“Then get on the plane.”
He stares up at me like I just shot him. His breath ragged, whole body vibrating with too much adrenaline. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again.
“That’s—” His laugh cracks, half-taunt, half-plea. “That’s dirty, Captain.”
“Good,” I murmur. My mouth curves at the scar. “Because I’m not asking.”
He swallows again, throat working. For a second I think he might snap, bolt for the doors, try to make a run for it.
Then his shoulders sag. His bag slips a little off his shoulder. He mutters, low, broken: “Fuck you, sir.”
I let my smirk widen. “Get on the plane, pup. Or you’ll be watching from the press box while Cole takes your ice.”
That does it. His face crumples, his mouth twists, and he stomps past me down the jet bridge, muttering curses under his breath like it’ll save his pride. His hair bounces wild, his bag smacks his hip, and I hear him groan loud enough for the whole gate to hear:
“I hate you so much, Captain.”
The words slip out before I even think.
“Tell that to the poster above your bed back home.”
Mercer freezes mid-step, curls bouncing as his head whips around. His eyes go wide, green bright as neon in the cheap airport lights.
“I TOLD YOU THAT IN CONFIDENCE!” he yells, loud enough that three gate agents glance over.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I almost laugh.
Because he didn’t tell me shit.
Until now.
He realizes it a second too late. His face drops, his mouth hanging open. “Wait…”
I cock a brow, silent, steady.
His whine cracks. “No. Fuck. No I didn’t—”
He groans so loud Cole probably hears it halfway down the jet bridge. Then he drags a hand down his face, stomping forward again like the ground insulted him personally. The strap of his bag slides down his shoulder, his curls are falling into his eyes, and still—he walks. Straight toward the plane.
And then, just to punish himself, he slams his forehead against the first wall he passes. A dull thud that makes Tyler wince and Mats mutter something in Spanish that sounds like a prayer.
Mercer doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps walking, cursing under his breath, ears red all the way to the tips.
I fall in step behind him, smirk curling faint at my lip, watching the kid vibrate like he’s going to combust before we even get off the ground.
My poster.
In his bedroom.
Over his bed.
Good.
Mercer’s still stomping ahead of me, muttering like a lunatic. Not to anyone in particular—just to himself, voice too low for the others but not low enough to keep from me.
“…fuckin’ posters…why would I even say that…stupid mouth, always running, god, what’s wrong with me—”
He shoulders his duffel up and keeps going.
