#badomensau

Most of the past few days had blurred together in a haze of sleep and half-hearted attempts at watching whatever was on TV. The only thing that really broke up the monotony was texting Noah.

My phone would buzz every so often on the nightstand—his name lighting up the screen. He was riding the high from that first game’s win, fired up in the way only he could be. His messages came through fast, full of energy and adrenaline, like he was still standing under the stadium lights.

Normally I would have matched it, teased him, fanned the flames a little just to see where his excitement would go. But feeling the way I did—tired, hollow, my stomach still turning—I couldn’t quite keep up with him. My replies were softer, slower. I didn’t lean into the energy the way I usually would.

He’d been late to call tonight, but he called. We made small talk about the game and the interviews—nothing out of the ordinary. But on the first day I wasn’t feeling sick, I realized just how much I’d missed him, how much I really needed him. He noticed my behavior immediately.

“Different?” I echoed, shifting against the pillows, suddenly hyper-aware of the quiet in the room.

A pause stretched on the other end of the line. Faint noises drifted behind him—voices, maybe a hallway door closing—but it felt like his attention was locked entirely on me.

“Yeah,” Noah said slowly. “Quieter than usual. Like you’re thinking too hard.”

I let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “Maybe I am.”

“You watching the recap?” My eyes flicked to the screen just as a clip replayed of him breaking past a defender, the crowd surging to its feet.

 “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeated, amused. “You always say that when the answer’s yes.”

I didn’t deny it. Another highlight flashed—him scoring, teammates piling into him. But the camera cut away too quickly, before it could catch the look I knew would have followed.

“I missed it,” I admitted quietly.

“Missed what?”

“Seeing you after.” I hesitated, then added, softer, “You always look… different when you win.”

Silence hummed through the phone for a second. When Noah spoke again, his voice had dropped half a register. “Different how?”

My fingers curled into the loose folds of the sheets, grounding myself in something real. “You know how.”

“Say it.”

“You get this look,” My words coming out slower, letting them linger. 

“What look?”

“Hungry.” The word stretched between us, heavy and deliberate. Noah didn’t answer right away.

“I wish you’d been there.” Something in the way he said it—more raw, more real—sent a shiver down my spine.

“Me too,” I admitted. Another quiet beat passed.

“I miss our after-game ritual,” I said before I could stop myself.

The words slipped out softer than I intended, almost swallowed by the quiet of the room.

On the other end of the phone, Noah went very still.

“…Do you now?” he said slowly.

My eyes stayed on the screen, but the highlights had blurred into the background. I wasn’t really watching anymore—just remembering.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I do.”

He let out a quiet breath. “That’s dangerous to say to me right after a win.”

“It’s not like we ever planned them,” I went on, my voice drifting into memory. “They just… happened.” A small laugh escaped me. “In the most ridiculous places.”

Noah huffed softly. “The equipment room,” he said.

“Once.”

“Twice,” he corrected.

“And the stairwell,” I added.

“That one was your fault.”

“My fault?” I scoffed quietly. “You were the one who dragged me in there.”

“You weren’t complaining.” I smiled despite myself.

I shifted against the pillows, pressing my fingers lightly into the mattress. Even after signing the nondisclosure agreements and sitting through HR and legal interviews, we still hadn’t found the right moment to tell my dad about our relationship; hence all the sneaking around. But now, with the gloves off—pun intended—Noah’s streak was making it harder and harder to stay quiet.

“You get… intense.” Noah gave a low hum of agreement.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That sounds about right.”

“And stubborn,” I added. “Once you get your hands on me after a game like that, you don’t really stop.”

He laughed under his breath. “You say that like you hate it.”

“I don’t,” I said quickly.

Warmth spread through my chest as I went on. “But you get rough sometimes,” I admitted. “Not bad rough. Just… unstoppable.”

My voice softened, the words slowing. “Like you’re still chasing the win.”

Silence stretched on the line.

“When the game’s good,” I added quietly, “I usually end up feeling it the next day.” Noah let out a slow breath through his nose.

“You’re really going to sit there in that room, on the other side of the country,” he said, his voice low, threaded with restrained amusement, “and start reminiscing about that while I’m still running on post-game adrenaline?”

“Well, it’s not like there’s anything that can be done right now,” I said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

A quiet scoff crackled through the phone.

“Who the hell says that?” Noah shot back.

My mouth went dry instantly. No. He couldn’t possibly be thinking—

For a moment I just sat there, staring at the dim lamp on the bedside table.

“What’s that quiet for?” he added after a moment.

 “I’m thinking.” I tried swallowing the big lump in my throat. 

“Dangerous,” he murmured. “Usually that means you’re about to say something that gets me in trouble.”

“Pretty sure you handle that all on your own.”

The chuckle that followed slipped out like a slow exhale—light on the surface, but strained underneath. I wasn’t forcing it exactly… but I was nervous enough that it almost felt like I was.

“Maybe,” he said. “But right now? You’re the one hesitating.”

My fingers tightened around my phone. “I’m not hesitating.”

“No?” There was a pause—intentional. Controlled. “Then why do I feel like I’ve got you on the back foot?”

My breath caught, just slightly.

He noticed.

“Yeah,” he said, softer now, almost satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re very confident all of a sudden.”

“It’s not sudden,” he replied. “You just gave me an opening.”

“A power play?” I teased, trying to regain ground.

He chuckled, low and warm. “Exactly. And I don’t waste those.”

I couldn’t really believe I was even considering it, but I missed him—more than I wanted to admit. Not just his voice, but everything about him. The ease, the pull, the way he made space feel different just by being in it. In a way I hadn’t fully understood until now, I felt starved for him.

“What do I do?” I asked quietly.

On the other end of the line, he didn’t hesitate.

“Well,” Noah said, easy, almost teasing, “first thing would be to stop overthinking it.”

I rolled my eyes immediately, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Really, Noah?”

A quiet laugh rumbled through the phone.

“It’s not exactly easy to do with them on, babe.”

I huffed a soft breath, shaking my head, but the corner of my mouth lifted anyway.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he replied, completely unbothered. “And yet you’re still standing there thinking about it instead of hanging up.”

My fingers toyed with the hem of my shirt, nerves fluttering in my chest.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I muttered.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But right now I’m mostly enjoying the mental picture of you stalling.”

