Nick’s hands skimmed down my sides, reverent in the way he touched me—like I was fragile and sacred all at once. He kissed the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then lower, each press of his lips unraveling something inside me. There was no rush between us, just this slow, aching build that made every movement feel like a confession. I felt him guiding me, grounding me, and yet every second made me feel like I was floating.
Our bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt instinctive, like we were learning each other in a new language made of sighs and shivers and shared breath. I clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as he rocked into me, deep and unhurried. The friction was enough to draw out little gasps from my throat, pleasure curling through me like smoke—slow and intoxicating. Every roll of his hips was a promise: I see you, I want you, I’ve got you.
As the crescendo built between us, it didn’t crash over like a wave—it bloomed. I held on tighter, burying my face in his neck as my body trembled and arched, falling apart piece by piece in the safest place I’d ever known.
Nick followed soon after, his low groan against my skin laced with awe, with reverence. He held me through it, arms wrapped tightly around my waist, as if he never wanted to let go.
And honestly, I didn’t want him to.
Chapter 16
Nick
I stepped into the locker room, and the scent hit me first—sweat, liniment, ice melt, and that strange mix of adrenaline and tension that clung to every brick in this place. It wrapped around me like a second skin. Familiar. Gritty. Home.
“Look who finally showed up,” Axyl drawled, sprawled across the bench like a damn jungle cat, all muscle and arrogance. He flashed a shit-eating grin. “Lose track of time or just buried too deep in a certain brunette?”
“More like lost in her,” Dominic muttered, holding up a soggy glove with the kind of disdain he usually reserved for opposing goalies. “Someone screwed with my gear, and I swear to God?—”
Axyl cut in, grinning. “Relax, Inferno Daddy. Your gloves always smelled like abandonment issues.”
Dominic’s head snapped up, his glare lethal. “Say that again and I’ll shove this glove down your throat, tape and all.”
Everett, calm as ever in the corner, didn’t even look up from tying his skates. “You two flirting again?” he asked, voice so dry it could’ve caught fire.
“I’ve got fifty bucks that says it ends in a kiss,” Luke chimed in from the far bench, his blade sliding across the sharpener in slow, ominous strokes like he was prepping for a duel instead of a game.
Dominic glared harder. “You volunteering to officiate, Kassian?”
Laughter cracked through the room. I smirked and started pulling on my gear. The noise, the bickering, the cocky trash talk—it was our ritual, the chaos before the storm. But tonight? Something felt different. More alive. More real.
Because she was here.
This wasn’t just game night. It was our night. And I was about to burn the whole damn rink down in her honor.
I caught Rhys’s eye across the room—the guy didn’t speak unless it mattered, but the nod he gave me said everything. He knew. He always knew. What this night meant. What she meant.
Sam was rallying a couple rookies near the board, giving them that steady optimism like he could shoulder the whole game for them if they needed it. Wyatt Hudson, stoic as ever, was hunched over his skates with that dead-eyed focus, dragging the whetstone like he was about to gut someone instead of slice across the ice.
Everyone had their rituals. Everyone had their reason to burn.
“Yo! Nick!” Axyl’s voice cracked through the noise like a warhorn, and I glanced over as he tossed a roll of tape at my chest. “You even listening? Or is your brain still wrapped around your girl’s thighs?”
“Shut it,” I shot back with a smirk, not even bothering to deny it. The grin on my face probably gave me away, anyway.
The jersey slid over my shoulders like armor, its weight grounding me. My heartbeat started syncing with the rhythm of the room—sticks tapping, blades clacking, fists pounding into open palms. The noise. The tension. The pulse of a thousand games stitched into our bones.
Luke stepped forward with the dramatic flair only he could pull off and clapped his hands. “Time to remind them who the hell we are.”
And just like that, the switch flipped. The animal in my chest stirred. It wasn’t just adrenaline—it was instinct. The hunger to move, to hit, to win. All of it sharp as steel and just as unforgiving.
But underneath that—pounding beneath the roar—was her.
Kennedy.
Her smile, her voice, her fingertips on my chest as she whispered you’ve got this. Her wearing my number like it was stitched to her skin. That girl had no idea what she did to me, and if I had it my way, I’d show her—after the game, after the win—with her still in my jersey and nothing else.
As we closed ranks in the middle of the room, fists touching, heads bowed, our voices rose in one howl—loud, defiant, brutal.
