What’s that supposed to mean, Hollywood? Am I not good enough for you?”
Cole finally grins again. “Nah, rook. I just like my head attached to my body.”
The table chuckles low, uneasy.
Elias blinks, confused. “What the hell do you mean?”
Cole doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t need to. His gaze flicks to me.
Because the vets know.
They’ve seen it before. The way I look at something when I’ve decided it’s mine. They know the weight of it, the inevitability of it. They know how fast a man’s career—or his life—can end if he tests it.
Mercer doesn’t. Not yet.
He’s too busy fanboying, too busy burning himself alive to earn my nod, too busy mistaking the leash around his throat for air.
But the vets know.
And that’s enough.
The table hangs in that quiet. Elias is still staring at Cole, brow furrowed, waiting for an explanation that isn’t coming. Cole won’t give him one—not with me sitting here.
So I do.
“Finish eating.”
The command slices through the silence. Calm, steady, no need to raise my voice. “We’ve got practice after.”
The room exhales like I’ve released them. Forks scrape plates again, chairs creak, the noise of clinking silverware fills the gap where Tyler’s laughter had been. Cole leans back, smirking down at his bacon. Viktor grunts and drinks his coffee. Mats steals toast off Shane’s plate without looking.
And Elias—
He obeys. Instantly. His fork’s in his hand again, shoving eggs into his mouth, still smiling crooked at Cole as though nothing happened. Back to chirping, back to bouncing words like a ping-pong ball, so alive he doesn’t notice he’s just done exactly what I told him.
But the vets notice. They always do.
The rookies don’t. Tyler especially, poor bastard—he thinks he’s still got a chance to catch up, to earn something he never will.
But Elias…
He’s already mine.
Even if he doesn’t know it yet.
Haverton’s rink smells wrong.
It’s got that sharp tang of ammonia, overlaid with moldy boards and stale sweat that never leaves, no matter how much bleach they pour over the concrete. The Phantoms practice here, and their rot is soaked into the walls.
We’re on their ice this morning, a few hours of skate before the real war tonight. And I know exactly what’s waiting.
Mercer.
They’ll come for him. No question.
One: because he’s a rookie. Fresh meat. Easy target.
Two: because he’s a good rookie. Fast, already catching attention.