“I’m not stalling.”

“Then prove it.”

The challenge in his voice sent another little rush of heat through me.

I hesitated only a moment longer before tugging the shirt up and over my head, tossing it onto the chair nearby.

“There,” I said, trying to sound unimpressed. “Happy?”

Noah let out a slow breath on the other end of the line.

“Getting there.”

I glanced around the empty hotel room on instinct, even though I knew I was alone. The curtains were drawn, the only light coming from the TV replaying the same winning moment again and again.

“You’re ridiculous,” I muttered, but my fingers had already found the waistband of my shorts.

“Maybe,” he replied easily. “But you didn’t stop.”

I slid the shorts down and stepped out of them, nudging them aside with my foot before sitting back on the edge of the bed. My heart was beating faster now, a mixture of nerves and the strange thrill of being listened to so closely.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“Okay what?” he asked.

“I did it.”

“Did what?” he pressed, clearly enjoying himself.

I groaned softly. “You know what.”

“I might,” he said. “But I want to hear you say it.”

I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile despite the heat creeping up my neck.

“I took them off,” I admitted.

There was a brief pause before Noah let out a slow breath.

“Good,” he murmured.

“So now what?” I asked.

“Now,” he said, “you stop rushing.”

“I’m not rushing.”

“You are,” he replied. “Your voice does this thing when you get nervous.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.” I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Gets a little faster. Little breathier.”

I rolled my eyes again, even though my pulse jumped at how easily he seemed to read me.

“Maybe I’m just cold,” I said.

“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.”

I threw myself onto the bed with a heavy sigh. This was already off to an awkward start.

“Let’s start slow,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Follow my lead.” I heard him shift on the other end of the line. “Your neck—fingers on your neck, light touch.”

I exhaled, doing as he said, letting my fingers trace slowly up and down over the quickening pulse beneath my skin. Goosebumps prickled along my arms, a shiver following in their wake.

“Other hand down your side—slow, follow every curve for me.”

I sucked in a sharp breath as my hand reached my hip, his voice tightening something deep in my chest.

“Now, the hand at your neck—grab harder.”

I did as he asked, my fingers tightening, and suddenly it was easier to pretend it was him—his touch, his presence. My body reacted like he was right there beside me, like I could almost feel the heat of him, the familiar pull that always unraveled me.

My thoughts blurred, senses filling in the gaps—his cologne, the warmth of his breath, the way he always seemed just a step too close. The tension coiled tighter, leaving me restless, wanting more, wanting him, the distance between us suddenly unbearable

“Fuck, you taste so good baby,” It was like he could read my mind—only my mind wasn’t mine anymore, slipping under the weight of his voice. I shouldn’t have been this affected, shouldn’t have been unraveling this quickly. And yet, every word, every pause, every quiet command sent another spark through me. “Those soft, lips, fuck when they’re open…” His voice started to trail, just enough for me to catch the shift in it. I knew what he wanted—and I wanted it too.

“Imagine me sliding to the floor,” I said, taking the lead as I pushed myself upright on the bed. “On my knees… eyes on you.”

I heard his breath hitch on the other end, and something in me sparked at the sound. It felt different, saying it out loud—guiding him instead of just following. A quiet rush of control settled in, heady and unfamiliar.

I could picture him, the tension in his shoulders, the restraint in the way he held himself together. The thought made me bite my lip, a slow smile tugging at the corner of my mouth as the moment stretched between us.

“Fuck,” he groaned “Open for me, please,”

I walked him through every detail, slow and deliberate, my voice a steady rhythm he couldn’t ignore. I could hear him responding in little hitching breaths, and it made my chest tighten knowing I could move him without even being there. I could almost remember the taste of him, the way my senses sparked to life at the thought, my body tingling in memory, uncontainable and electric.

His breath stuttered through the line, and whatever he’d been about to say dissolved into silence. 

“Jesus…” he muttered, voice low and unsteady now.

I bit my lip, suddenly hyperaware of his reaction—of the control I hadn’t even realized I had until now. The thought of his tattooed fingers moving over himself while I guided him through every filthy detail sent a rush through me, a new kind of high.

“Noah… please tell me you’re—” I trailed off, the words unnecessary. It was obvious.

“I am,” he groaned, and my legs trembled at the sound.

“Fuck I want to taste you,”The growl in his voice was possessive, and I sank back into my pillows, suddenly seeing his face in my mind—the way his eyes lifted to meet mine through those lashes I envied. I could hear the ragged rhythm of his breathing, imagine the heat radiating off him after the game, the way he always carried that dangerous edge. My mind painted a perfect picture of how he looked, his mouth slightly open, his hair matted with sweat, that oh-so-dangerous way he’d lick his lips just before…

“Oh god,” I breathed into the room, my back arching slightly at the memory.

“You’re going to need your fingers, baby. Just for now.” He guided me, and my hands followed his directions, sliding down my thighs. It wasn’t exactly where I wanted to be, but he was teasing me, and I loved it. I let my fingers trail with every instruction he gave, following him completely, caught in the rhythm of his voice.

My fingers tracing up my inner thigh had my breath coming in short gasps, half need, half frustration.

“That’s it… just a little higher,” Noah’s voice soothed me over the line.

I reached the midpoint, and without needing any further instruction, I began to move in slow, deliberate circles. Barely touching at first, then reversing as he guided me, pressing just a little more, then easing back—pulling almost completely away before letting the pressure build again. I followed his directions to the letter, caught in the rhythm he set, every shift of his voice sending sparks through me.

I was lost in the feeling, my head falling back as the phone slipped from my ear, nearly hitting the floor. I grabbed it, flipped on the speaker, and rested it against my chest, letting his voice guide me again as the pressure continued building.

“That’s it… just like that,” he murmured, low and steady. “Keep following me. Don’t rush.”

“I’m trying,” I breathed, my fingers moving exactly as he said, caught in the rhythm of his instructions.

“Good… yes, just like that. Don’t stop now,” he encouraged, each word tugging me further into the heat of the moment.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Focus on me, on my voice.”

I did, letting the sound of him fill my head, guiding my hands as I moved exactly where he told me. Each pause he left, each small adjustment, sent shivers rippling through me.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, almost a growl now. “Don’t stop… don’t even think about stopping.”

