And Damian Kade smirks. Proud.
The questions come like bullets—marriage, favoritism, playoffs, what the hell do we do in hotels. Every mic shoved so close I could bite it if I leaned forward.
“All right. Enough for today.”
And just like that, the storm breaks. Not gone, not quiet, but crushed under the weight of his tone. Cameras still flash,voices still chase us, but Damian’s hand presses firm against my back and I move. Down the tunnel. Past the vultures. Straight into the locker room.
The door slams behind us.
And the place detonates.
“OH MY GOD!” Cole howls, sunglasses crooked, leaping onto a bench like he’s a cheerleader. “HE FUCKING SAID YES!”
Tyler shrieks like his soul just left his body. “I—I—he just—YOU—” He points at me with both hands, jaw hanging open. “You said it! Youactuallysaid it!”
Mats clutches his chest, leaning back against his stall like he’s just witnessed divine intervention. “Christ, Mercer.” His smirk’s so sharp it could cut steel. “Straight into the mic, huh? No hesitation?”
Shane crosses himself and mutters something about forgiveness, but he’s grinning too. Even Viktor’s mouth curves the smallest bit, which in Viktor-speak means the world is ending.
And me?
I’m nuclear.
Scarlet. Head to toe. My ears, my throat—it all burns. I tug Damian’s jacket higher on my shoulders like it might swallow me whole, curls falling into my eyes, green as hell, and the boys keep screaming.
Cole fans me with a towel like I’m about to faint, shrieking, “OUR LITTLE ROM-COM STAR! GODDAMN CURLS, YOU’RE A LEGEND!”
I bury my face in my hands and groan, muffled: “Kill me now.”
The room howls louder.
Behind me, Damian leans against his stall like he planned this entire circus.
I can’t take it anymore. The towel fanning, the shrieks, Cole hollering about wedding bells—I snap.
I whirl toward Damian, curls sticking to my forehead, face still flaming red. My voice cracks, splintered and whiny, but it flies out anyway:
“You said you’d make me a legend—on ice! Forplaying!Not for sucking you off!”
The words echo. Loud. Too loud.
And then the silence hits.
Every man in this room hears it. Helmets half-off, tape dangling from gloves, towels frozen mid-swipe. Fuck.
I realize what I’ve done right as Damian straightens in his stall.
“You mouthing off at me, pup?” he asks. One single chance wrapped in a few words.
My throat slams shut. My knees wobble. I know a warning when I hear one.
“No, sir,” I blurt fast, gulping, shoving my mouth shut so hard my teeth click.
The room holds its breath.
Damian doesn’t move. Just lets his eyes pin me like nails, the weight of them heavier than a whole goddamn team. Then, slow, he smirks again and leans back, like I passed the test by keeping my mouth shut.
The boys don’t breathe until I sag back onto the bench, curls falling into my eyes.
