Chapter 13 The Game

Rook POV Yesterday I felt it, the shift in him, something told me he wasn't himself. Mercer is always cocky, reckless and for some reason, he's always pushing forward like he doesn't give a fuck about anything but winning. Yesterday though? He was somewhere else entirely, he was distracted and unfocused. I hated it, I hated that something had gotten to him before I could. Today though, I plan to fix that, because I'm going to remind him exactly who I am, and if something is pulling him under, I'll be the one to drown him in it completly. I roll my shoulders, tightening my gloves before pushing to my feet. Around me, the guys are still joking, still loose, still taking this game for what it is, nothing more than a PR stunt. Some of them are here to impress the league officials watching from the stands, some just to enjoy a skate and keep things light. I’m not one of them. And neither is Mercer. I don’t need to see him yet to know he’s wound just as tight as I am. I grab my stick and head out onto the ice, my skates cutting deep into the surface as I take my first strides. The arena is packed, the noise loud enough to rattle through my ribs, but none of them matter. Not the fans, not the sponsors, not even the cameras broadcasting the game. The second I scan the ice, I find him. Kade Mercer, standing at the other end, helmet already on, shoulders squared, his whole body coiled like a loaded spring. The air between us tightens immediately. He’s staring right at me, the sharp intensity in his gaze making my pulse thrum with something dark and eager. We’ve always been like this, always locked onto each other the second we step on the ice, but something is different this time. Then the puck drops, and Mercer comes at me like a fucking freight train. I barely have time to react before he slams into me, hard, sending a sharp jolt through my ribs. It’s not a clean hit, not a calculated play, it’s messy, aggressive, fueled by something raw and unchecked. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t chirp me like he normally would, doesn’t smirk or bait me into reacting. He just wants to hurt me. And fuck, do I love it. I grin, shoving him off, but the second I turn, he’s on me again, harder this time, his shoulder digging into my ribs. The refs don’t call anything, they won’t in a game like this, but even if they did, I wouldn’t stop. Mercer is playing like he has something to prove, like hitting me is the only thing keeping him from coming undone completely, and I want to know why. I want to tear him apart piece by piece, strip him down to whatever the fuck is making him so unhinged. He barrels into me again, and this time, I let it happen. Let his body collide with mine, let my back slam into the boards, let the weight of him press against me for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. His breath is sharp, his chest rising and falling fast as he stares me down, fists clenched like he’s one wrong move away from dropping the gloves entirely. I can see it in his eyes, the frustration, the rage, the way he’s barely keeping himself in check. I should be pissed. I should be shoving him away, throwing him off his game. But I don’t want to throw him off. I want him right here, locked onto me, fists tight, chest heaving, full of nothing but me. I smirk, licking the sweat from my lips. “You finally ready to admit you like touching me, Mercer?” His nostrils flare, and for a split second, I think he’s actually going to swing. My pulse spikes, waiting for it, wanting it, but instead, he shoves off me and skates away, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle tick. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into him. But I do know one thing, and that is that I’ve never wanted him more. My body is still humming from the impact, from the way Mercer threw himself into me like he wanted to tear me apart. I can feel the phantom weight of him pressing against me, the heat that burned through his gear and into mine, the raw frustration radiating off him in waves. I lick my lips, still tasting the moment, still feeling the charge crackling in my blood. Kade Mercer has always been aggressive, always reckless, but this? This is something else. There’s no calculated precision to his hits, no strategic play, he’s aiming for me, hunting me, throwing himself into me like he wants to bury me into the ice and never let me up. And fuck, I love it. I skate after him, tracking him like a predator scenting blood, my pulse steady, my grip tight around my stick. Mercer is skating fast, jaw locked, fists clenched at his sides, like he’s barely holding something in. Every movement of his is frustration, his body stiff and coiled, and I don’t know if he even realizes how obvious it is. I want to get inside his head, figure out what’s got him so wound up, but more than that, I want to drag him into something he can’t walk away from. I slide up behind him, closing the distance fast, my breath steady even as my pulse kicks up. “You that desperate to get your hands on me, Mercer?” My voice is low, teasing, a sharp contrast to the raw anger rolling off him. “There are easier ways, you know.” He doesn’t turn, but I see the way his shoulders tighten, the way his fingers flex around his stick before curling into a fist. He wants to ignore me, but he can’t. He never can. “You don’t know when to shut the fuck up, do you?” His voice is sharp, his jaw tight, but there’s something else there, buried beneath the hostility. “Not when I’m enjoying myself this much,” I admit, skating beside him now, matching his pace. “You gonna tell me why you’re so eager to put me through the boards? Or should I keep letting you rub up against me and figure it out myself?” His eyes flick toward me for a split second, dark with something I can’t quite name. Not yet. “Stay the fuck out of my way,” he snaps. I grin, moving even closer. “Or what?” He doesn’t answer, just shoves off and speeds down the ice, cutting through the zone like he’s trying to outrun me. Like he actually thinks that’s possible. I chase after him, the game forgotten, the crowd nothing more than white noise in the background. All that matters is him, the way his body moves, the way his aggression rolls off him in thick, intoxicating waves. I’ve spent years hating him, but that hate has never been clean. It’s always been tangled up with something filthy, obsessive, suffocating. I don’t just want to beat him. I want to fucking ruin him. I want to shove him into the glass, pin him there until he realizes he has nowhere to go but me. I want to strip him down, see what’s under that anger, make him admit what he won’t fucking say. I want to sink my teeth into him, take whatever the hell this is between us and drag it into something he can’t deny anymore. And from the way he’s playing, from the way he keeps hitting me, from the way he can’t keep himself from reacting to me, I think he’s closer to breaking than he’s ever been. I can be patient. I can wait. Because no matter how hard he fights, no matter how much he tries to push me away, Kade Mercer is already fucking mine.