Centuria Books · Man Advantage
Man Advantage — Read the First Chapter
Two hockey icons who swear they’re only into each other decide the one soft, breakable thing they’ll ever share is her.
The Softest Fracture
POV: Mina
The data points were irrefutable: Mercer and Rook were exclusively homosexual, aggressively devoted to one another, and physically capable of snapping her spine like a dry twig. So why was Mina’s amygdala misfiring so catastrophically?
Rain lashed against the grand entrance of the arena, turning the world into a gray blur of water and asphalt. The donor gala thrummed on the other side of the glass doors—a world of champagne flutes, seven-figure checks, and people who didn’t ruin their evening wear by kneeling in a gutter.
Mina was not one of those people.
A pitiful, high-pitched mewl cut through the storm again. It wasn’t a hallucination. There was life in the storm drain, tiny and desperate.
She didn’t hesitate. The logic of self-preservation that usually governed her life short-circuited. She dropped to her knees. The wet pavement soaked instantly through the thin, cheap fabric of her tights. Mud coated her shins. The icy water bit at her skin, but she jammed her arm into the darkness of the drain, her fingers searching blindly in the muck.
“Come on,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’ve got you.”
Her fingertips brushed wet fur. The kitten hissed, a vibration of pure terror, but Mina lunged. Her hand closed around the scruff of a neck no bigger than her thumb. She hauled the creature out, curling her body around it to shield it from the deluge. It was a soaked scrap of black fur, shivering so violently it shook in her hands.
She sat back on her heels, gasping, mud streaked across her cheek and slime dripping from her elbow. She probably looked deranged. A biology major playing savior in the slush.
Then the air pressure dropped.
It wasn’t a meteorological shift. It was a displacement of mass. A shadow fell over her, blocking out the harsh security lights, spanning so wide it felt like an eclipse.
Mina looked up. And up.
Mercer stood there.
The captain of the team. The golden god of the ice. He wasn’t wearing his jersey tonight. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than her entire tuition, the fabric straining across shoulders that seemed engineered to carry the weight of the world—or crush it.
He was terrifying. He was beautiful.
Biology was a cruel mistress. It didn’t care about orientation or availability. It only cared about the specimen standing above her. Mina’s gaze traveled up the long, powerful columns of his legs, encased in wool that clung to thighs thick with muscle. His torso was a V-shape of violence wrapped in silk, tapering to a waist she wanted to wrap her legs around, broadening out to a chest that could act as a battering ram.
He wasn’t just a man; he was an apex predator in formal wear. His hands hung at his sides—massive, scarred things. Hands that choked hockey sticks and, if the rumors were true, his partner’s throat. The veins on the back of his hands stood out like ropes, tracking up into his cuffs. Those fingers were long, blunt, and capable of terrible things. Mina’s mouth watered. A sick, heavy pulse throbbed between her legs, a traitorous ache that ignored the freezing rain.
Look at him, her brain whispered, abandoning all dignity. He could break you in half and you’d thank him for the efficiency.
Mercer stared down at her. His face was a mask of cold disdain, the nose crooked from one too many pucks to the face, his jaw clenched tight enough to grind diamonds. He looked at her like she was a stain on the concrete.
“What are you doing?” His voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the rain, but it vibrated in the hollow of her chest.
Mina scrambled to stand, clutching the kitten against the ruined front of her dress. “I… it was drowning.”
Mercer’s gaze dropped to the shivering ball of fur.
The disgust on his face vanished, replaced by something unreadable. He stepped closer. The scent of him hit her—rain, expensive sandalwood, and the sharp, metallic tang of pure alpha dominance. It made her knees weak. It made her want to fall back down into the mud just to show him her belly.
He reached out.
Mina flinched, expecting a blow or a shove. Instead, those massive, dangerous hands cupped the kitten. He took the animal from her with a gentleness that stopped her heart. His thumb, thick and calloused, stroked the tiny head. The kitten, which had been hissing at Mina, instantly went silent, melting into the heat of his palm.
“Stupid thing,” Mercer murmured to the cat. His voice dropped an octave, turning into a rough purr that scraped pleasantly against Mina’s nerve endings. He tucked the kitten inside his jacket, against the warmth of his chest, shielding it completely. “You don’t belong out here in the cold.”
For a second, Mina watched him, entranced. The monster had a soft underbelly. He was kind. He was saving the weak. A spark of hope ignited in her chest—maybe he wasn’t as cruel as the tabloids said. Maybe he would look at her with that same protective warmth.
Then he turned his eyes back to her.
The warmth died instantly. The ice returned, harder and sharper than before.
He looked at her wet hair, plastering her skull. He looked at the mud smearing her dress. He looked at her trembling lips. He didn’t see a savior. He saw trash.
