“Three. I had three of them. No, wait—four. Two on the ceiling, one on the closet, one over the bed—Christ, I can’t believe I just admitted that—”
I take my time down the jet bridge, smirk tugging at my scarred mouth as he keeps unraveling.
“And then I go and tell him—Ijerked offto those—Jesus Christ, Elias, shut up—since I was, what, twelve? Thirteen? Fuck. He didn’t even ask. He didn’t evenask.”
He’s red to the roots, dragging a hand down his face, still cursing under his breath. “And it wasn’t even, like, casual jerking off—oh no. It was like religious practice. Every damn time his fight highlights came on TV—”
The kid’s killing himself with his own mouth. And I let him.
I don’t stop him.
I don’t correct him.
I don’t say a word.
I just file away every syllable.
Every number. Every confession. Every filthy little detail about what he did under those posters with my face staring down at him.
Because one day soon, when the leash is tighter and he’s begging proper, I’ll use it all.
Seats shuffle, bags slam overhead, Cole’s already bitching about legroom. Viktor grunts something about killing him ifhe moves an inch closer. Mats smirks like he knows more than he’s saying. Shane’s muttering prayers about flying steel coffins. Tyler looks like he’s considering faking a seizure to get out of this flight.
Mercer drops into the seat beside me, still buzzing, still whispering curses about posters and ceiling stains and what the fuck is wrong with me.
I let him spiral. Let him burn.
Because tonight, I don’t need to do a damn thing but listen.
“And then—fuck—I used to watch that fight reel on repeat. You against Chicago, you remember that? You ripped that guy’s helmet off with one hand. Jesus. I thought—yeah, that’s it. That’s what a man is. Didn’t even care you got benched after. I taped it. VHS. Wore the fucking tape thin.”
The engines spool higher, louder, the plane shuddering forward toward the runway. His voice pitches sharper, words spilling faster like he’s racing the roar.
“And abs. Christ, the abs. I was fourteen and I thought—fuck, I thought I’d sell my soul to look like that. Posters didn’t do it justice, y’know? They never got the scar detail right. Always airbrushed. I liked the real thing better—bloody lip, bruises. Had a whole folder on my computer—Jesus Christ, Elias, shut the fuck up—”
The nose jerks, the plane tilts into its roll. And that’s when his hand clamps onto me.
Fingers fisting my sleeve, knuckles white. He doesn’t even look down—his eyes are squeezed shut, mouth still running amile a minute like his own voice is the only thing keeping him breathing.
“Your first hat trick against Montreal—I recorded it on my phone. Watched it in the locker room at juniors before every game. Coach thought I was psyching myself up, but it was just—you. Fuckingyou.Every goal, every glare, every time you dropped the gloves. Christ. You ruined me before I even met you.”
The plane surges, heavy and fast, the engines a roar beneath us. His grip tightens, dragging the sleeve of my jacket taut over my forearm. But his mouth doesn’t stop.
“God, and the hair. Long, dark, bloody—like a fucking villain in a movie. I thought about that more times than I’ll ever admit. Thought about you pinning me—fuck, fuck, I’m admitting it now—”
We lift off. Wheels leave ground. The tilt throws his head against the seat, his chest jerking with the force of it, his breath catching.
“I wanted to be you. I wanted tohaveyou. I wanted—you don’t even know—posters, highlights, the jersey I stole from a garage sale—oh my god—Captain, I’m such a fucking mess—”
The plane steadies. The city lights drop away below. And still, Elias Mercer clings to me, muttering filth that would’ve gotten him killed if anyone else heard it. His grip’s trembling, his throat raw, but at least he’s not panicking.
The plane hums steady under us, lights dimmed, the roar of engines filling the cabin. He keeps muttering against the static in his own head.
“You don’t get it—no one gets it—do you know how many nights I fell asleep with your highlights on? With your fight reel looping? You were the soundtrack to my whole fucking teenage life, Cap. Jesus. No wonder I can’t—no wonder I can’t—”
Then the plane bucks.
Not much—just a jolt, an air pocket maybe, a shift in the current. But it’s enough.