I shivered at the tone, my chest tightening, my breath catching with every word. “I… I’m trying to keep up,” I admitted, voice shaky.

“Just like that,” he said, approvingly, each syllable dragging out, slow and deliberate. “Feel it. Let yourself feel it. Don’t hold back on me.”

I could hear the strain in his voice now, the subtle hitching breaths that made my heart pound. Every instruction, every pause, every soft murmur of encouragement had me unraveling, completely focused on him.

“Good… yes,” he said, voice roughening. “That’s it… exactly like that.”

I leaned back further into the pillows, my mind was dizzy, lost in the heat of his voice, the rhythm he set, the way he seemed to reach across the miles and pull every shiver from me.

Every word, every pause, every subtle change in his tone pulled me deeper into the moment, closer than I thought possible without him being here.

“Don’t think. Just follow,” he said, voice low, steady, like a tether pulling me along. “Let it take over.”

I shivered, breath coming faster now, caught entirely in the rhythm he set. “I… I can’t believe how good this feels,” I admitted, my voice shaky, almost a whisper.

“That’s exactly it,” he murmured. “Feel it. Every bit. Let yourself go.”

I closed my eyes completely, letting the memory of him flood me—his heat, his wild energy after the game, the dangerous tilt of his lips, the fire in his eyes—and paired it with the sound of his voice guiding me. Everything came to a head, my legs trembling as I called out his name, my voice barely more than a whisper and yet somehow carrying all the tension, longing, and release I felt.

“Such a good girl,” he cooed, his tone low and possessive, making it clear we weren’t done yet. What else could there possibly be?

“Baby, you’re going to need a little more. Get in your drawer,” he commanded.

My eyes flicked to the drawer by the bed where I kept the toys. They weren’t really useful—I’d only ever used them once or twice—but they had been free at some party years ago, so I thought, why not? I pulled out the lifesize piece, staring at it like it belonged to someone else, strange and new all over again.

I held it in my hands, turning it over like it was some foreign object, my chest tightening at the memory of his voice guiding me.

“Yeah… that’s it,” he murmured, low and deliberate. “Now… just hold it, let your hands do what I tell you. Follow me.”

I swallowed, my fingers trembling slightly as I obeyed. Even though it had been sitting in my drawer for years, in that moment it felt electric, like it had been waiting for him to notice.

I didn’t need instructions on where to put it—it was just a matter of figuring out how to maneuver it without feeling awkward.

“Right there,” he said, his voice low and steady.

I gasped, the memory of the familiar stretch sending a shiver through me.

“Just like that,” he murmured,

“Good… exactly,” he praised, voice rougher now, almost a growl. “Don’t overthink it. Just follow me. Keep going.”

I did, letting his words set the pace, letting my imagination fill in the spaces, feeling every tiny pull of control he had over me. My breath came faster, catching at the rhythm we’d built together over the line, each pause and instruction sending another shiver through me.

“That’s perfect,” he said, voice low and strained. “I love the way you follow me. Don’t stop… not yet.”

I bit my lip, a small laugh escaping me despite the tension. “You really know how to make me obey,” I admitted, chest tightening, heat pooling in a way I couldn’t name.

“Damn right,” he whispered, almost ragged now. “And I’m not letting you forget it.”

Even from miles away, with only his voice to guide me, I felt him—his presence, his control, the teasing edge that always made my pulse spike. My fingers moved on instinct, my body responding to the memory and the rhythm, and for a moment, the distance between us didn’t exist at all.

His voice dropped lower, rough and urgent, threading through the line like electricity. “That’s it… don’t stop now. Focus on me, on my voice.”

I shivered, leaning back into the pillows, my breath coming faster, heart hammering. Every word he said seemed to skip straight to my chest, pulling at something I couldn’t control. “I… I’m trying,” I whispered, voice trembling.

“Good,” he growled, low and sharp. “Feel it—own it. Don’t hold anything back for me.”

My hands moved automatically, but it wasn’t just the motions—it was the anticipation, the mental push-and-pull between us, the way he guided me and yet left enough unsaid to make my mind race. Every pause, every gentle command, stretched the tension higher and higher.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he admitted, voice tight, strained. “God… I wish I could be there right now.”

“I know,” I breathed, chest tightening, legs trembling, caught in the rhythm of him even from miles away. “Me too…”

“Just… let go,” he said, slower now, deliberate. “Trust me. Trust yourself.”

I closed my eyes completely, gripping the sheets, heart pounding, every nerve alive. His voice wrapped around me like a tether, guiding me, teasing me, pulling me closer to the edge even without him being here. The intensity built, so sharp it felt like it could tear me apart, and still it wasn’t over.

“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop,” he murmured, every word shaking with control and desire.

I gasped, shivering through every fiber of my body, lost entirely to the heat of him, the rhythm he set, the distance that somehow made everything feel impossibly close.

And then, finally, the tension broke with the force of every nerve, every thought, every ounce of want snapping into release, leaving me shaking, breathless, and entirely spent, still wrapped in the echo of him. 

I thought he might’ve dropped the phone, his groan fading into silence. The realization made me bite back a small laugh, a quiet giggle slipping out despite myself.

There was a moment of heavy breathing, a pause that stretched just long enough to make me wonder, followed by the faint sound of movement. Then more rustling until finally, he came back on the line.

“You still there?” he asked, his voice a little breathless—like he was trying way too hard to sound normal.

I pressed my lips together, failing to hide a smile. “Wow. That’s how you answer the phone now?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “I had to… regroup.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

Noah's POV

Her breathing is still on the line. Soft. Uneven at first, then slower. We’ve been like this for a while, just sitting in silence. I stay still, phone pressed to my ear, staring at nothing in the hotel room.

“You still there?” I ask quietly.

Only her breathing answers me.

I let out a slow breath through my nose. She’s not gone. Just… drifting. Like she’s close to sleep and doesn’t even realize it yet.

“Hey,” I murmur, softer now. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

There’s the faintest shift on the line—so small I almost think I imagined it. But her breathing changes just slightly, like she heard me even if she’s too tired to respond.

That pulls something warm and uneasy through my chest at the same time.

I lean back against the wall, thumb tracing the edge of my phone. The tension from earlier is still there, but it’s dulled now, softened into something quieter. Something I don’t have a name for.

