Chapter 11 His Difference

Rook’s POV I watch as Kade Mercer moves through the streets like nothing can touch him. Staying a few steps behind him I trail him with my hands shoved into my pockets. I watch the way he walks, his head high and shoulders back. He's got that same cocky swagger like the whole damn world belongs to him. Still, there is something off. I've watched him enough now to know the difference in him. Normally, Kade moves like a damn storm, he's reckless, confident and always pushing forward without hesitation. But tonight? He hesitates. It's subtle, and most wouldn't even notice. I do though, I notice the way he glances over his shoulder, the way his fingers twitch at his sides before he shoves them back into his pockets. His steps also aren't quite as sure, his pace also not as steady as it normally is. He's distracted for some reason. That thought alone makes my stomach twist. Kade doesn't get distracted, he doesn't second-guess himself. So what the hell is going on with him right now? I follow him across the street, keeping my distance and blending in with the late afternoon crowd. He doesn't notice, he's far too lost in his own head. His jaw is tight and his posture is coiled like he's ready to snap at any moment if someone says the wrong word. I expect him to go straight home, but instead, he turns into a small sports bar. One of the places his teammates like to drink after practice, nothing flashy, nothing high-end. I wait a minute before stepping inside. The bar is already buzzing, filled with laughter, the sound of glasses clinking, and the low murmur of a televised game playing in the background. Kade’s team is in the back, their table overflowing with drinks, but he’s not in the thick of it like usual. Instead, he’s alone at the bar, one hand wrapped around his glass, staring at the counter like it holds the answers to whatever the fuck is going on in his head. I move to a booth in the corner, far enough that he won’t immediately notice me, but close enough to keep watching. His teammates don’t seem to notice how off he is, or if they do, they’re not saying anything. They’re too busy talking about the championship win, about their upcoming schedule, about the bullshit charity game tomorrow. That’s when it clicks, the charity game. I smirk, leaning back in my seat, tapping my fingers against the table, that’s my chance. The game itself doesn’t mean shit. It’s all for PR, just a feel-good event for the cameras. No standings, no real stakes. Which means Kade won’t be in full competition mode. He won’t be ready for me. I’ll be on him the second we hit the ice. Chirping him, pushing him, getting under his skin in a way I never have before. Because something is different about Kade Mercer. And tomorrow, I’m going to find out exactly what it is. Mercer has been in my head for years, an obsession I can’t shake no matter how much I try. Every time we’re on the ice together, it’s the same thing—this burning need to push him, to test him, to rip that cocky smirk off his face and force him to see me the way I see him. It’s not just about beating him, and it never has been. I don’t just want to see him lose. I want to own him. I want to get inside his head, make him feel every fucking second of frustration and desire that he’s buried inside me. I should hate him. Maybe I do. But that hate is tangled up in something darker, something I can’t untangle even if I wanted to. Kade has been under my skin for so long, I don’t remember what it’s like not to think about him. Not to track him across the ice. Not to want to take everything from him just to see what he looks like when he has nothing left but me. And right now, sitting across the bar, gripping his drink like he’s holding himself together, he doesn’t look like the Kade Mercer I’m used to. Something is off. He’s always been reckless, arrogant, too sure of himself, but tonight there’s hesitation in the way he moves. His focus isn’t on his teammates or the game or even himself, it’s somewhere else, somewhere I can’t see, and I don’t fucking like it. I’ve spent years pushing him, forcing him to react to me. I’ve studied every shift he plays, memorized his tells, learned how to get under his skin in ways no one else can. But now? Someone or something else has already gotten to him first, and that pisses me off more than anything. If Kade is breaking, if there are cracks forming in that perfect, infuriating exterior of his, then it should be because of me. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure of it. The charity game isn’t about rankings, isn’t about the league, isn’t even about playing at full intensity. It’s just for the cameras, a public relations stunt that no one takes seriously. But that’s what makes it the perfect opportunity. Kade won’t be expecting me to come at him with everything I have. He’ll be relaxed, thinking this is just another meaningless scrimmage, and that’s when I’ll strike. I’ll be in his face every second, pushing him, chirping him, invading his space until he’s too frustrated to play it cool. And then, when I’ve finally got his attention, when I’ve forced him to focus on me and nothing else, I’ll take what I want. Because Kade Mercer isn’t just another player. He isn’t just a rival. He’s mine. And it’s about time he fucking realizes it. I don’t wait around to see if Kade snaps out of whatever trance he’s in. I’ve already seen what I needed to, he’s off his game, distracted, and that means tomorrow will be even easier. I leave the bar, stepping into the cold air, shoving my hands into my pockets as I make my way home.