Three: because he’s center—every play runs through him, and breaking the spine means breaking the team.
And four…because he taunts like his life depends on it. Loud, reckless, teeth bared, mouth never shutting. He’ll bait them without even realizing it, and Haverton doesn’t let bait go unpunished.
I am ninety percent certain tonight ends with Mercer’s blood on this ice.
So I drill him.
Hard.
“Again,” I bark, whistle between my teeth.
He’s gasping, jersey plastered to him, hair dripping into his eyes, but he drops into faceoff stance without hesitation. Across from him, Viktor crouches like a wolf, bulk ready to crush him.
Puck drops. Mercer launches forward, fast hands, quick feet. He wins the draw, whips around, tries to cut past Viktor. Gets slammed instead, shoulder to chest, flattened to the ice.
“Up.”
He scrambles, legs wobbling, grabbing his stick again.
“Again.”
This time I throw Cole at him. Cole’s faster, dirtier, slashing at his stick. Mercer snarls back and somehow manages to break through, puck on his blade, ripping it toward the net.
Mats. Then Viktor again. Then both together. I pit him against every vet who knows how to crush bones without leaving a mark. Over and over, until his legs are shaking, until his breath is coming in broken gasps.
He never quits.
Not once.
Every time he hits the ice, he’s feral when he gets back up. Every time I bark the order, he obeys instantly. No hesitation, no questions. Justagain.
The vets glance at me between drills, smirks, eyes knowing. They see what I’m doing. They know why. I’m sharpening Mercer against them now so Haverton doesn’t gut him later.
By the time I call it, he’s half-collapsed against the boards, sweat dripping, chest heaving. He’s smiling so wide his face might split in half.
“Good work today, boys,” I say, voice carrying across the rink. Then my gaze pins Mercer. “Especially you.”
His head snaps up, eyes wide, grin breaking into something feral. He doesn’t even notice the bruises already blooming across his ribs.
He’ll notice tonight.
And he’ll bleed for me.
The locker room smells like war. Sweat and tape, wet gear steaming in the air, the sting of liniment rubbed into bruises. The rookies are wrecked—Mercer’s grinning like a lunatic, Brooks looks like he might puke into his gloves.
The vets? They’re already scheming.
Cole slams his stall door shut with a grin too wide. “Halloween game, boys. You know what that means.”
Mats doesn’t even look up from unlacing his skates. “That you’ll get your ass handed to you by security again?”
Cole points his stick at him. “That wasone time.And I still made it back before puck drop.”
Shane’s sitting cross-legged on the bench, pads half-off, muttering, “Masks, curses, bad omens—it’s all lining up, I’m telling you. The Phantoms will bleed for it tonight. They always do.”
Viktor grunts something in Russian that makes half the room laugh and the other half go pale.
Mercer, dripping sweat, leans forward with a grin too wide. “What are we planning, Hollywood? Haunted hotel hallways? Jump scares? You dressing up as a nurse and traumatizing Brooks?”
