Jacob skated off the ice shoulder-to-shoulder with Tane, skates scraping in perfect rhythm. Sweat poured down both their faces. The headache was gone, burned away by adrenaline and that perfect goal.
Tane bumped his glove. “Told you.”
Jacob grinned, raw and buzzing and so in love it ached. “Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “For this morning. For believing in me when I’m a mess. For…everything.”
Tane’s eyes softened behind his visor. He leaned in just enough that only Jacob could hear. “You’re my boy, Jacob. On the ice, off the ice, in hotel rooms at 7 a.m. wearing nothing but those sweet as all hell bear briefs.Always.”
The tunnel swallowed them. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted. But all Jacob felt was Tane’s hand at the small of his back… hidden, steady, possessive.
They were going home up 1-0.
And whatever came next, they would face it together.
* * *
The chartered Gulfstream G650 cut smoothly through the dark sky, its engines a low, constant purr that lulled most of the cabin into silence.
The plane was small enough for privacy, and Jacob wasn’t complaining. Cream leather seats in a 1-1 configuration down the back, fold-out tables between pairs, soft blue mood lighting along the ceiling. No overhead bins crammed with carry-ons, no flight attendants pushing carts.
Just the squad, their staff, and the quiet satisfaction of a road win.
It made a big change from the rare occasions that Jacob flew as a kid. Then it was very much a case of economy class. Jacob appreciated the position he found himself in now. But therewere more benefits to this style of luxury flight, the kind that went beyond freshly prepped food and comfy seats…
In the very last row, Tane and Jacob sat side by side. Tane had claimed the window seat out of habit, though the shade was already drawn against the night. He’d lowered the narrow console between them, spread a thin gray team blanket across both laps, and now pretended to study iPad footage of the game: muted clips looping Jacob’s goal, Alex’s perfect feed, the red light flashing. Tane’s free hand rested on Jacob’s thigh beneath the blanket, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.
The rest of the plane was asleep or close to it.
Connor snored across the aisle, head lolled back, mouth open.
Alex wore noise-canceling headphones, eyes closed, probably lost in one of his Italian opera playlists.
Ricki, two rows ahead, had his Switch screen glowing faintly against his face. He’d already texted Jacob a sleepy thumbs-up about the goal. The coaches were up front, murmuring low, so deep into tactics and future plans that not even a nearby UFO could have distracted them.
Everyone else had hoods up or necks cricked against windows, defeated by adrenaline crash and the three-hour flight home.
But Jacob couldn’t settle.
The win still thrummed under his skin… sharp, electric,alive. His headache from the morning was a distant memory, replaced by the floaty high of stealing one in enemy territory. And Tane was right there with him: warm, solid, smelling faintly of post-game sweat and the cedarwood cologne he always wore on the road.
Jacob shifted closer until their shoulders touched, then let his hand slip under the blanket.
Before he knew it, his fingers found the soft waistband of Tane’s gray sweatpants first. The drawstring was already loose. Jacob dipped beneath the elastic, tracing the sharp cut of Tane’s hipbone, feeling the heat of skin. Tane didn’t react outwardly—just kept his eyes on the screen, jaw tight, the smallest flex in his thigh the only sign he’d noticed.
Jacob went lower.
A smile came over Jacob’s face but he made sure to stay as restrained as he could, outwardly at least…
The back of his knuckles brushed the thick outline of Tane’s cock through his boxer briefs. Tane was already half-hard, probably had been since the locker room when Jacob peeled off his gear and caught that long, hungry stare. Jacob curled his fingers around him… gentle, exploratory, feeling Tane thicken and lengthen almost at once.
Tane’s gaze flicked sideways.
The look was pure captain: brows lowered, mouth a flat line, the kind of stare that usually meant twenty push-ups or a benching threat.
Jacob froze. His hand still wrapped around Tane’s meat, his pulse loud in his ears.
Tane held the stare for a long heartbeat, long enough that Jacob started to withdraw, cheeks heating under the dim light.
Then, very quietly, voice pitched so only Jacob could hear it over the engines:
