I push the heavy metal door open. It swings silently on well-oiled hinges. The room is dim, lit only by the harsh buzz of fluorescent strips overhead. It’s quiet, the kind of silence that only exists in a space usually filled with shouting and slamming pads.
The smell hits me first—stale sweat, sharp menthol rub, leather, and the metallic tang of the ice.
Gio is sitting on the wooden bench in the center of the room, his back to me. His jersey is gone, tossed in a heap on the floor. He’s shirtless, his skin pale and mapped with bruises—purple blossoms on his ribs, a dark smear on his shoulder. White tape is wrapped around his midsection, a stark contrast to the angry red of a fresh abrasion on his shoulder blade. Hunched forward, elbows on his knees, he stares at the floor like he’s willing his heart rate to slow down. Coach let him out early. The rest of the team is still on the ice, running drills for the Frozen Four, but Gio is here. Alone. A warrior who just survived a siege. Dangerous.
I walk toward him, my boots scuffing softly on the concrete. The sound reaches him. His head snaps up, body tensing instantly, coiling like a spring. When he sees me, the tension sharpens into something predatory.
“Zoë,” he says, his voice rough, scraped raw from shouting plays and breathing hard. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Watch me,” I say.
I step between his knees, forcing him to spread his legs to accommodate me. I reach out and grab his face, my fingers digging into the hard line of his jaw, and kiss him. It’s a collision. I taste the Gatorade on his lips, the salt of his sweat, the copper tang of blood where he bit his tongue. He groans against my mouth, a low, vibrating sound that shoots straight to my pussy, and his hands are on me instantly. He grips my waist, his big hands spanning my ribcage, pulling me flush against him. The heat of him is staggering, a furnace burning through the thin fabric of my shirt. He’s still radiating the violence of the practice, the aggression, the sheer physical force. It makes my head spin.
“You’re playing with fire,” he mutters against my lips, biting down on my bottom lip hard enough to make me gasp.
“I like the burn,” I retort, my hands sliding down his chest, tracing the tape, feeling the heavy thud of his heart under my palm.
Surging up in one fluid, powerful motion, he seals our mouths together again and stands. I gasp as my feet leave the ground. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, his hands gripping the backs of my thighs, hauling me up against his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back.
He walks us forward, pinning me against the cold metal of the lockers. The impact knocks the breath out of me, the metal biting into my shoulder blades, a shocking contrast to the heat of his body pressing me into the surface.
“Someone could walk in,” he growls, his mouth moving to my neck, sucking a bruise into the sensitive skin below my ear.
“Let them,” I say, my head falling back, giving him better access. “Let them see who you belong to.”
Dark laughter vibrates against my throat. “You think you own me, Barnes?”
“I know I do,” I say, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head back so I can look him in the eye. “Now shut up and fuck me.”
Control snaps.
Between us, his hand reaches down, grip bruising as fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings. The fabric gets shoved over my hips, friction rough and desperate as it’s forced to my knees. Release comes just long enough for me to kick them aside, cold air biting at my exposed skin and raising gooseflesh. His own sweatpants are shoved down far enough to free his cock—hard, thick, heavy, the head flushed dark red.
From his pocket, a condom wrapper is torn open with jerky, frantic movements and rolled on with practiced efficiency, his jaw clenched tight.
“Hold on,” he commands.
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. He lines himself up and thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. I cry out, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet room. He slams his hand over my mouth, his palm smelling of salt and leather.
“Quiet,” he hisses, his hips stilling for a fraction of a second. “You want them to come in here? You want the whole team to walk in and see you taking my cock?”
The thought sends a jolt of liquid heat through me. I moan against his hand, my eyes rolling back.
He starts to move. Fast and punishing, the pace turns brutal. He fucks me against the lockers like he’s trying to score a goal,every thrust driving me up the metal, his hips snapping with ruthless precision. The angle is deep, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. The locker room echoes with the wet slap of skin on skin, the harsh rasp of our breathing, the metallic rattle of the lockers shaking under the assault.
Filthy. Desperate. Perfect.
I can feel the tension coiling in my belly, tight and hot. I look at him—at the sweat beading on his forehead, at the way his teeth are gritted, at the pure, unadulterated focus in his eyes. He’s using me to burn off the adrenaline, and I’m using him to ground myself.
Then, I hear it.
A distant door opens. Skate blades scrape against the rubber flooring of the corridor. Voices murmur, low and close. They’re coming. Panic flares, bright and hot, but instead of making me pull away, it makes me clamp down around him. The risk is intoxicating.
“Gio,” I gasp against his hand, my eyes widening.
He hears it too. A falter slips into his rhythm, head whipping toward the door. Leaning closer, his chest presses against mine as he shields me with his body.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, pulling his hand away from my mouth. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
