I stay crouched. Don’t move an inch. Just growl, low and warning.
Coach rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you’re worse than your rookie.” He steps around me anyway, and Elias tenses like he’s expecting to be benched, or turned into mulch on the spot.
But Coach plants himself in front of him, crosses his arms, and says, “Mercer. You are officially a Reaper.”
Elias stares up at him baffled. “Sir…” Elias whines, blinking hard. “You do know we lost, right?”
Coach’s smile widens. It scares the shit out of everyone. “You played like hell. You fought through the whistle. You nearly murdered a man for touching your goalie. And you made the Bastards panic.”
He leans in, voice dropping enough for the rest of the team to pretend they’re not listening. “You played like a Reaper.”
Elias opens his mouth, closes it again, swallows like his throat might betray him, then he whispers, “...thank you, sir.”
Coach smirks, claps him once, hard, on the shoulder pad. “You mess up next game, I’ll eat your heart.”
“Got it, sir.”
Coach turns to leave, muttering something about press conferences and how no one better cry on camera or I swear to Christ I’ll make you skate until you bleed, and the moment he’s gone, Elias exhales like he’s survived a gunfight.
I chuckle. “Told you you’re a demon.”
Iam on a fucking mission.
The apartment looks like it’s been raided. Not by burglars. No. Just by one feral, furious, half-naked rookie who lost his first playoff game and is now possessed by something worse than rage: curiosity. Obsession. Possibly rabies.
I yank open another drawer, growling under my breath. Nothing. No box. No clue. Just receipts and spare sticks of gum and one of Damian’s spare cufflinks that I definitely did not flick across the room in frustration.
I’m wearing nothing but his shirt. The black one. The one that smells like his cologne and makes my thighs look fantastic. But it’s not for him. No. This is my battle uniform. Because that ring is somewhere in this damn apartment, and I am not sleeping until I find it.
From the kitchen, Damian watches like I’m putting on the most entertaining one-man circus he’s ever seen. Bastard’s got a glass of whiskey in hand and a smirk on his face, lounging against the counter like the embodiment of unbothered.
“You should be packing, pup,” he says eventually, sipping slow. “We’re flying tomorrow evening.”
I freeze mid-rummage, turn to him and glare.
He looks amused.
I slam the drawer closed with exactly the kind of drama that would make any Broadway director cry with joy. “I am packing. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. For marriage,” I snap.
Damian raises a brow. “Oh? And where exactly are you planning to put that in your carry-on, baby?”
I throw a throw pillow at him. It doesn’t even get halfway. “I heard you,” I hiss, stalking toward him. “You said the ring’s at home.”
“I did.”
“You said it’s waiting for me.”
“I did.”
“So where is it?!” I stop in front of him, chest heaving, shirt riding up dangerously high, one sock half-off my foot, the other lost to the void an hour ago. My curls are a mess. My cheeks are red. My dignity’s in a ditch somewhere.
He sets the glass down and stares at me, eyes dark and slow-burning. “Do you really think I’d hide it somewhere you could find it before the Cup?” he asks, low, smooth, infuriatingly calm.
“I was hoping you got stupid,” I mutter.
“You know I’m not.”
“Unfortunately.”
