I sigh and roll my eyes just a little, because here we go again—the favoritism spiral, theyou’re only promoting me because you want in my pantsloop, which is insane considering I’ve already had him in every room I could get my hands on. “It’s because you’re the best center in the league,” I say evenly, stepping closer, bracing both hands on the bench beside his thighs. “And maybe a little because I like you.”
He gapes at me, then whines. “A little???” His voice cracks up. “You said you’d put a ring on my finger, sir. That’s not a little!”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard. Because, well, he’s got a point. And also because he’s squirming now, legs twitching, towel slipping more, pink blooming on his cheeks like a slap to the ego. “That was about you earning it,” I growl low, leaning in.
He goes still.
"You don’t get the ring. You don’t get me—until you win me that Cup, pup. Then you get everything.”
His mouth opens but no sound comes out, and he swallows twice before whispering, “Okay,” not soft or scared, just determined. I watch his fingers fist the edge of the towel as his green eyes lock on mine, lips parted, that same feral, hungry energy he gets before a faceoff starting to rise.
“Okay,” he says again. “I’ll earn it.”
“Damn right you will,” I mutter, finally dragging my gaze down to where his towel’s barely holding on. “But not with that knee.”
“Then I’ll win the Cup on one leg,” he snaps.
I smirk. “Good luck, Mercer. You're gonna need it.” I grab him by the jaw. My thumb presses against the edge of his jawbone, tilting his face up until his lips part. And then I kiss him. Hard. Deep. So full of grit and heat and promise he forgets how to breathe for a second. His hands fly to my shoulders, towel slipping, hips tilting up from the bench like he’s ready to beg if I just press harder.
I don’t. I pull back, chest heaving, watching his eyes flutter open. “Let’s go home,” I say.
He nods fast and when I help him off the bench, when I steady him by the waist and let him lean on me, he doesn’t say another word. Not until we’re back in my car. Not until his hand finds mine between the seats. Not until he whispers, almost like it’s a secret, "I’m gonna win it for you.” His fingers slide into mine like they’ve done it a thousand times. Like he knows I’ll never be the one to let go first.
And I squeeze his hand back.
Because I know he will.
The morning sun leaks through the curtains, casting everything in lazy gold.
I’m curled up on Damian’s couch in his jersey—number twenty-seven hanging off one bare shoulder, the hem brushing halfway down my thighs, and absolutely nothing underneath. Legs stretched, mug of coffee balanced on one knee, hair still wild and damp from the shower he made me take after last night’s reward session.
There’s bruises on my hips from his grip. I keep touching them. Smirking like I didn’t spend twenty minutes on my knees begging for mercy and a ring. They’re proof. Not just that he fucked me stupid. But that I’m earning it. Earning him. Earning the number. The promotion. The ring. Every mark means he saw me. Claimed me. Chose me again.
The TV’s playing back Game 4. I’ve got the footage on loop, my own voice in the background chirping nonstop on the comms while I burn slow with secondhand adrenaline. My goal replayed three times already. Still makes my heart stutter. Still makes me grin.
And the group chat?
Hollywood:
WHO THE FUCK PUT A PICTURE OF DAMIAN’S HAND UP YOUR JERSEY ON TWITTER
Me:
Why are you shouting, old man? Jealous?
Hollywood:
YOU WERE NAKED UNDER THAT
Me:
Technically I was naked under your mom too
Hollywood:
I HOPE HE BENCHES YOU PERMANENTLY
Me:
