His lips tremble. But he nods. Once. Obedient.
Good.
I let him go. Just like that. Turn, slow, deliberate, and leave him braced against the tile, water pouring down his shaking body, the echo of my words branded into him.
The locker room is noise again—snickers and mutters bouncing off the tile like middle-schoolers who just got away with passing notes in class. Pads clatter into bins, jerseys peel off sweaty backs, boots thud heavy on the floor. And throughit all, Cole is smirking so hard his whole stupid face looks like it’s going to split in half.
I strip out of my gear, methodical. Pads, skates, tape. Trade the black for the black—hoodie, jeans, boots. Normal clothes, normal armor. My knuckles flex as I roll the last tape free.
Cole’s grin is still there. Crooked. He’s dying for it, holding back like it hurts.
I snap my head toward him, slow, deliberate. My eyes pin him from across the room. His grin flickers—just for a second—but then it sharpens again.
“You’ve got ten seconds,” I say, calm as stone. My scar splits with the faintest curl. “Use them wisely.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Cole doesn’t waste a breath. He launches in immediately, words firing like bullets:
“Oh my God, Cap,finally!Jesus, I thought curls was gonna crawl into your SUV with a leash in his mouth, but nope—guess it’s just attached to his throat already. You kiss him like that every time you tell him to stop hiding? Or just when he starts drooling on your shoulder at thirty thousand feet? I mean, honestly, congrats—rookie’s got stamina, didn’t even pass out on those stairs—though judging by the noise in the showers, he might’ve been on his knees for other reasons—”
“Four seconds,” I murmur.
Cole barrels on, louder: “You fuck as mean as you coach, Cap? Because if so, someone should check Mercer for internal bleeding.”
“Two seconds.”
“—and don’t even get me started ongood boy—”
“Time’s up.”
The entire room exhales at once, like they’ve been holding their breath through his suicide sprint. Mats groans into his locker. Tyler looks pale enough to faint. Shane mutters something about a funeral. Even Viktor snickers into his gear bag like he wants front-row seats.
Cole lifts both hands, still grinning, still reckless. “Worth it.”
I smirk back, cruel, peeling my hoodie down over my shoulders. “You’ll regret it on the ice.”
Cole just shrugs, sunglasses already in hand, grin bright as hell. “Story of my life, Captain.”
Steam rolls out first. Then Mercer.
His face is pink from heat, throat still raw. A towel slung low on his hips, jersey scars still blooming red across his ribs. The whole room goes quieter, like every man in here suddenly remembered what they just heard echoing in the showers.
And of course—Cole’s grin stretches wider. Too wide. He looks like a wolf about to chew on a steak bone.
I catch it before he even opens his mouth. My eyes cut to him, final.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Cole’s grin falters for half a heartbeat. Then he presses a palm flat against his chest and tips his head, all fake innocence.
“Yes, Captain.”
The room exhales in laughter, but it’s muted. Nervous. Because everyone knows what Cole’s itching to say, and everyone knows why he won’t.
Mercer doesn’t look at a single one of them. He just walks straight to his stall, towel snapping, shoulders stiff. Doesn’t flinch at the stares, doesn’t even smirk. He just pulls on his sweats, drags a hoodie over his damp hair, and sits there tying his laces like the locker room isn’t vibrating with tension.
Like he can ignore them all. Like he can hide.
