“Flight’s a pain in the ass,” he mutters, raking a hand through thinning hair. “No direct to Haverton. We’ll fly out early the thirtieth—layover in Denver, then connect east. Land late, check into the Bellmare Hotel.”
I grunt, leaning back in a chair that creaks under my weight. Travel logistics never change: long flights, bad food, cramped hotels. You learn to make them your battlefield too.
“Two days’ recovery window?” I ask.
“One,” Harrow says, scribbling again. “Practice on the thirty-first, morning skate. Game that night. Phantoms will be waiting.”
I don’t need him to tell me that. Haverton never lets us walk in quiet. Their captain, Grayson Shaw, likes to greet us with fists before the puck even drops.
“Rooms are doubled,” Harrow goes on, flipping through a stack. “Standard assignments. Except you, as always.”
“Single.”
“Single,” he echoes, nodding like it’s law. It is. Nobody wants to room with me, and I prefer it that way. Silence doesn’t rattle me. Silence belongs to me.
Harrow sets his pen down, finally looking at me over the rims of his glasses. “And the rookies?”
Mercer. Brooks. The names sit different in my head.
“Brooks’ll fold before the week’s out,” I say flat. “He skates like he’s scared of the boards. You can’t teach spine.”
“And Mercer?” Harrow’s eyebrow ticks up.
My jaw works. Elias Mercer is…something else. Loud, brash, cocky as hell. Mouth never shuts, even when his lungs are burning. He fights like he wants to bleed, skates like the ice belongs to him. I should write him off as reckless. But when I told him to move, he moved. When I told him faster, he went until he broke himself in half.
I lean forward, elbows heavy on my knees. “Mercer’s an attack dog in a pup’s body. Doesn’t know when to quit. Dangerous—for himself, and for anyone dumb enough to stand in his way.”
Harrow hums, eyes narrowing like he hears more than I’m saying. “Take care of my rooks, Kade,” he says, sliding the itinerary across the desk like it weighs a ton.
I push to my feet, chair groaning behind me. “Always.”
The word leaves no room for argument.
The hallway outside is quiet, stripped of the usual chaos after practice. Boys cleared out an hour ago—gear bagged, showers run, chirps fading into nothing. By now they’re sprawled in cars, at bars, at home.
But as I make my way toward the rink, there’s sound.
The faint scrape of steel on ice. Sharp. Frantic. A muttered curse carried over cold air.
I step through the tunnel. Boards glow faint under dim night lights. And there he is. Elias Mercer.
Alone.
He doesn’t see me. Not yet. He’s too wrapped up in the fight he’s picked with himself.
His hair is plastered damp to his forehead, jersey clinging with sweat, chest rising like he hasn’t stopped since the final whistle. He skates hard, chasing his own shadow, stick slapping, shoulders tight with frustration.
He tries a move—a cutback, edge into a toe drag—and fumbles. The puck slides wide.
“Fucking piece of shit.” He snarls, whips his stick at the ice, circles back fast, snatches the puck like it insulted him.
The corner of my mouth twitches. Almost a smile. The rookie is out here chirping rubber.
He tries again. Quick hands, sharper feet. Fails again. Slams his stick flat, curses spilling like he’s at war with vulcanized rubber.
And I just stand there in the shadows, watching. Because this is Elias Mercer—spent, reckless, tearing himself apart long after everyone else has gone home. And he doesn’t even realize I’m here.
Elias fights the puck like it owes him money. Over and over. Faster, sloppier, more desperate. His frustration coils tighter, spilling out of him in snarls and curses.
