He collapsed forward, forehead resting against my thigh, breathing hard and shaking.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice completely destroyed. “Fuck, Grant.”
I ran my fingers through his hair, gentler now. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.” He looked up at me, and despite how wrecked he looked—swollen lips, tear-stained face, come on his chin—there was something satisfied and complete in his expression. “That was... fuck.”
“Yeah.” I cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “You did so well. Took everything I gave you.”
“I'd take anything from you.” His eyes held mine. “Anything you want to give me.”
“That's a dangerous thing to say.”
“I mean it.” He leaned into my touch. “I'm yours. However you want me.”
I pulled him up into my lap, not caring that we were both still half-dressed and covered in evidence of what we'd just done. I just needed him close.
He came willingly, straddling my thighs and pressing his face into my neck, and I wrapped my arms around him.
“Still think we can figure this out when we go back?” he asked quietly after a moment.
I ran my hand up his back, feeling him shiver. “Yeah. I do.”
“Even when we have to pretend this doesn't exist?”
“Even then.” I tilted his chin up so he had to look at me.
He searched my face for a long moment, then kissed me. Slow and deep and tasting like sex and trust and something that felt dangerously close to more than we'd agreed on.
When we broke apart, he smiled—small and genuine and so fucking beautiful it made my chest ache.
“Good.”
Then his phone buzzed on the bed shattering the moment.
He sighed and climbed off my lap, grabbing tissues to clean up the mess. “Team dinner. Rook's probably ready to murder us both.”
“Can't keep the captain waiting.”
CHAPTER 16
HOME ICE
JACE
Aweek back in Canada and Coach had us skating like we were training for the fucking Olympics. It was brutal and relentless. Exactly what we needed.
We had a game to win. A season to salvage. And I couldn't afford to be distracted by the memory of his hands on my skin or the way he'd called me his good boy or the fact that I could still feel the phantom ache of him inside me when I moved wrong.
So I shoved it down. Locked it away. Focused on the only thing that mattered: hockey.
Game day arrived with the weight of expectation pressing down on all of us.
Boston was good. They'd beaten us twice last season, and the media had been running stories all week about whether we could finally get one back.
The pressure was on. Not just on the team. On me specifically.
“Hartley needs to show up tonight,” one of the talking heads had said on the morning sports show. “He's been inconsistent allseason. If the Wolves want to make noise in the playoffs, they need their star winger to be a star.”
