The entire rink fades to background noise. Just the screech of blades and the crack of sticks somewhere far off as my rookie sits on that bench with a knee wrapped in pain, a mouth full of sass, and eyes that only want me. I stalk toward him slow. “Then behave,” I growl low, stepping close enough that my shadow swallows him. “Win smart. Don’t make me bench you for real.”
He blinks up at me. Then his grin comes back, lazy and wrecked. “Yes, sir.” And I know he’s gonna push me again.
“Practice is over,” Viktor barks, stick slapping once against the boards. “Hit the showers and go home.” The boys don’t argue. Not when Petrov looks like he’s five seconds from committing a felony. Shane flings his helmet so hard it ricochets off the glass and into the penalty box. Cole cackles. Tyler slips on a water bottle. Again.
Elias rises from the bench, limping, dangerous in the way only someone unafraid of pain can be.
“You!” I snap, stalking toward him. “Showers. Wait.”
His grin only gets wider. Fucking brat. I don’t wait to hear his reply. I’m already storming toward Coach’s office, jaw tight, gloves half-off, sweat still dripping down the back of my neck. I knock once. Barely. Then I shove the door open and walk in.
Coach is at his desk. Cigarette lit. Eyebrow already halfway raised like he heard every damn second of that scrimmage.
“I need you to make him first line officially,” I say. No lead-in. No preamble. Just now.
Coach blinks then drags the cigarette from his lips slowly. “He’s a rookie,” he says, casual, but I hear the tension underneath.
“He’s got the best center stats in the league, and he’s getting on my nerves.”
Coach exhales smoke. “That’s the real reason, huh?” he mutters. “Not the stats. Not the draw win rate. Not the puck control. Just that he’s chirping louder than you can growl.”
I don’t answer.
He grins. “Fine,” Coach says, reaching for a pen and scribbling something on the clipboard. “He’s first line.”
“I want it on record.”
“You want the whole league to know you gave your pup a promotion,” he mutters. “Don’t pout, Kade. I already said yes.”
I turn without a word and head straight back toward the locker rooms, because Elias Mercer just became my first line center. God help the rest of the league.
Elias is exactly where I told him to be. Locker room half-steamed, bench half-wet, towel clinging low around his hips, his curls damp and sticking to his cheeks. He’s sitting on the bench like he owns the place, leaning back, legs spread, arms draped behind him.
He’s not even pretending to behave. He grins the second he sees me. “You said wait.”
“I also said hit the showers,” I mutter, stalking toward him, gloves hanging loose from my hand, gear half-undone. “You think soaking for five seconds and running your mouth counts?”
“I washed everything important.” He shrugs one shoulder, cocky little shit. “Besides, didn’t wanna miss you.” He looks up at me from beneath wet lashes, smug and pretty and pink around the edges from the heat.
I stop in front of him. He sits there in nothing but a towel, mouth twitching, green eyes lit like the devil designed a rookie to break me. “You want to know what Coach said?” I ask, voice low.
He perks up immediately. “About?”
“About your promotion.”
His grin freezes. “My—what?”
“First line.” I smirk. “Officially.”
His mouth parts, then closes, then opens again. “You’re serious?”
I lean closer, bracing one hand against the locker behind his head, watching his breath stutter. “You think I’d let anyone else take the first faceoff with me on the wing?” I murmur. “You’re mine, center. You’ve always been mine.”
He blinks. His towel slips half an inch lower on his thigh, and I don’t bother to fix it. “I—I didn’t think—I mean—” He swallows. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Good.” My smirk turns sharp. “I like watching you squirm under it.”
Then he grins again, giddy and bratty and fucking radiant. But then, of course, it flips. That soft panic in his chest when the moment gets too real. When he hears his own heartbeat louder than mine. "Is this because you like me...?" Elias blurts, words rushing out like they’ve been loading behind his tongue since the second I walked in. It’s the voice he gets when he’s spiraling like if he doesn’t ask now, he’ll choke on it. Like part of him still thinks I picked him for the wrong reasons.