“You look like a drowned rat,” he said flatly.
The insult landed like a physical blow, but instead of recoiling, Mina felt a flush of heat sear through her veins. He was looking at her. The great Mercer, who never looked at women, was looking at her. Even his contempt felt like a gift. It was heavy and focused, pinning her in place.
He stepped into her personal space. He was so large he blotted out the world. Mina had to crane her neck back, her spine arching involuntarily. She was five feet of awkwardness; he was six-six of sculpted aggression. The size difference was laughable. It was erotic.
“Please,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. “I just need to go back in and dry off. My coat is in the cloakroom.”
Mercer didn’t move out of her way. He loomed closer. He raised a hand.
Mina froze.
His thumb, the same one that had just gentled the kitten, pressed against her cheekbone. The skin there was rough, the pad of his finger hot and hard. He swiped downward, slow and deliberate, dragging a smear of mud away from her eye.
It was an intimate gesture. A lover’s touch.
It was sickeningly sweet.
Mina’s breath hitched, trapping itself in her throat. She leaned into the touch without permission, her eyes fluttering shut. He’s touching me. He’s cleaning me. It felt like a benediction.
“You’re pathetic,” Mercer whispered, his voice silky with malice. His thumb pressed harder, digging into her soft flesh, holding her face still so he could inspect her flaws. “Look at you. Shaking like a leaf because a man is standing near you.”
Mina’s eyes snapped open. His blue gaze bored into hers, dissecting her biology. He could smell it. He had to. He could smell the fear, and beneath it, the thick, cloying scent of her arousal.
He didn’t pull his hand away. He rubbed the dirt between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting the filth he’d taken off her skin.
“Rook hates clutter,” Mercer said, his tone conversational, as if explaining why he had to drown a sack of puppies. “And he hates messes. If you walk back into that gala looking like this, you’ll offend him. And I don’t like it when Rook is offended.”
“I… I can clean up,” Mina whispered. She wanted to lick his thumb. The thought was insane, a parasite in her brain, but she wanted to taste the salt of his skin and the mud he’d wiped from hers. She wanted to prove she could be clean for them.
Mercer smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was a baring of straight, white teeth that promised violence.
“No,” he said. “You can’t. You’re messy by nature, little girl. I can see it in your eyes. You’re soft. Fragile. You bleed too easily.”
He finally dropped his hand, and the loss of contact made Mina’s skin scream. The cold air rushed back in, leaving her shivering worse than before.
“Go home,” Mercer commanded, turning his back on her. He adjusted his jacket where the kitten was nestled safe and warm. “The adults are talking inside. The nursery is closed.”
He walked toward the heavy glass doors, the security guards stepping aside instantly to let the king pass.
Mina stood in the rain, water dripping off her nose, mud drying on her cheek where he had touched her. She should be furious. She should be humiliated. She had just saved a life, and he had treated her like something he scraped off his boot.
But as the door swung shut, cutting off the golden light of the gala, Mina didn’t feel angry.
She lifted a trembling hand to her cheek, pressing her palm against the spot his thumb had burned. A dark, twisted gratitude blossomed in her chest, heavy and sweet like rotting fruit.
He touched me, she thought, the realization making her thighs clamp together against the empty ache. He thinks I’m filth, but he touched me.
She stared at the closed door, the image of his broad back burned into her retinas. He was a monster. He was cruel. He belonged to another man.
And God help her, she wanted him to do it again.
*
Mina didn’t go home.
The rejection had been absolute, an eviction from the garden of the elite, but biology was a persistent glitch. She found a service entrance, a heavy steel door propped open with a cinderblock where the catering staff smoked. She slipped inside, a ghost in the machine of the arena.
She navigated the concrete labyrinth of the back hallways, the roar of the HVAC system masking the squelch of her wet shoes. She knew the layout. She’d studied the blueprints of the stadium for an astrophysics project on acoustics last semester. There was a staff restroom near the VIP suites. If she could just wash the mud off, dry her hair under the hand dryer… maybe she could salvage the night. Maybe she could sneak back in just to watch him from the shadows.
Just to see if he looked at her again.
Delusional. She was delusional.
The corridor ahead was dim, the recessed lighting turned low for the gala ambiance. Voices drifted toward her. Low. Angry.
Mina stopped. She pressed herself into a shallow alcove, trying to make her small body disappear.
“I told you to leave it alone, Rook.”
The voice was Mercer’s. It wasn’t the silky, cruel purr he’d used on her. It was sharp, jagged with frustration.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Cap.” The second voice was deeper, rougher. A growl that sounded like gravel in a blender. Rook. The Enforcer.
Mina peeked around the corner.
They were there. Just ten feet away.
