He glanced at his watch, and his eyebrow quirked up. “Looks like we finished with five minutes to spare.”
“Overachiever.”
His limp cock slipped out of me, and Landon shuddered a sigh, his come trickling over my ass and onto the towel. Landon pushed up and helped me to my feet, both of us carefully navigating the precarious shaking in our legs. His eyes never left my face, and they were still burning hot with want. As if he could go ten more rounds.
“I know the feeling,” I said then, pulling on my clothes.
“What feeling would that be?”
I waited for his head to pop out the top of his t-shirt, and stepped into him, my hands flat against his chest. “Always wanting more no matter how many times we do this. No matter how good it is. I can’t get enough of you.”
He chuckled softly, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I guess this makes it three Surge games you’ve missed in your life.”
The realization hit me, and I tensed for a second. I hadn’t thought about the game at all since he’d taken my hand andled me out of the stands. Definitely a first for me and my Surge obsession.
Also…
“Totally worth it,” I said.
And then I kissed him.
26
Landon
The first thing I felt was the cut of the cold through my skates as I stepped onto the ice, the blade bite familiar enough that my body reacted before my head could catch up. Sticks paused mid-tape job along the boards. A puck stopped sliding near the blue line where Tucker had nudged it with his boot. A few heads turned at once.
Grayson squinted from the circle. “You’re back?”
“Not exactly.” My voice echoed more than I expected, thin against the empty seats.
Coach stood near the bench, arms folded, jacket half unzipped, watching the moment stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. He stepped forward before anyone could decide what to do with me standing there in full gear.
“He’s here to help,” Coach said, nodding once in my direction. “Film study, reads on Oilers, support where I need it.”
Tucker pushed his visor up. “Why’s he dressed like that if he’s not playing?”
Coach rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb toward me. “So he’ll stop pestering me.”
That got a few laughs. Hunter tapped his stick twice against the ice. Mason caught my eye and gave a small nod that felt bigger than it should have.
Coach blew the whistle and pointed to the far end. “Enough. Warmup laps. Then we’re into transition work.”
I pushed off with the group, settling into the rhythm without thinking, the scrape of steel and the churn of legs easing something tight behind my ribs. I stayed wide, kept my pace measured, made sure I wasn’t crowding anyone. That alone felt new. I used to take warmups as a chance to make noise, to announce myself. Now I watched spacing, watched how Grayson adjusted his stride when Hunter drifted inside, how Mason checked his shoulder before cutting across center.
Coach called the first drill, a three-man breakout with a pressure read layered in. Defense moved the puck up the wall, center swung low, winger timed the lane through the neutral zone. I stationed myself near the boards with Coach, tracking who rushed the play and who waited half a beat too long.
“Edmonton pinches hard here,” I said to no one in particular when Tucker tried to force the pass and Coach blew the whistle. “They bait that lane.”
Coach glanced at me, then nodded once. “Run it again.”
Second rep looked cleaner. Mason delayed just enough to pull the forechecker toward him before moving the puck. Hunter took it in stride and pushed wide. I caught Grayson’s grin as he glided past.
“That’s it,” I called. “Drag them out of position first.”
It felt strange, using my voice this way, not to demand the puck or call my own play, but to point out something that made the whole thing smoother. No one told me to shut up. No one shot me a look.
Coach shifted into a net-front drill next, heavy traffic, quick releases. I parked near the hash marks and watched hands, watched feet, watched how Edmonton’s goalie tended to drop early when bodies crowded his sightline.
