“Good boy.”
And my chest actually expands.
The storm sounds like the end of the world.
Rain hammers the tin roof of this so-called airport, wind shrieking against walls thin enough to blow down if you breathed hard at them. It isn’t even an airport—more like a barn with a runway attached, concrete floors slick with mud, walls sweating water through warped seams. We landed here because the pilot had no choice. Better than ocean, better than fire. Still feels like we dropped into hell.
Now we’re outside, trudging through sheets of water, twenty men and half a coaching staff, soaked to the bone in minutes. The storm eats umbrellas, laughs at raincoats. Cole is already narrating like it’s a survival documentary. “Day one, the Ravensburg Reapers brave the apocalypse. No food. No shelter. Just Hollywood with a six-pack—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Viktor grunts.
They all crowd closer to me as we march through the downpour, huddling against my back like ducklings chasing their mother. Vets, rookies, doesn’t matter—they all stick to me when the ground shakes under thunder and the lightning turns the sky into a floodlight. It’d be pathetic if it wasn’t so predictable.
Mercer is silent.
Too silent.
I keep reaching out—small touches. My hand brushing his curls, my knuckles dragging his sleeve, fingers pressing his shoulder in the crowd. Just to make sure. Just to remind him he’s still here, still grounded. His panic on that plane wasn’t nerves. It was deeper, darker. He came apart in my hands, shaking like he was dying. I’ve seen men break in war on the ice. This was different.
I don’t know what haunts him. Not yet. But I’ll find out.
The “hotel” is an inn, though calling it that is generous. It used to be a rail station. I can still see the old tracks half-buried in weeds on the way in, still smell the rust and oil under the mildew stink. Inside, the wallpaper is damp, curling off plaster in strips. The whole place smells like rot wrapped in lavender cleaner.
The desk clerk stares at twenty hockey players dripping puddles onto her wood floor like she’s seeing ghosts. I grunt, ask for rooms, and she rattles around until she produces ten keys. One for each hand.
“Ten?” Cole’s voice is horrified. “We’re twenty. That’s math, isn’t it?”
“Sleep in the storm if you want,” I tell him.
He groans, flopping dramatically onto the desk like he’s fainting. “Food. We need food. I can’t room with a starving Viktor. He’ll eat me in my sleep.”
Viktor growls low, which only makes Cole whimper louder.
I ignore them all. The keys are cold and heavy in my hand. I turn, and every single man is watching me. Waiting for orders. Like they always do.
“Pairs,” I say, flat. “You’ll live.”
I start tossing keys. Cole and Mats—let them bicker each other to sleep. Shane and Tyler—the curses might cancel the nerves. Viktor can room with the trainer; he won’t kill him in his sleep. That leaves the rest.
And Elias.
Mercer hasn’t said a word since we hit the runway. His curls are plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his jaw. His eyes look wild but empty at the same time. He’s shaking—not from cold.
I keep the last key in my hand.
“You’re with me.”
He blinks at me. Like he didn’t hear right. Like he’s not sure hewantsto hear right. Then he nods, quick, obedient without question.
The others notice. They always do. Cole smirks, Viktor grunts something in Russian that might be a prayer, Mats tilts his head like he’s filing it away for later. None of them say a word. They wouldn’t dare.
We climb the creaking stairs, water dripping off our gear, the floor groaning under boots. The inn feels alive, like the wallsbreathe with mildew, like the old station clock ticking down the hall has been waiting a century for something to happen.
I shove open our room with my shoulder. Two beds, old as sin, sheets smelling faintly of mold and mothballs. A radiator clanks in the corner, cold as stone.
Mercer steps in behind me, dripping puddles onto the warped wood. He hasn’t looked at me since the runway. Hasn’t said a single word.
I shut the door. Lock it.