Like we’ve crossed into a different part of the night without meaning to.

And then—

A knock hits my hotel room door.

“Noah,” a voice calls. “You in there?”

I straighten a little. “Yeah?” I answer, still not moving the phone away. I’m trying desperately to get my sweatpants fully on, hopping slightly as I fight with the fabric like it’s personally offended me.

“Coach wants to see you.”

I pause mid-step, nearly tripping over my own foot. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

I’m already reaching for a shirt, shrugging it halfway on while I walk toward the door so I don’t have to yell across the room and wake her on the phone.

“What about?” I ask, lowering my voice as I get closer.

There’s a beat of silence on the other side, like the guy delivering the message suddenly realizes he’s about to drop something he shouldn’t be involved in.

“Something about whatever is going on between you and his daughter.”

The words hit clean.

I stop moving.

For a second, I actually forget I’m mid-shirt, one arm stuck awkwardly in the sleeve like an idiot.

“…What?” I say again, quieter this time.

And on the other end of the call, she’s still there.

Breathing softly.

Half-asleep.

I bite the inside of my cheek, blinking down at the numbers. Salary: higher. Benefits: better. Schedule: flexible. Distance from everything I know and love? Significant.

My eyes drift toward the window, where the curtains hide the skyline I’ve seen through hotel glass for the past four years. Always different cities, always the same feeling—temporary. Transient. Like my entire life has been built in layovers and away games.

And maybe that’s what this is. A way out. A fresh start.

But then why does my chest feel so heavy?

I fold the contract closed and set it beside me on the bed like it’s suddenly made of lead. My hands stay on my lap, clenched, as if they know I’m teetering on the edge of something I won’t be able to undo.

Dad took me to dinner tonight.

He made reservations at that steakhouse near the arena—the one with the stiff white napkins and the framed jerseys on the walls. He didn’t say anything at first. Just asked how I was doing, how the training staff was holding up. Casual. Familiar. Safe.

But then, over coffee, he brought up the Boston offer.

"You gonna take it?" he asked, his voice neutral. Too neutral.

I’d stirred the cream in my cup like it held the answer.

"I don’t know," I told him. "It’s a good opportunity."

He nodded. Didn’t push. That’s how he is—quiet, proud, unreadable. But I saw the shift in his eyes. The flicker of something that looked a lot like loss.

"You’re good at what you do, sweetheart. You’d be a loss for us—but I’d get it."

I’d looked at him then, really looked at him. This man who’s been my biggest supporter, my harshest critic, and now... my barrier. The one thing Noah’s afraid to face.

I didn’t tell him about Noah, of course. That wasn’t the moment. It never seems to be the moment.

But maybe that’s part of the problem. Everything with Noah has been postponed, suspended between hope and hesitation. I love him. I haven’t said it out loud, but I do. It’s terrifying how much.

But love doesn’t always fix things. Sometimes it just complicates them.

I glance at the contract again. One signature and I could be gone by the end of the month. New city. New team. No more tiptoeing around locker rooms or holding my breath every time someone asks if I’m seeing anyone. I could finally be... free.

So why does the idea make me feel like I’m abandoning something precious?

Or someone.

Noah’s face flashes in my mind—I press the heels of my palms to my eyes. They burn. From exhaustion, from indecision, from the ache of wanting too many things at once.

I want to be good at my job. I want to make my own name, not just be "the coach’s daughter." I want to be proud of the life I’ve built.

But I also want to walk into a room and not have to pretend I don’t love the man across it.

A knock on the door takes me out of my thoughts. I know I should have checked the time, maybe checked the door before opening it, who knows if it was a murderer on the other end. But when I see Noah’s face I only slowly step aside and let him in. 

The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

Noah drops his bag by the wall, glancing around like he's expecting someone else to be here. Maybe he thought this was just another post-game visit. Another night where we pretend the world outside these walls doesn’t exist.

But I don’t turn to face him.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

I nod once. My arms tighten around myself. “We need to talk.”

He’s leaning on the door, shoulders slumped. He sighs, already bracing for something he won’t like. “I know.”

“I want to be exclusive.”

“I got a job offer.”

We both speak simultaneously. The words collide in the space between us like a slap.

Our eyes lock. Confused. Wide. Vulnerable. We both shout, “What?!”

He blinks first, stepping further into the room.“From who?”

“Boston,” I say. “Medical team. They want to fly me out next week.”

The silence is immediate, tense. I hear the shift in his breathing more than anything.

He scoffs softly, like he doesn’t believe me—or doesn’t want to. “What, you’re just gonna leave? Just like that?”

I finally turn to face him, arms dropping to my sides. “And what about you?! Now all of a sudden you want to be exclusive. A bit late isn’t it.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s reality,” I snap. “I can’t keep doing this—sneaking into your room after games, pretending we’re just nurse and player in public. Hiding every time someone knocks.”

“You think I want that?” he fires back, stepping toward me. “You think this is fun for me? Pretending you don’t mean anything when you’re all I think about?”

“Then why haven’t you done something about it?” I shout, frustration breaking through. “Why won’t you talk to my dad? Why are we still pretending this isn’t real?”

“Because the second he finds out, I’m off this team!” he says, voice sharp. “And you—you—you’re the one who said we had to keep it quiet.”

“I said that months ago,” I fire back. “Before I realized I was falling for someone who only wants me when it’s convenient.”

His face contorts, hurt flashing across his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” I ask, voice dropping. “I’ve bent over backward to protect you, to protect us, and for what? So I can lie awake every night wondering if I’m just a temporary distraction before you move on to someone easier?”

He closes the distance between us in three hard steps.

“You really think I don’t care?” he growls, voice low. “You think this is easy for me? Watching you walk through the locker room like you’re not mine? Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to tell the guys? To tell your dad? To pull you into my lap and kiss the hell out of you in front of everyone?”

I don’t realize I’m crying until he’s close enough to see the tears. I shake my head, voice trembling. “Then why don’t you?”

His hands come up like he’s going to reach for me—then drop back down.

“Because I didn’t want to cost you everything,” he says, voice ragged. “Because if your dad cut you off, or you got pulled from the team because of me... I couldn’t live with that.”

Noah stares at me like he’s just seeing me for the first time. Then something in him snaps.

