Walking in, the smell of stale coffee and old leather hits me. Coach closes the door, sealing us in. There's no yelling. No clipboard gets thrown. That would be easier. He just walks around behind his desk and sits down, gesturing to the chair in front of him. "Sit."
I sit. My back stays straight, my eyes forward. No fidgeting. A long time ago, I learned that showing weakness to authority just gives them a roadmap for where to hurt you.
"I saw the lapse," he says, his voice flat. "Adrian saw it. Dante saw it. The whole damn arena saw it."
"It won't happen again."
"It already happened, Gio." He leans forward, his elbows on the desk, pinning me with a stare that sees way too much. "You're missing plays. You're scanning the crowd instead of the zone. You're playing scared."
Fear, cold and jagged, scrapes at my throat. This is the only thing I can control. The game. The ice. The rules are simple here. Skate fast, hit hard, don't fuck up. If they take this away, if they bench me, I'm just a guy with a record and a target on his back.
"I'm handling it," I say, the words tight.
"Are you?" Coach steeples his fingers. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're drowning."
Her name doesn't get said. The blog post doesn't come up. That much is clear. Everyone in this room knows. He's been coaching this level long enough to spot a distraction from a mile away.
"It's the noise. The rumors. The bullshit floating around your head." He taps the tablet screen, where I know the Briarcliff Whisper headline is still glowing. "You're letting the narrative dictate your game. You're so busy looking for the next hit piece that you forgot how to play hockey."
The truth of it lands like a punch to the gut. He's right. Zoë isn't the problem. She's the only thing keeping me sane. The whispers. That feeling of being hunted. The inability to trust that the guy next to me isn't the one leaking my life to the fucking internet.
"I don't care what they're saying about you," he continues, his eyes hard. "And I don't care who you're seeing. But if you let that noise follow you onto my ice, if you let it make you a liability to this team..." He lets the sentence hang, the threat unspoken but deafening. "Fix it," he says, turning his attention back to his tablet. The dismissal is clear. "Or I'll find someone who can play through the static."
I stand up, my legs stiff. I grab my bag and walk out. The hallway feels longer than it did five minutes ago. The silence feels louder. He didn't forbid her. He just told me to shut out the world. And the only way to do that is to lock it down tighter than ever.
The door clicks shut, and the silence of the hallway is replaced by the heavy, stagnant air of my dorm room. It's too small. Too quiet. The hum of the mini-fridge sounds like a jet engine in my skull. I can still hear Coach's voice. Fix it. The words are carved into the bone behind my eyes.
I drop my bag on the floor. It hits the cheap laminate with a dull thud. Zoë is already here, leaning back against my desk, watching me. She doesn't ask how it went or if I'm okay. She just looks at me with those sharp, assessing eyes, taking inventory of the damage.
In two strides, I cross the room. The noise needs to stop. I need to feel something that isn't failure.
"Gio." My name is a warning, but she doesn't move away. I crowd her, backing her into the edge of the desk until her ass hits the wood. I grip the sides of her face, my thumbs pressing into her cheekbones. She smells like vanilla and something sharp, like ozone. It cuts through the smell of my own sweat.
"Tell me to stop," I grind out, my voice scraping against my throat.
She looks up at me, her gaze unwavering. "I'm not going to tell you to stop."
"Zoë."
"I know." She reaches up, wrapping her hand around my wrist where I'm holding her face. Her grip is tight. "Take it."
The permission snaps the last tether on my control. I crush my mouth to hers. It's a collision. Teeth, tongue, desperation. I taste copper, maybe blood, maybe just the metallic taste of my ownexhaustion. She kisses me back just as hard, her nails digging into the skin of my forearm, anchoring me.
I pull back, both of us breathing hard. I push down on her shoulders. "Knees," I say.
Zoë doesn't hesitate. She sinks to the floor, the movement fluid and graceful. She reaches for my belt, her fingers quick and efficient. I let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling. The texture is a blur of white noise. When her mouth wraps around the head of my cock, the static in my brain cuts out. It's instant. A sudden, blinding silence.
She takes me deep, her tongue flattening against the underside. A groan escapes me, my hand flying to her hair, tangling in the strands. There's no guiding her. No need to. Zoë sets a rhythm that is brutal and wet. Her mouth sucks me like she's starving, hollowing her cheeks, taking me until I hit the back of her throat.
"Fuck," I hiss, my hips jerking forward. A slight gag, but she doesn't pull back. She takes it, her eyes watering, her mascara smudging. It's the hottest thing I've ever seen. I look down at her, at the way her lips are stretched around me, flushed red and swollen. The visual is a brand on my retina.
"Touch yourself," I command, my voice rough.
Zoë pulls back just enough to breathe, a string of saliva connecting her mouth to my dick. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact. "You like watching?" she challenges, her voice husky. "I like knowing you're this desperate for it." A smirk curves her lips. Her hand reaches under her skirt, disappearing between her thighs. I hear the wet sound of her fingers sliding through her folds. She lets out a low moan around my cock, the vibration shooting up my spine and straight to my balls.
"Jesus, Zoë." My grip tightens in her hair, holding her in place as I start to fuck her mouth in earnest. I'm not gentle. There's nogentleness. The friction is necessary. The heat too. She's working herself with her fingers, her wrist moving frantically, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps through her nose. The sounds she makes—wet, choking, desperate—are the only things that exist. The room, the team, the rumors—they're gone. There's only her mouth and the desperate need to come.
"I'm going to come down your throat," I warn her.
