Slade Mercer
1245 Words
Chapter 1
Slade Mercer
(Slade’s POV)
Roman Draeger slammed me into the plexiglass so hard the boards rattled under my shoulder. My vision jolted for a second, but I kept my stick tight, fighting for the puck as it skittered near the Seattle net.
“Still suck, Draeger,” I muttered as I shoved back.
Roman sneered. “f**k you.”
He rammed me again, but the puck slipped free and one of my wingers scooped it up. I caught the rebound off his skate and slapped it toward Mateo, who fired it clean into the corner of the net.
The horn blared. The arena roared.
I tapped Mateo’s helmet and bumped gloves with Ryder before heading to center ice for the face off. My jaw ached. My ribs throbbed where Roman had smashed me. I wanted to hit him again anyway.
The puck dropped. My body reacted faster than my head. I swept it away from Roman’s reach and flicked it toward Ryder. He darted across center ice and picked up speed, weaving through two Seattle defensemen.
Then Roman came out of nowhere.
His stick rose too high. It cracked across Ryder’s nose.
Ryder stumbled, blood running down his upper lip.
My vision went red.
I threw my stick to the ice and swung at Roman, grabbing his jersey with one hand and landing a punch straight to his jaw with the other. Roman hit back just as hard. We went at it, fists connecting, bodies slamming, the crowd screaming for more.
“You still pissed about Jenny?” Roman taunted, breath hot and angry. “She begged for it.”
I hit him again. Harder.
I had not cared about Jenny in months. She had been nothing. But the fact that Roman had slept with her while she was with me irritated the hell out of me. Not because I missed her. Because I hated losing even more than I hated him.
I pulled him closer. “You only have your spot on the Wolves because I turned down that contract.”
His face twisted. He lunged. The refs surged between us, dragging us apart.
We were shoved into separate penalty boxes. I sat down, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. Four minutes. I had to sit here for four goddamn minutes while Seattle led three to one.
The game was supposed to be easy.
But the team looked like s**t today. Sloppy passes. Zero focus. Dumb fights, including the one I just got into. Home arena advantage meant nothing when you played like you had no idea how to skate.
I rubbed the side of my face and breathed out slowly. I was tired. More tired than I wanted to admit. And it did not help that my pregame ritual had been ruined.
All I wanted was a burger from Slam Shack, the place I always hit before home games. But when I stepped out of the building, I bumped into someone. A girl. A puck bunny trying to fake a trip so she could fall into me. They always had some act. A dropped phone. A fake twist of the ankle. A giggle and a blush.
This one had just muttered something, panicked, and fled.
Whatever. I did not care for women who only wanted me because I was Slade Mercer, center for the Cyclones. It was exhausting.
It also did not help that my personal assistant had quit. Again. The fourth one in six months. And my manager had been tied up in contract meetings and could not cover for him.
The clock ticked down. As soon as the penalty expired, I leapt over the boards and hit the ice.
We had fifteen minutes left in the last period. We needed two goals to tie and three to win.
I skated to the bench the moment my shift ended. Coach Peters stormed toward me, face red.
“Mercer, have you lost your goddamn mind? We are getting our asses handed to us and you get thrown in the penalty box. You have fifteen minutes to fix this game.”
I nodded once and drank half a bottle of water. My lungs burned. My muscles screamed. I ignored all of it.
“How is Ryder?” I asked one of the assistants.
“He will be out in a minute. Just cleaning up the blood.”
Good. Ryder played better angry anyway.
I jumped back onto the ice for my next rotation. “Lock in,” I yelled at my line. “Tighten the passes. No more mistakes.”
Ryder returned, nose taped, eyes blazing. We exchanged a sharp nod.
The next fifteen minutes vanished in a blur of adrenaline.
Ryder passed. I shot. Goal.
Crowd screaming.
Another rush. Another assist. Another shot.
Goal.
The arena exploded so loud my ears rang.
Three to three. One minute left.
We pushed forward again. Ryder swept behind the net, drew two defenders, and flicked the puck toward the rookie, Cole Maddox. Maddox snapped it across the crease.
The puck hit the back of the net with two seconds left.
The entire arena lost its mind.
We collided into a group hug at center ice. Ryder yelled something incoherent. Frasier grabbed Maddox and shook him like a ragdoll.
I skated off the ice and threw a middle finger toward Roman, who glared knives at me from his bench.
Felt good.
Inside the locker room, laughter and curses echoed.
“Hell of a game,” Frasier said, slapping my shoulder.
“That last goal was clean,” Ryder added. “Best you have played in weeks.”
I nodded and walked toward Maddox, who was still buzzing. “You did good, man.”
The rookie grinned. “Thanks, Mercer.”
I peeled off my gear. My skin felt raw from the hits. Ryder walked by, tugging on a hoodie.
“You coming to the after party?”
“No.”
“Come on. You never come.”
Frasier chimed in. “You are going tonight. Even for five minutes.”
I sighed. “Fine. A little bit.”
We gathered our gear and headed toward the exit. My phone buzzed.
A text from my manager.
Personal assistant interviews tomorrow at noon.
Great. Another round of pretending to care who follows me around.
We stepped outside and security immediately surrounded us as fans crowded near the ropes. Some screamed our names. Some shoved posters forward. Others held their phones out for pictures.
And then there were the puck bunnies. Always front row. Always reaching. Always loud.
I ignored them all.
But a small boy stood near the front, clutching a pen like it was the most important thing in the world. He wore a Cyclones jersey far too big for him.
I stopped.
“You,” I said, pointing.
His eyes widened. “Me?”
“Come here.”
He ran over and held out the pen with shaking hands.
“You want an autograph?”
He nodded so fast his hair bounced. I signed the back of his jersey and handed it back.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Anytime.”
As I walked to my car, the boy’s bright smile stayed with me longer than I expected.
Something about him felt familiar. Something in the way he looked at me.
He reminded me of… Cory.
I shook it off, started the engine, and pulled into the night.
- Writer