He grabs my waist, drags me into him, and kisses me like a man who’s drowning. Like he’s been dying to. Like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

I melt against him before I can talk myself out of it.

The kiss is rough—angry and messy and full of all the words we’ve swallowed for weeks. His hands thread into my hair; mine grip the hem of his shirt, yanking him closer. There’s no pretense now. No restraint.

When we finally break apart, breathless and trembling, his forehead rests against mine.

“I don’t care anymore,” he murmurs. “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell everyone.”

I don’t say anything right away. I just let my fingers curl into his shirt and try to believe that this—we—might finally be real.

His breath is still unsteady against my cheek, the warmth of it ghosting over my lips like he’s debating kissing me again. Maybe I’m hoping he will. Maybe I’m terrified he will.

“Noah…” My voice barely works. It’s ruined from kissing him, from wanting him for too long.

He lifts his head, eyes searching mine like he’s trying to read every thought I’m too afraid to say out loud. The fierce determination in his expression hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s sharpened.

“I mean it,” he says, softer now but no less intense. “I’m done hiding. If your father wants to bench me, cut me, throw me out on the street—fine.” His fingers brush my cheek, slow and reverent in a way that makes my chest ache. “I’m not losing you again.”

My heart stutters, painfully hopeful. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he insists. “You matter more to me than my career. Than hockey. Than whatever lines we were pretending we weren’t crossing.”

I want to believe him, to fall into this moment like it’s safe—but the consequences press against my ribs like a warning. My father’s voice, his expectations, his rules… all of it tangles with the memory of Noah’s lips on mine.

“If he finds out,” I whisper, “he’ll feel betrayed. By both of us.”

Noah steps even closer, his forehead brushing mine again, grounding me. “He’ll be furious.” A small, crooked smile ghosted across his mouth. “Coach already hates me most days.”

I huff out a shaky laugh despite myself. “That’s not helping.”

“Then let me try this.”

His hands drop to my waist, not pulling me in—just resting there, warm and sure, giving me every chance to step back. I don’t.

“We’ve been dancing around this for months,” he murmurs. “You and me… it was never going to stay quiet. Not when it feels like this.”

My pulse tumbles. “What if we’re making a mistake?”

“Then it’s mine to make with you.” His thumb sweeps over my hip, slow enough to make my breath catch. “But I don’t think it is.”

The silence that follows is heavy and trembling and full of every unsaid thing we’ve carried alone.

Finally, I let myself lean into him—just a little. Just enough.

“Okay,” I breathe.

It’s not a promise. It’s not a plan.

The defenseman's face is flushed, his stringy hair matted with sweat that was rapidly freezing in the frigid air. Shoving with the full force of my palms, I refused to be intimidated by the size difference, adrenaline coursing through my veins I shoved again. His papa make contact with my chest sending me backwards and I'm forced to brace myself to keep from toppling over,  refusing to back down.

Rage coursed through my veins as I skated furiously towards the other player, my voice erupting in a guttural yell. "You wanna fucking put hands on me, bitch?!" 

I had seen him deliberately slap the puck directly at my face as I was guarding the goal, and the sheer maliciousness of the action had ignited a fire within me. That blatant cheap shot was clearly no accident - he was looking for a fight, and I was more than willing to oblige. In that moment, all I could think about was retaliating, of taking my stick and using it to break his face open. The opportunity presented itself when he checked me hard into the boards, causing me to lose my grip on my stick. 

Now my hands grasp at fistfuls of his jersey as I yank him down to face level. My balled fist then comes into forceful contact with his cheek as he turns his head. 

I continue to throw punches until he reaches up, his hand making contact on my skull just behind my ear.  The impact sends  ringing in my ears and makes me slightly dizzy. But I refused to let up, my grip on his jersey tightening as we both tumbled down to the ice in a tangled mess of limbs, each of us desperately trying to land more blows on the other.

Bodies are swarming all around me and a pair of arms roughly pulling me back from my intended target. The impact of the strike on my left cheek burns with a sharp, stinging sensation, and I can taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Just moments ago, the only sound I could hear was the thunderous rush of blood pounding in my ears, but now the air is filled with the frantic screaming of the crowd and the shouts of the referees, who are desperately trying to restore order by calling out penalty times and names, urging everyone to settle down.

My opponent is in no better shape, sporting a nasty gash across the bridge of his nose, his teeth stained crimson with his own blood. One of his eyes is already beginning to swell shut from the impact of the blows. I can feel the throbbing ache in my own head and neck, the burning in my cheek now mingling with a strange, numb sensation as the adrenaline begins to wear off.

The refs roughly shove me onto the hard bench, treating me like a wayward child being sent to the corner. Indignation flares within, a desperate urge to lash out by untying my skates and hurling them at the cold, unyielding plexiglass walls. But in the end, all I can muster is a resigned lean forward, elbows propped on my knees as I stew in the searing frustration of my captivity.

Leo McGuire and his clean cut boy look steps into the box, a medical bag slung over his shoulder.  Last week, he had been a constant chatterbox, his nervous prattle grating on my nerves, but now that he has grown accustomed to this routine, his demeanor has shifted. No longer does he sound like an idiot fumbling through his words - instead, his tone is calm and measured as he approaches me, attempting to get a closer look. 

"Alright, Sebastian, let me have a look." But I refuse to submit, wriggling out of his grasp, unwilling to relinquish even the smallest shred of control. The walls feel like they are closing in, the air thick with tension as I steel myself against the indignity of my situation, desperate to maintain what little autonomy I have left.

I can feel the intense longing and determination coursing through me as I utter those three simple words to him - "I want her." 

I know she has engineered this entire situation, this calculated plan to have him take over my care during the games rather than her directly handing me off to various partners. The reasoning is obvious - to avoid raising suspicion about the true nature of our arrangement. But at this moment, I couldn't care less about the intricate web she has woven. All that matters is getting what I want, reclaiming my fox and taking her for myself, right here and now.

He shrugs, unwilling to argue or stand in my way. I watch as he waves her over. She rolls her eyes, a familiar gesture that only heightens my craving, as her ponytail swings rhythmically back and forth with each step she takes towards us. As she steps into the small box she and McGuirre exchanging hushed whispers as he gathers his belongings and departs, leaving the medical supplies behind. Without hesitation, she kneels down and begins rummaging through the box, retrieving gauze, tape, saline, and antibacterial gel. My gaze is transfixed, drinking in every detail of her movements, her expression. Do I really look that bad? No matter - her attention is all that matters.