Mercer had the kitten—no, the kitten was gone. He must have handed it off to a staffer. Now, his hands were free, and they were shoved against Rook’s chest.
Rook was a mountain. If Mercer was a statue of cold perfection, Rook was a landslide. His hair was messy, dark curls falling into eyes that burned with a chaotic, frenzied energy. His tie was undone, hanging loose around a neck thick enough to withstand a mesmerizing amount of force.
They weren’t kissing. This wasn’t the tender, romantic love the magazines profiled. This was war.
“You’re spiraling,” Mercer hissed, shoving Rook. The force of it would have knocked a normal man down; Rook just rocked back on his heels, a dark grin splitting his face.
“I’m bored, Mercer,” Rook snapped back, stepping into Mercer’s space. He grabbed Mercer’s lapels, bunching the expensive fabric in his fists. “I’m bored of the suits. I’m bored of the talk. I need to hit something.”
“Not here,” Mercer warned. He didn’t pull away. He leaned in, their foreheads almost touching. The aggression coming off them was palpable. It radiated in waves, a raw, unfiltered heat that made the air in the hallway taste like ozone.
“Then take me home,” Rook growled. “Take me home and put me on my knees. Make me shut up.”
Mina’s breath caught. The explicit demand hung in the air, heavy and wet.
Mercer sneered. “I tried that this morning. You didn’t submit. You fought me.”
“Because you’re getting soft,” Rook taunted. He released one of Mercer’s lapels to ghost a hand down the front of Mercer’s trousers. It wasn’t gentle. It was a grope, a challenge. “You can’t handle me anymore.”
Mercer snarled. He grabbed Rook’s wrist, twisting it away with a violence that made Mina wince. He slammed Rook backward.
Rook hit the wall with a dull thud. A picture frame rattled.
“I will break your arm,” Mercer threatened, pinning Rook’s wrist to the wall above his head.
“Do it,” Rook breathed. His head fell back, exposing his throat. He looked wrecked, desperate, high on the conflict. “Fucking do it.”
Mina couldn’t look away. She was witnessing a car crash of testosterone and dominance. They were tearing each other apart because neither could occupy the submissive space. Two alphas fighting for the throne, and the friction was generating enough heat to burn the building down.
She should leave. She was intruding on a private, volatile moment between two men who hated outsiders.
But her feet were lead. Her blood was rushing in her ears, a roaring tide. Watching them… seeing the way Mercer’s suit jacket strained as he held Rook against the wall, seeing the wild hunger in Rook’s eyes… it wired directly into her nervous system.
She let out a breath. A mistake. A tiny, soft exhalation of pure want.
Rook’s head snapped toward her.
His eyes were dark, dilated so wide the irises were barely visible. He spotted her instantly in the shadows.
Mercer followed his gaze.
Mina shrank back, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was caught.
Rook didn’t look angry. He looked… interested. A slow, predatory curiosity dawned on his face. He pushed Mercer’s hand away—Mercer let him go, his own gaze narrowing as he zeroed in on Mina.
“Well, well,” Rook drawled, pushing off the wall. He smoothed his shirt, though the chaotic energy still vibrated off him. “What do we have here? A spy?”
Mina couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed up.
Rook took a step toward her. Then another. He moved differently than Mercer. Mercer was controlled power; Rook was loose, a live wire snapping on the pavement.
“I… I was just…” Mina tried to retreat, but her back hit the rear of the alcove.
Rook loomed over her. He sniffed the air.
“She smells like rain,” Rook said, glancing back at Mercer. “And mud.”
“I told her to leave,” Mercer said coldly. He stayed back, crossing his arms. He looked bored, but his eyes were tracking every micro-movement Mina made. “She doesn’t listen. A bad habit.”
“I like bad habits,” Rook murmured. He leaned down, placing a hand on the wall beside her head. He was huge. Up close, he was overwhelming. A faint scar cut through his eyebrow, and his nose had a bump in the bridge. He smelled like sweat and expensive scotch.
Mina trembled. “I’m sorry. I’m leaving.”
“Are you?” Rook’s voice dropped. He lowered his face until he was nose-to-nose with her. “You watched. You like to watch, little mouse?”
Mina nodded. She couldn’t lie to him. It felt impossible. “Yes.”
The honesty seemed to surprise him. He blinked, then that dark grin returned. “Mercer, she likes to watch.”
“She’s a child, Rook. Leave it,” Mercer said, though he took a step closer. The magnet was pulling him in, too.
“She’s not a child,” Rook whispered. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to the pulse jumping frantically in her throat. “She’s terrified.”
He inhaled deeply, drawing her scent into his lungs.
“God,” Rook groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest. “She smells… sweet. Like sugar and fear.”