“A little.”
A girl pushes forward as we reach the barricade, eyes wide, notebook in hand. “Can I get your autograph, Elias? Please?”
I nod dumbly, fingers fumbling for a sharpie like I’ve never held one before. She doesn’t say anything else until I finish signing. Then she leans in and says, softly, "I hope you guys make it.”
My heart stops and my eyes shoot up to Damian without thinking. He’s staring at her, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that softens for a second when he looks down at me.
“I hope we do too,” I say, too quiet to hear over the roar, but Damian squeezes my shoulder.
The bus feels like it’s vibrating with leftover adrenaline and exhaustion, everyone slumped in various states of barely-awake and too-tired-to-care. One by one, the Reapers get dropped off. Shane fist-bumping the driver, Cole refusing to leave without doing a spin, Mats blowing kisses through the window, Viktor dead silent except for the guttural "Bye" that sounds more like a death threat.
Then it’s just us.
Me and him.
The city’s asleep when we finally pull up to Damian’s apartment building. I grab my bag and follow him out, muscles aching, lollipop still clutched in my hand. My knee twinges with every step, but I ignore it. I’m used to hurting by now. Used to bleeding for this. For him.
The elevator ride is quiet. Damian’s hand rests low on my back, thumb tracing lazy circles through my hoodie while the floor numbers blink past. When the doors open, I follow him into the dark apartment, quiet as a church after midnight.
Lights stay off. I don’t need them as I head straight to the kitchen, bag slung haphazard on the floor, the lollipop still warm from my hand. I stare at it for a second. Bright red. Heart-shaped. Just like the kid’s face when she handed it to me. I don’t know why I grabbed it. But it’s… mine. Earned. Given without strings or price tags. Not because I’m someone’s brand. Because I skated fast and made a kid smile.
And then, without thinking, I grab one of Damian’s old whiskey glasses off the shelf and set the lollipop inside like it’s a goddamn rose. It stands crooked, stick leaning against the rim, the cellophane crinkling a little under the fridge light. My first fan gift. Ever. Not from a sponsor, not from a scout. Just… from someone who actually likes me. Me, Elias Mercer. Loudmouth rookie. Damian Kade’s center.
My throat tightens weirdly.
Behind me, Damian finally flicks on a light—dim, kitchen glow—and comes up behind me. I feel the heat of him before he even touches me. His hand finds my waist, firm, grounding, his mouth brushing close to my ear. “You gonna eat it?”
I shake my head, still staring at it. “Nah. It’s staying right there.”
He hums. “Like a flower.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, voice low. “Kinda feels like one.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then his hand slides under my hoodie, palm splayed across my stomach, warm and possessive. “You earned that,” he murmurs.
My heart flips in my chest. “I did,” I whisper, leaning back into him. “Did you see me, Captain?”
His lips brush my temple. “I never stop watching you, pup.”
I exhale, soft and wrecked, letting my head fall back to his shoulder. And for the first time since that puck hit the ice, I finally feel like I’m home.
Three days off the ice and he’s already acting like he’s been caged for a year. I should’ve expected it. The second the doc gave the green light for “light practice,” I knew what that little shit would do with it. Which is not “light.” Because Elias Mercer doesn’t know how to rest. Doesn’t know how to breathe unless it’s for blood, victory, or me. He’s a storm that pretends it’s a warm front until it hits the glass.
The second Elias skates on, it’s clear he’s in a mood. Curls bouncing, cheeks flushed, mouth running faster than his skates.
I call for a warm-up skate. He sprints the lap like he’s chasing down the Stanley Cup himself. “Mercer,” I growl across the ice. “Ease up.”
He doesn’t even glance at me. He winks at Viktor, chirps something at Cole, and cuts the corner so hard his blade sprays ice. His knee isn’t wrapped today—it doesn’t look stiff—but I know the bruise is still there. The kind of hit he took doesn’t vanish in three days just because the doc handed him a tube of gel and told him to behave.
But Elias Mercer does not behave.
“Pup,” I bark, louder now, skating toward him.
He slows down enough to look at me, cocky grin stretched wide. “Yes, Captain?”
Little fucker.
I slide in, stop hard, and glare down at him. “Slow. Down.”