She begins to gently clean the cut on my left cheek, standing off to the side, carefully positioned so as not to obstruct my view of the ongoing hockey game. It's a considerate gesture, but it's a little late for that - my focus has already been shattered by the intensity of her presence. I glance up at her, and I can't help but notice the lines forming between her furrowed brows as she knits them together in concentration. Her cheek is slightly sucked in as she chews on it, a telltale sign of her focus, as she dabs carefully at the wound on my face. 

Suddenly, she lets out a soft sigh, and I sense a shift in her demeanor. "We can't do this," she murmurs in a low voice, her lips barely moving. "I can't treat you and be sleeping with you. It's unethical." 

I can't help but feel a twinge of frustration at her words. "So you send the newbie to tend to me then. I knew it," I retort, my words harsher than I intended them to be, my blood still boiling from the intensity of the game. 

She responds matter-of-factly, "It's not like I needed to discuss it with you." I can't help but feel a sense of indignation creep in.

 "Didn't have the decency to tell me to my face," I fire back. 

"I didn't think it mattered," she says, her tone even. 

I pause for a moment, letting her words sink in. 

"You're right. It doesn't. This," I say, gesturing to the game unfolding on the ice, "this matters. The cup matters. And I'll be damned if some woman is gonna get in my way and mess me up." As I stand up on my skates, towering over her, I can see the glassy, trembling look in her eyes - and my own chest feels like its been cracked in half. I let out a heavy sigh and slump back down onto the bench, muttering an apology that I'm not even sure she hears over the din of the crowd.

However, the others - Jack and Leo- had clearly picked up on the tension. Immediately heading over and stepping into the box with us.

With a protective edge to his voice, Jack gently asked, "You good, Sarah?" 

Sarah's response was clipped, her tone betraying the strain of the situation. "Fine," she said tersely, before continuing, "Listen, could you take over for me? I think Sebastian just needs to cool down, and obviously I am not making that any easier right now." The way she emphasized my last name, almost spitting it out, struck a chord within me, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as she gathered her belongings and pushed past Jack and Leo, putting as much distance between herself and me as possible. 

As I slap my hands against my face, ignoring the sting of pain, I feel the tangled mess of my hair slip through my fingers. It wasn't her fault, none of this was - I was the one who had been so foolish, so reckless in my actions. Yelling at her, when all I really wanted to do was run after her and beg for her forgiveness. I had been so stupid to think this could ever be just a casual thing, a fleeting moment between us. Not after today, not after what had happened. 

I could have played it safe, stayed cool and detached, never letting myself think about her during the game. It wasn't the puck to the face that had gotten to me - I could handle that kind of physical pain any day. No, it was what had happened before the game, when the players were circling the ice during warm-ups. I'd been on the bench, retightening my skates, when I saw him skate by, whistling and leering in her direction as she inventoried her equipment. 

At that moment, I saw red. She was mine, and no one was going to disrespect her like that, not on my watch. The puck to the face had been my opportunity, my open door to beat the living daylights out of him. All because I had been foolish enough to let my heart get involved, to catch feelings for someone I could never truly have. Now I was left to face the consequences of my actions, my emotions having gotten the better of me in the heat of the moment. I had to find a way to make this right, to apologize and beg for her forgiveness, even if I knew in my heart that I could never truly be with her.

After the game, I couldn't even speak let alone look at my teammates. The throbbing in my head and ache in all of my muscles is a familiar feeling, a badge of honor for the sacrifices I made on the ice. As I stand under the warm spray of the shower, I watch the dried blood from the cut on my cheek and one above my eye mix with the water and swirl down the drain, disappearing into the checkered tile below.

Dressed and barely getting my gear bag over my shoulder, a voice calls out my name - a voice I was dreading to hear.

 "Sebastian. My office."

 It's Veronica Campbell, the team's tough-as-nails PR director. With her no-nonsense attitude and impeccable business attire, Veronica commands respect from the six-foot-tall athletes she works with, even though she stands nearly a foot shorter than us. Her petite frame is always adorned in sleek black or gray pantsuits, her feet shoved into practical flats rather than the towering heels one might expect. 

Letting out a heavy sigh, I trudged through the familiar locker room, feeling the weight of my teammates' eyes following me as I made my way towards Veronica's office. 

As I clicked the door shut behind me, I braced myself for the impending confrontation, my mind racing with possibilities. Veronica's commanding voice cut through the silence, instructing me to take a seat across from her. I reluctantly complied, rolling my eyes in a futile attempt to mask my growing anxiety. 

"If this is about the fight, it's hockey - people fight. So what is it? I'm suspended, pending investigation. He's filing charges? What?" I demanded, the words tumbling out in a frantic jumble. Rummaging through the papers on her desk, Veronica produced two small packets, each with a neon green tab marked "sign here" at the back.

 "The first is a non-disclosure agreement. I need you and Ms Brody to sign. The second is a treatment plan where Ms Brody will no longer be your nurse on call for any future games, and you will be tended to by Leo McGuire instead." My stomach dropped as her words sank in. 

“I-but wait- what?” I stammer out and I see her shoulders slump. Her hazel eyes are heavy, probably from stress and exhaustion. 

“ Look, I don't want the details of you and Ms Brody's relationship. I really don't need it. I just need you to sign the non-disclosure agreement and the treatment agreement. If you guys are going to continue with whatever it is, you're doing.” 

Veronica sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowed as I contemplated the stack of papers before me. 

"Did she bring this up to you?" I pressed.

Veronica paused, considering her words carefully. With a cool, measured tone, she replied, "How the information was presented to me is my business and my business alone." There was an underlying firmness to her voice that brooked no further questions.

In that moment, my mind seemed to completely shut off, operating on pure autopilot as my hand instinctively reached for the pen, signing my name on the dotted line before I even had a chance to process what I was doing. The typed words on the page blurred together, their contents a mystery as I hurriedly scrawled my signature. 

“Can I take these with me?” I ask.

