Guys slump. Gloves drop, helmets drag loose. Even Cole’s bent over, gasping.
But I’m still bouncing on my blades. Every cell screaming for more.
Damian’s eyes catch me mid-vibration. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
The walk back to the locker room is hell—lungs raw, legs trembling, sweat soaking my undershirt. Tyler limps like his skates are bricks, but I can’t stop grinning, cracked open and wired like someone plugged me into a socket.
The room fills with the scrape of skates, Velcro hissing, tape ripping. Gloves thunk, helmets roll.
And then there’s him. Damian Kade. My captain.
He doesn’t hurry. He sits at his stall, silent, peeling tape from scarred wrists. Shoulder pads off, hair damp at the nape, strands clinging to his throat. His lip curved just enough to make my knees weak.
Then he drops the chest protector and tugs his jersey over his head.
My brain short-circuits.
Broad chest, carved shoulders, bruises blooming like violent art. Sweat catching the lights. Knuckles raw, split, badly bandaged. Ruin sculpted into perfection.
And I’m staring.
Cole snorts, smacks Viktor’s arm. I snap my head down, ripping off pads, face hot enough to melt the ice.
Jesus Christ, Mercer. Get it together.
I tug my undershirt over my head, try to focus on the sting of fabric, the ache in my ribs. My eyes betray me anyway. They flick up, helpless, drinking him in—the way he unwinds tape, bends to untie skates, stands like every line of him was built for control.
Drool. Actual drool. I’m going to leave a puddle on the floor.
Shower. Now.
I bolt upright, muttering something about rinsing off before anyone can catch my face. Viktor raises an eyebrow, Cole cackles, Tyler’s too dead to notice.
The showers hiss alive. I duck under the spray, freezing water needling my face. My body’s too tight, too wired. I lean against the tile, groaning. Shit. I’m absolutely destroyed, and all he did was undress.
If I stay under long enough, maybe I’ll stop seeing him when I close my eyes.
Of course that’s when I hear it—the squeak of another handle.
“Jesus, rook, you hiding in here already?”
Cole’s voice, echoing, amused.
I drag my hands down my face. “Fuck me, Hollywood. Don’t you have a mirror to flirt with?”
He laughs, water splattering from the next stall. “Mirror’s broken. Had to settle for you.”
“Tragic downgrade,” I shoot back, finally grinning. Banter is safe.
“Kid’s got teeth,” he snorts. “Thought you’d fold after that skate. Tyler looks like a ghost puked him up.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not Tyler.”
“No shit. You’ve got a motor on you. Keep vibrating like that and you’ll piss off half the league before Christmas.”
“Good,” I tilt my head back. “They can chase me. I’ll just skate faster.”
His laugh echoes, warmer this time. “Cocky little bastard.”
