Heavy. Firm. Catching me under the elbow, fingers locking around my arm. Damian steadies me like he’s been waiting, pulling me upright with no effort at all. My chest collides with his for half a second, and the storm outside might as well be inside me because lightning shoots straight down my spine.
“Watch your feet,” he mutters.
I look up, wide-eyed, gasping. My throat’s destroyed, but the words slip out anyway, shaky and broken. “Yessir.”
Cole, of course, lifts his head off the floor just long enough to catch it. His grin splits wide, feral. “Ohhh my God—did he just—”
“Shut up, Hollywood,” I snap. My face burns, my chest burns hotter, and I can feel Damian’s eyes on me like he’s etching me into the steel beams above.
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He just keeps that hand on me all the way back up the stairs, while the others crawl behind us like broken soldiers.
Storm’s broken enough that planes are moving again. The airport’s still half a barn—wood panels groaning, lights buzzing like they’ll flicker out any second—but the boards are lit green, flight numbers crawling back to life.
Home. Finally.
Eight hours direct, no layover. Straight shot back to Ravensburg.
Except there’s a problem.
Elias Mercer.
He’s standing three feet from the gate like the floorboards are rigged with explosives. Bag slung over his shoulder, curls wild, chest heaving like he’s gearing up for war instead of boarding a commercial flight. His mouth is running—too fast, too sharp, spitting chirps at Cole just to cover the tremor in his voice. His eyes keep darting to the windows, to the faint flash of lightning still threading through the clouds.
And when the agent calls boarding, he flat out shakes his head.
“Nope. Absolutely not. I’ll walk back to Ravensburg. It’s fine. I’ve got legs.”
Cole grins, already halfway down the jet bridge. “That’ll only take you…what, three months? Perfect. Less time to annoy me.”
Elias flips him off but doesn’t move. Tyler hovers awkwardly at his side like he wants to help but knows better. The rest of the boys shuffle toward the line, grumbling, dragging, ready to collapse into their seats.
But Elias—he’s locked in place.
And I don’t have time for it.
I step into his line of sight. He startles—he always does—but his chin tips up, cocky grin plastered too wide across his face. The mask. Always the mask.
“Nope,” he says again. “Not happening. I’m not getting on that death trap. Do you know how many planes go down in storms? Do you know how many sharks are in the ocean just waiting—”
“Elias.”
He stops. His eyes wide, mouth parted.
I lower my voice. “Get on the plane.”
“No.” His grin twitches, too sharp, too shaky. “You can’t make me.”
My jaw tightens. My hand twitches at my side. I could order him. Could haul him by the back of his collar. But Mercer doesn’t respond to orders when he’s panicking—he spirals.
So I blackmail him.
I step closer, let my words cut low where only he can hear. “You want to be in my lineup next game?”
His head jerks, curls bouncing. “What—”
“On my ice. At my center. Running your mouth at their captain until he breaks? You want that?”
His shakes. He swallows. “Y-yes, sir.”
