He bats his lashes. “But I feel great, sir.”
“And when you bust your knee for real, what then?”
“Then I’ll crawl on the ice and still win faceoffs,” he says, flipping his stick up one-handed.
I see red. Not because I’m mad, but because he’s skating like a devil, mouth slick with sass, and that stupid bruise is still dark under his skin. And because I’m hard. I grab his collar, fist curling tight in the front of his jersey. His eyes widen a little, as if maybe he thought I wouldn’t do this in front of everyone.
The Reapers watch in silence. Even Cole shuts up. Tyler looks like he might actually pass out. Kid’s still learning the rules of this team—when to speak and when to pretend he didn’t see the captain grab his rookie by the throat.
“You think this is funny, Mercer?”
“Maybe…” he drawls, slow and smug. “You getting all growly at me on the ice is kinda—”
“Careful.” My grip tightens. “Say the rest of that sentence and I will make an example out of you right here.”
I feel it. See it. That split-second where the brat inside him wants to test me and the good boy underneath remembers what happened last time he pushed too far during drills. And fuck me, I want him to test me.
“Cap,” Cole cuts in from a few feet back, “not to interrupt your couple’s therapy, but I’d love to not get murdered during scrimmage because your boyfriend’s limping and too horny to admit it.”
Elias gasps. “I am not limping!”
“You are,” Viktor adds flatly. “And you are horny.”
Elias throws both arms in the air like he’s being arrested. “Et tu, Russian?”
“Enough,” I snap, still holding Elias’s collar. My voice drops so low only he can hear. “If you don’t slow down, I’ll bench you and edge you in the goddamn locker room until you learn obedience.”
His pupils blow wide but I let go of his jersey. “Now get in position, pup.”
He skates off fast, but the next stride has just the slightest favor in the knee. And the blush on his face is unmistakable.
Little shit loves it.
And God help me, so do I.
For a while, he listens. It’s weird, honestly. Elias Mercer obeying. He stays center during drills. Doesn’t overextend on breakaways. Takes faceoffs like a soldier. So perfect I catch Cole mouthing “what the fuck” behind him after the second rep. Even Shane, twitchy bastard that he is, keeps looking over his shoulder.
Second half of practice, we shift into scrimmage lines. Reapers vs. Reapers.
Elias gets paired up with Cole and Tyler, which should’ve been a warning—too much chaos, not enough brakes. Cole’s chirping on every shift. Tyler’s trying way too hard. And Elias? He’s feral with restraint, which is more dangerous than feral without it.
It starts small when he wins a faceoff, clean and tight and textbook, but then his smirk cracks a little too wide and the next sprint comes half a second too fast. He cuts toward the net, and I swear to God he’s grinning like he’s right back on the Wranglers’ ice.
I call out from the bench. “Mercer!”
He doesn’t hear me, or he pretends not to, because of course the hit comes next—Mats, fair and heavy, exactly what Elias needs to snap his head back where it belongs. But Elias doesn’tback off; he bites into the contact, bounces off the boards, spins with that terrifying edge he’s picked up over the past month, and bolts right back up the ice.
Except now he’s favoring the knee—enough to make my blood boil. I vault the bench before I even think, my stick clattering to the ice as Viktor curses behind me and Cole yells “Shit!” when Elias gets clipped again, this time by accident—friendly fire, a skate bump—but it’s enough. Elias jerks sideways and finally stumbles.
He doesn’t fall. But the way his face tightens—shit. No.
I’m at his side in two strides, grabbing his jersey, dragging him off ice like I don’t care who’s watching. He’s still grinning. “Are you stupid?” I snarl, dragging him toward the bench.
“You said I could play—”
“I said take it slow. That’s not slow. That’s suicidal.”
“You didn’t bench me.”
