“I will now.”
He grins like a challenge. “You gonna edge me too, Captain?”
I shove him onto the bench, throw a towel at him, and hiss, “Try me, Mercer.”
He opens his mouth again. Viktor smacks the back of his helmet as he skates past. “Idiot,” Viktor mutters.
Elias winces. “Ow, okay, Jesus—”
“Shut up, Mercer,” I growl. And for the next five minutes, he does. But that knee? It's swelling. And I know exactly how this night’s gonna end: with him strapped down and whining while I ice it and his cock just to remind him what happens when he doesn’t listen.
Five minutes.
That’s how long the silence lasts. Five whole minutes of Elias Mercer sitting still, knee wrapped in ice, towel draped around his neck, helmet off and curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. He’s red-cheeked and twitchy, one leg bouncing. I catchhim adjusting his cup. He’s probably half hard just from being yelled at.
I’m pacing in front of the bench, watching scrimmage unfold without him. Cole’s doing fine. Mats and Viktor are holding the line. Shane’s yelling obscenities behind his cage. He’s barking Latin again. Or maybe curses. Probably both. I stopped trying to translate the goalie’s dark spells two seasons ago. The world hasn’t ended.
"Hey, sir.” His voice cracks right through my spine. Loud enough for everyone to hear. “If you bench me in playoffs, who’s gonna win your faceoffs and your games?”
The little fuck.
I stop moving, and half the team goes dead quiet as a few heads turn like they can’t believe he actually said it. Tyler slaps a hand over his mouth, Cole’s already wheezing, and I turn slow and deadpan. “Me.”
His mouth twitches. “Can you even win a faceoff anymore, Cap? Isn’t your back all—”
“Mercer.”
“Yessir.”
I step closer and his smirk slips the tiniest bit. “You wanna try me again?”
“I mean, I already did. On ice. Kinda kicked your ass—”
The words cut off with a yelp when I plant my stick against the bench between his legs and lean in, face inches from his. “That mouth better be faster than your knee, pup,” I growl. “Or I’m gonna take you back to the showers and remind you what real punishment feels like.”
He swallows, curls falling into his eyes, his lips part like he’s about to sass me again. I see it on his tongue, brewing,but he thinks better of it.
Smart boy.
He shuts his mouth, eyes darting down, thigh twitching under the towel.
“Good,” I mutter, tapping the stick once between his knees before pushing off. And when I walk away, I don’t miss the way his eyes stay glued to me the whole time.
Another ten minutes of watching him bounce his leg, mouth words at Cole, chirp from the sidelines. I try to ignore it, focus on the scrimmage, on Tyler trying not to cry every time Viktor shoves him into the boards, on Shane foaming at the mouth behind the net.
But then Elias opens that mouth again. “Hey, Cap,” he calls, loud enough to carry. “Y’know, your second line lost the puck again. Maybe you wanna rethink benching your best center?”
I don’t turn. I don’t even look at him. “You’ve gotten way too comfortable with your sass, pup.”
His laugh is immediate and smug.
“I liked you better when you wanted to please me,” I add, ice in my tone.
The smile drops off his face. And then… he pouts. Actually pouts. “I do want to please you, sir,” he mumbles, quieter now. Real, honest, and it hits something low in my gut. “But you said win the Cup and you’ll put a ring on my finger.”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes flicking up to me, green and sharp and so fucking earnest. “I wanna win.” He’s not joking now. That edge in his voice—that’s the kid who grew up carving my name into notebooks and whispering someday into the dark.
Christ.
