A ripple goes through the room. Flashes pop like gunfire.
One reporter dares.“So you’re saying Elias Mercer gets special treatment?”
My smirk stretches. I tilt my head just enough for the lights to catch both eyes—ice and darkness, predator and grave.
“I’m saying he’s mine. And no one touches what’s mine.”
The silence after is thick, heavy, electric. Even Coach’s scarred mouth twitches like he might be smirking.
I sit back in my chair, calm as stone, letting them choke on it.
The questions keep coming.
Playoff matchups. Injuries. Goaltending depth. Every vulture in the room circling, trying to find a crack.
I give them nothing but steel.
Flat answers. Calm. Lethal when I need to be.
“How will the Reapers handle overtime pressure?”
—“We’ll handle it the same way we handle sixty minutes. With blood and teeth.”
“What do you say to critics who think your team doesn’t have enough experience?”
—“Critics don’t win Cups. My boys will.”
They try to circle back to Elias once, twice, but I stare them down until their words die in their throats.
Eventually the flood burns out. Microphones lower, cameras click one last time, chairs scrape back. The press files out, chattering, phones already buzzing with whatever twisted version of my words they’re about to vomit onto the internet.
When the room’s finally quiet, it’s just me. The table. The empty chairs. And Coach.
Harrow pushes off the wall, cigar stub cold between his teeth now, clipboard still tucked under his arm like it’s nailed there. His boots echo on the concrete as he walks slow toward me. His eyes cut merciless—dark, unreadable.
“You sure that was smart, Kade?”
My jaw ticks once. I don’t answer right away. Just lean back in the chair, mouth pulling with the smirk I don’t bother to hide. “Define smart.”
Coach exhales through his nose. “You just painted a target on the kid’s back. Vultures are curious. You give ‘em words like that, they’ll start circling closer. Prying harder. That Mercer kid serious about sticking with you?”
My chest rumbles low. He has no idea.
Serious? Elias is more than serious. He was ready to beg me to marry him two nights ago with my cock still in him. He’d say yes to anything I asked, and I’d drag him through hell for it.
But Coach doesn’t know that. He can’t.
So I keep my voice flat. “He’s mine. That’s serious enough.”
Coach studies me, jaw working, smoke-stained eyes narrowing. For a second I think he’s going to push harder—demand I spell it out. But he doesn’t. He just tilts his head, muttering low.
“Then he better learn fast. Because if he can’t handle vultures asking questions, he’s not ready for the Cup.”
He turns. Walks back toward the tunnel, boots echoing like a countdown, leaving smoke and silence in his wake.
I sit in the empty press room, eyes on the floor, jaw tight. Because Harrow’s right. Elias is going to need to learn. And soon.
And if he thought standing beside me on the ice was brutal…
