I skate harder.
Whistle. We line up. “Mercer. Brooks. Out front.”
My heart slams. Tyler looks pale. I flash him a grin I don’t feel.
Faceoff, no sticks. Shoulder into chest, grind, shove. Tyler’s strong but sloppy, too desperate. I hook low, twist, take him down. Stick taps follow.
Damian doesn’t blink. “Again.”
This time with sticks. Tyler tries to slash past me—rookie mistake. I cut him off, scoop the puck, and blast down the ice.
“Faster, Mercer.”
The words detonate in my veins. I push harder, until I can barely breathe.
Tyler collapses, doubled over. Damian just watches—one eye cold fire, one abyss.
“Enough.”
Scrimmage. Baptism by fire.
The whistle blows. Suddenly I’m staring down a line of vets who’ve been in this league long enough to eat rookies alive. Viktor on defense. Cole grinning on the wing. Matteo Rivera across from me, posture loose, eyes narrowed.
“Ready, rook?” he murmurs.
“Hope your pension covers embarrassment, grandpa.”
The team howls. Tyler looks like he wants to disappear.
Puck drops.
I explode forward. Matteo’s bigger, heavier, but I don’t care. The puck’s mine. Spite’s a better drug than oxygen. I weave left, then right, shoulder-check Cole. He laughs in my ear, “Careful—you’ll break that pretty face.”
“Better than breaking your scoring record,” I snap, and blow past him.
The bench erupts. I fire the puck—sharp wrist shot, clean. It hammers past Shane into the net.
Goal.
Noise crashes around me. Tyler looks stunned. I pump a fist, grinning wide, chest heaving. Out of spite. Out of survival. Out of the need to prove I belong.
And then I feel it—Damian Kade watching from the bench. Stillness carved from stone, mouth twitching like he could smile but won’t, eyes locking me down.
No time to bask. His whistle cuts through the noise.
“Again.”
We do. Over and over. Scrimmage, reset, drill, repeat. Brutal. My legs burn, my chest splits, Tyler stumbles, the vets are merciless—Cole chirping, Viktor flattening me, Mats hooking my stick just to hear me curse.
Every whistle jolts me. Every order hits like a drug. I should be collapsing, but I’m vibrating out of my own skin. If Damian told me to skate laps until my legs gave out, I’d go until I was crawling.
Because he’s watching. Always watching.
Every shift I hit harder, skate faster. My chest tears itself apart, but I don’t stop. Maybe if I bleed enough into the ice, he’ll really look at me.
By the last round, Tyler can barely stand. I’m twitching at the bench, grin sharp and manic, heart hammering.
Final whistle. Silence.