“If she consents I need them by Thursday. You have a game and I need everything filed before then.” I barely registered her response, my body moving mechanically to gather up the papers, trying desperately not to crease or damage them in my haste. The legs of the chair nearly tripped me up as I clumsily made my way out of the office.

“But Sebastian,” her voice stops me in my tracks as I turn slowly to look at her. “It's my job to file the paperwork. It's your job to tell the coach.”

Sarah's POV

My heart is pounding in my ears as I'm pressed up against the wall, desperately trying to swipe my keycard while his mouth devours my neck. He bites a sensitive piece of my skin and I almost drop the keycard, barely saving it between my fingers. His hips grind into me, my dress riding up as I start to slip out of my heels. Every nerve in my body is electrified, desire coursing through my veins. I can't get the door open fast enough. The door's lock finally clicks open and the buzz of freedom rings in my ears. Unable to contain myself, I push down on the handle with eager force, spilling us into the room in a heated tangle of limbs. We stumble into the hotel room in a frenzy, his hands already roaming my body as he kicks the door closed behind us. Our lips crash together in a fiery kiss that steals my breath away. I tear at his shirt buttons impatiently while his fingers explore my thighs, inching my dress higher. 

Everything tingles as he touches me, heat pooling low in my belly. I break the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt off and run my hands over his toned chest before claiming his lips once more. He presses me back against the wall, his hard body flush against mine. I wrap my legs around his waist, moaning softly as I feel his cock press into me. His hands grip my hips roughly as he grinds against me. Arching into him, nails raking down his back. Every cell in my body is screaming for him. I've never wanted someone so badly.

My purse and keys tumble to the floor, barely hearing them land over the pounding of my heart. My arms wrap tight around his strong shoulders and he bends down, gripping my thighs to hoist me up. I cling to him desperately, legs locked around his waist, as he carries me effortlessly like a koala toward the bed. His confident stride and the warmth of his body pressed against mine makes my head spin with desire. I run my hands through his thick hair and lean in to kiss his neck as he lowers me onto the soft mattress. 

My fingers are mesmerized as they trail the intricate black ink etched into his tanned skin, following the curves and lines of the elaborate tattoos that covered his muscular body. Starting at his broad shoulders, the dark designs swirling down his strong back and wrapping around to his chiseled chest before extending up his thick neck. He was absolutely covered in mesmerizing artwork, and I was enthralled, my eyes hungrily taking in every detail.

"Like what you see, little fox?" he teased, his deep voice rumbling with amusement as he noticed my captivation. I glanced up to meet his intense gaze, my eyes locking with his.

"Little fox?" I questioned in confusion, trying unsuccessfully to tilt my head as I pondered this new nickname. But with my long hair pinned underneath me, I couldn't quite achieve the right angle. Noticing my struggle, he gently pulled a lock of my ombre hair free, holding the red-to-white balayage strands out in front of me.

"Little fox," he murmured again, a smile playing on his lips as he twirled the platinum-tipped lock between his fingers. "My little fox." the words quietly ghosting over my cheek.

"This is so wrong," I whisper breathlessly as he leans in, his face mere inches from mine. My heart pounds rapidly in my chest as his strong hands grasp my thigh, hoisting my leg around his waist. I feel the fabric of his slacks scrape against my bare skin as he kneels onto the bed, positioning himself between my trembling legs. His cock presses insistently against my entrance, hungry and wanting, ready to claim me. I know I should stop this, but my traitorous body arches into him, aching for more of his touch.

 His lips brush mine in a feather-light caress, sending tingles of electricity along my spine. "Then tell me what you like, let me make it right," he murmurs, his husky voice dripping with desire. 

His face dips low, his mouth hot next to my right ear, “Do you like to be fucked first?”  I can feel his warm breath on my skin as he whispers sensually in my ear, his lips brushing against me. Kissing my cheek he moves over to my left, “Or do you like to be eaten first?” his tongue flicking at my earlobe. I'm torn, both sound incredible. As his tongue dances along my earlobe, I let out a soft moan, the sensation sending shivers down my spine.

As his fingers trail down my stomach, I gasp, arching into him. He chuckles low in his throat, clearly enjoying teasing me. I want him, all of him. 

"I-I-I want it all," I pant feeling his lips kiss down the side of my neck, his teeth just barely grazing my skin. His hands are sliding my dress up my hips, bunching the fabric under my breasts, a chill hitting the damp spot of my lace panties. His touch electric, palms gliding over my body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I arched into him, desperate for more. He was like a man possessed, hands roaming greedily, stroking and caressing every inch he could reach. His hungry lips trailed fire across my skin as he explored me with an urgent passion, his warm palms spreading heat everywhere they touched. I was lost in sensation, drowning in the feel of his hands and mouth worshiping my body. My nerves were alive, hypersensitive to his electrifying caresses. I wanted all of him, needed him to quench the aching desire he had sparked deep inside me. 

"Dealers choice then," his words are breathy and tickle the top of my breasts as he trails down to the exposed part of my chest, my hands instinctively grabbing at the sides of his face holding him firmly as he starts to move his lips down my sternum.

The red dress I was wearing is suddenly gone, his mouth dropping open immediately closing over my right breast. I gasp as he takes my tight pink nipple into his warm mouth, sucking it hard enough to make my knees weak. My chest heaves up and down as his growls vibrate through my sensitive skin. My sigh of pure pleasure made him moan into my tender flesh. Finding his rhythm, he released my aching breast and moved lower, reaching my lace panties. He wasted no time pulling them down my legs with eager hands.

“So wet,” his voice rumbled, “I’m gonna fucking wreck you.'' The possession and determination in his words has me whimpering, grabbing the pure white comforter in anticipation. Stepping off the bed, he grabs my ankles and pulls me to the very edge, throwing my knees over his broad shoulders as his handsome face drops between my trembling thighs. Using his thumbs, he gently spread my lips open before slowly licking up my slick, sensitive folds. My body lurched up in response to his expert touch, and he smiled in satisfaction against me as he languidly lapped at my aching heat.

I’m trembling uncontrollably as Noah's tongue flicked and swirled expertly between my thighs, sending intense waves of pleasure radiating through my core. I couldn't hold back the breathy, desperate moans escaping my parted lips, urging him to keep going, to push me over the edge. My fingers tangled almost painfully in his dark, silky hair, pulling him impossibly closer as I shamelessly grind my hips against his mouth. He grips my thighs firmly, spreading my legs wider, devouring me hungrily like a man starved.

