Chapter 14 Fighting Him

Rook POV Kade is playing like a man possessed. He’s not setting up plays, not following his usual style of controlled chaos. No, this is something else entirely. Every shift, he’s gunning straight for me, reckless in a way I’ve never seen before. There’s no reason for it, no build-up, no words exchanged that should’ve pushed him over the edge. But every time we’re near each other, he goes for me. And I fucking love it. Every hit, every shove, every time his body collides with mine, I can feel it under my skin, feeding something dark and hungry inside me. I’ve spent years pushing him, pulling him into my orbit, forcing him to acknowledge me. But this? This is different. He’s not just reacting, he’s initiating. I catch his eye after another brutal check, my back slamming into the boards. The crowd reacts, the play keeps moving, but all I care about is the look in his eyes. His chest is rising and falling fast, his gloved hands clenched tight, jaw locked like he’s fighting himself. But he’s not backing down. Not avoiding me. If anything, it looks like he’s daring me to do something. I push myself off the boards and skate toward him, my heart hammering as I move into his space, cutting off his path. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t try to go around me. He crashes into me again, hard enough that I feel it deep in my ribs, his breath hot as he exhales sharply. “What the hell is your problem, Mercer?” I growl, keeping my voice low enough that the refs won’t catch it. He doesn’t answer immediately, just holds my gaze, something dark and unreadable flickering behind his eyes. His grip tightens on his stick before he shoves me off, skating away without a word. I chase after him, cutting across the ice to match his pace. “No smartass comment? That’s a first.” His glare is sharp, his lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t answer, but I can see it, he’s barely holding himself together. There’s something boiling just beneath the surface, something that has nothing to do with the game, and I want to rip it out of him. “Stay the fuck out of my way,” he finally grits out, his voice low and rough. I laugh, skating even closer, close enough that our helmets nearly brush. “That’s not gonna happen, and you know it.” His nostrils flare, and for a second, I think he’s actually going to drop his gloves. The thought sends a sharp pulse of heat through me, my blood thrumming with the possibility. I’d let him. I’d let him take a swing, let him throw all that anger at me just to see what he does next. Because for the first time, he’s chasing me. I don’t just want to beat him anymore. I don’t just want to get under his skin. I want to drag him under completely. I want him to snap, to lose control, to stop pretending that this thing between us is just hatred. Because I know better. I see the way he looks at me when he thinks no one else is watching. I feel the way his body lingers a second too long against mine after every hit. I hear the way his breath catches when we’re this close, when he realizes there’s no one else on the ice who matters but me. He’s mine. He always has been. And from the way he’s playing today, from the way he keeps throwing himself at me like he needs to feel me, I think he’s finally starting to realize it too. I see it happen in real time, the exact moment Kade snaps. I don’t know what finally pushes him over the edge. Maybe it’s the way I keep laughing every time he shoves me, the way I keep closing the distance between us like I don’t give a shit about how pissed off he is. Maybe it’s because I keep staring at his mouth every time he breathes too hard, daring him to do something about it. Or maybe he’s just been looking for a reason to lose control all night. Either way, the second I chirp him again. “You wanna hit me that bad, Mercer? Go ahead. Make my fucking night." His gloves are off before the last word even leaves my mouth. And I barely have time to smirk before his fist slams into my face. The crowd roars as we go down hard, my back hitting the ice with Kade’s weight pressing down on me, but I don’t care. My blood is pumping, my skin is hot, and every fucking part of me loves this. I don’t hesitate. My gloves hit the ice a second later, and I throw a punch right back, catching him across the jaw. He barely reacts, just grips my jersey, yanking me up so he can hit me again. It’s brutal, messy, fueled by something neither of us wants to name. I feel every hit, every ounce of his frustration, every sharp breath between swings. He’s fighting like he needs this, like this isn’t just a hockey fight, it’s a fucking purge. And all I can think is good, because I want it too. I grab him by the collar of his jersey, twisting us so I can shove him down, his back slamming into the ice this time. His breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide, and for a split second, neither of us moves. I should stop. The refs are already skating toward us, the fight is seconds away from being broken up, but I don’t let go. My fingers tighten in his jersey, my knee pressing into his thigh, my breath mixing with his as we just fucking stare at each other. His chest is rising and falling fast, his lips parted, his jaw tense like he’s fighting something worse than me. “Feel better?” I rasp, my voice lower than it should be. His grip on my jersey tightens. “Go to hell.” I smirk, blood dripping from my split lip as I lean in just enough that only he can hear me. “Why don’t you take me there yourself?” His nostrils flare, his knuckles white where he grips me, and for a second, I think he’s about to do something fucking insane, suddenly the refs yank us apart, shoving between us, and just like that, the moment is over, at least it is for now. Because this fight? It doesn’t end here, not until I have him completely.