The garage hums quiet except for the click of my boots and his ragged breathing against my throat. The house looms above, dark and waiting, doors unlocking under my hand without me ever loosening my grip on him.
Upstairs, I strip him down slow, careful. Not like before. Not cruel. Just steady hands tugging his ruined clothes off, wiping away the last of the mess with another crumpled wipe.
He’s wrecked but when I pull one of my shirts over his head, he sighs. A real sound. Soft. Like he knows he’s safe.
The hem hangs halfway down his thighs, sleeves swallowing his wrists. He looks small in it. Mine.
I tuck him into bed. He clings anyway, arms looping around my neck, curls damp against my jaw.
I don’t fight him. I just climb in beside him, one hand in his hair, the other wrapped heavy around his waist, holding him where he belongs.
“Five was too much…” He complains.
My mouth brushes his temple, eyes closing in the dark. “No, pup. It was perfect.”
He doesn’t argue. Not this time.
And sleep finally drags him under in my arms.
One month. Exactly thirty days until playoffs.
I can feel it in my body—like every nerve’s been rewired, every muscle sharpened. My jeans don’t sag under Damian’s old jacket anymore. I’m filling it out now, shoulders stretching fabric that used to swallow me whole. And God help me, I like the way his scar twitches when he notices.
Tyler’s puking less too. Progress.
And me? I don’t lose. Not anymore. Not because I’m addicted to winning—though, yeah, the roar of the barn feels better than oxygen. But the truth is uglier, sharper: I’d rather eat glass than disappoint Damian Kade. If I had to skate until my lungs bled, I’d do it. If I had to drag the whole team up the ice on my back, I’d do it. Anything. Just don’t make me see that look in his eyes—disappointment.
So I don’t.
In the gym, I lift what Cole lifts now. Every rep, every set, I push until my hands shake. I still wobble on the last one, sweat pouring, teeth clenched, and that’s always when Damian is there. Broad shadow. Steady hand. Pulling the baroff me before it crushes me. Growling low in my ear, drilling into me that I need to be fast, not heavy.
But I’m already fast. Fast enough to burn anyone stupid enough to challenge me at center.
Tonight proves it again. We just buried the Portland Phantoms 4–1 in our own barn. Their goalie’s still scraping rubber out of his teeth. I won every faceoff. Damian crushed their captain into the glass so hard the guy saw God. Cole chirped the whole bench into despair. A perfect night.
We’re sweaty, buzzing, walking down the tunnel, sticks clacking against cement, when the vultures appear.
The press.
Microphones, cameras, recorders shoved forward like weapons. I used to blush seven ways to Sunday when they came at me. Fumbled words, stuttered answers, eyes darting to Damian to save me.
Not anymore.
Because now they’re merciless. They go straight for blood.
“What’s the deal with you and Kade, Mercer?”
“Looks like he protects you more than anyone else—special treatment?”
“Are you two… close off the ice too?”
I freeze. My throat locks tight. They didn’t even sugarcoat it this time. They just stripped it down to bone.
I do what I always do—I look up at him.
Damian. My enforcer. My nightmare. My everything.
He meets my eyes. Calm. Stone. And then he does something that makes my stomach cave—he pushes me forward with his stick. A little shove against my hip, subtle, final.
