Locker room reeks of sweat, tape, Gatorade. Helmets hit hooks, gloves tossed, boys barking over each other, Cole narrating like there’s a camera crew following him. Mats chirps back, Viktor grunts, Tyler wheezes like he’s on his last lung.
I don’t say a word.
I don’t need to.
Elias drops onto the bench, chest heaving, hair plastered to his forehead. He’s still mouthing off to Cole about who set up the prettier goal. The boys howl. But when I step in front of him, the noise dulls.
I don’t ask.
I don’t warn.
I just grip the hem of his jersey, shove it up.
He freezes, grin dying on his lips, eyes darting up to mine like I just stripped him naked in front of the team. His ribs are a mess—bruises blooming ugly where that Wranglers bastard touched him.
I press my thumb against one, steady, testing. Not soft. Never soft.
He hisses through his teeth. Stares at me like I’ve hung the moon and set it on fire for him.
The room erupts.
“OHHH,” Cole howls from across the stalls, smirk sharp. “Look at that bedside manner! Real gentle, Cap. Bet he’s a fantastic nurse.”
Shane cackles, clutching his water bottle. “Careful, Mercer, next he’ll be checking your temperature.”
Mats grins slow, wicked. “With a fist.”
Laughter ricochets off the walls, the boys drumming their sticks against the floor like hyenas. Elias doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. His chest heaves under my hand, eyes locked on me like none of them exist.
The chirps are deafening.
Cole’s cackling like he’s on late-night television, Mats is leaning back like he’s got popcorn, Shane’s half-praying, half-laughing, and Tyler’s red in the face just trying to keep up with the noise.
But Elias?
He doesn’t say a word.
Doesn’t snap back, doesn’t hide.
He just grins.
Wide, teeth flashing under the cage still half-clipped to his helmet. His ribs are bruised, his lungs are raw, his body is wrecked—and still, he’s glowing. Eating up my attention like it’s the only thing on the planet that matters.
The boys howl louder at his silence. Cole actually throws his head back, smacks his stick against the wall. “Ohhh my GOD, he LIKES it!”
Shane crosses himself like he’s witnessing blasphemy. “Lord have mercy, the rookie’s gone full martyr.”
Mats snorts. “Not martyr. Disciple.”
The room breaks into howls again, laughter ricocheting sharp off steel and cinderblock. Water bottles spray, sticks clap, voices pitch higher like they can break the roof down with the sound of it.
And through it all—Elias just keeps grinning.
Right at me.
I drop his jersey back down, slow, calm, never breaking eye contact. The boys are still barking, but he’s steady, glowing like he’s drunk on it. Like the only thing that matters in this whole room is my hand on his ribs.
Good pup.