"Noah," I moan wantonly, feeling that sweet, torturous release building within me. "Right there, please don't stop!" I was begging, I don’t ever beg, every inch of my skin burning with need. His low, primal growl sends delicious vibrations straight through my aching center, ramping up the mind-numbing pleasure. When his pace quickened, flicking relentlessly with his talented tongue, I lost all semblance of control, crying out his name in ecstasy as I came undone around him.

My thighs clamp around his head in a futile attempt to stall his tongue, but he is determined to push me over the edge once more. My entire body trembles uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the feelings coursing through me. "Please..." I beg, barely able to form the words, "I need you inside me now."

Noah stands up slowly, his intense gaze never leaving mine. I see his chin glistening in the low fluorescent lights, his tongue darting out to lick around his lips; the whole sight made my thighs clench together hard. As he unbuckles his belt the  sliding sound of leather through the loops screaming off the walls as he lets his pants and boxers fall to the floor in one motion. His cock springs free, completely naked in front of me. I can see the rest of his body as toned and tattooed as the rest of his muscular form. I yearned to feel him fill me up completely. I move back on the bed, but quick as a fox he grabs my ankle and tugs me to the edge, lifting me effortlessly into his strong arms. In one smooth motion he spins us around and presses my back against the wall by the nightstand, desire burning in his eyes. He lifts my leg, placing my foot on the small chest and nudging the lamp aside.

"You'll need to stay balanced," he purred with a playful wink. Gripping himself firmly, he lines up with my entrance, sliding his swollen head over my sensitive nub before driving himself into me in one powerful stroke. I cry out as he fills me to the hilt, our bodies joining together.

His strong hands grip my thighs firmly as he holds me pinned against the wall, his hips driving into me relentlessly. My mind was lost in a haze of desire, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through me. Each powerful thrust filled me completely, hitting that sweet spot deep inside that made my back arch and toes curl. I clung to him, my arms wrapped tightly around his muscular shoulders, nails digging into his skin. My cries and whimpers echoed through the room, intermixed with his own grunts of pleasure. I could feel the pressure building with each plunge of his cock, the fire in my core burning hotter and hotter. 

"Yes, please," I begged breathlessly, urging him on, desperate for the release my body craved. His voice was rough in my ear as he responded, growling those words - "That's it little fox, make those sweet noises for me." 

Noah’s POV

My little fox is mine. All mine. The voice in my head that tells me this is a bad idea, that coach is gonna find out, that i’m gonna be benched for the whole fucking season-I locked him away when I kissed her at the bar. He can fuck off. 

Tonight. She’s mine. 

My thighs push and my ass clenches as I drive my cock deeper into her, she’s soaking the inside of her thighs and it’s covering me starting to drip down my legs, all of it dirty and filthy and I want more. 

She is crying out and panting in my ear, her hands are everywhere, she gives a good scream and stills, her walls clench around me and I smile. 

“That’s it, such a good girl.” I praise her as her forehead drops to rest on my shoulder. I take her in my arms, dropping her again on the bed, her hair fans out around her until I take her legs and flip her on her stomach. She already knows what I want, crawling up to her hands and knees for me. I kneel down on the bed spreading her legs open fitting perfectly between them, her back arching and ass pressing into me. It’s so beautiful. 

“Tell me, little fox, do you want me to wreck you?” I lean forward folding myself over her as I whisper into her ear. She whimpers in response. I don’t know if it’s to what I said or the fact that my fingers are currently playing with her clit. “Use your words, baby,” 

The tension between us is palpable as she flips her silky hair over her shoulder, glancing back at me with desire in her eyes. "Wreck me, I fucking know you can," she purrs, her voice dripping with lust. 

Unable to resist, I firmly slapped her round ass and positioned myself behind her, ready to fulfill her request. Just as I was about to plunge balls deep in her, a thought dawned on me that made my heart sink. "Fuck," I muttered, pulling away abruptly. Confused, she sat up on her knees, using the sheets to cover her perfect body like I was suddenly offended by her being naked.

 "What?" she asked, her flushed cheeks turning pink with embarrassment, as if my hesitation was a rejection of her. I sighed, cursing myself for not thinking ahead.

 "I don't have a condom," I admitted regretfully. Her face softened into an understanding smile as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

 "Do you have a disease or something?" she giggled playfully. I bristled slightly at the insinuation. 

"No, I just don't want any surprises down the road," I explained. Though I'd been with a few puck bunnies, I always played it safe and got tested regularly. But I wasn't ready for the responsibility of fatherhood yet. 

"Well lucky for you, I'm not looking to get knocked up either," she teased, pointing to her birth control implant resting in her arm. Relief washed over me, knowing we were on the same page. I smiled and pulled her in for a passionate kiss, ready to pick up where we left off.

I press her body firmly into the mattress, folding her in half so she is presented to me like my favorite Christmas present. I press my knees between her ankles spreading her open as I drive myself into her again, feeling the familiar and deep stretch of her pussy around me. My hands grab her hips for stability as I thrust but it’s not enough, I’m not getting deep enough. I want more. 

“oh, fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck let me see that pretty face, let me see you while you take that dick.” I leaned over her body taking her face by the cheeks turning her head so she was glancing at me from over her shoulder. “Fuck yeah, look at you. So, pretty.” I watched her pretty eyes roll back in her head as I repositioned on my knees to continue pounding into her.

I wrap her hair in my hands like a ponytail, watching her back dip as I pull her head toward me. Her body lifts off the bed, my other arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her against my chest. With my hand still entwined in her hair, I tilt her neck, my lips and teeth leaving soft purple marks over her skin.

The grip I had on her hair loosens, my fingers are stiff from holding onto her strands so tight. I let the digits relax before sliding my hands around the front of her body, cupping her breast as I circle my thumbs over her pert nipples that instantly harden to my touch. Her body is begging for me. To be broken by me. Rolling her puckered buds between my thumb and forefinger, I give them a good pinch. She shrieks and rocks back onto me in time with each thrust. 

“Noah,” her whines and the way my name comes out in that soft way makes everything in me twitch with need. I snake my hand up between her breasts and rest my fingers around her throat, testing the waters. She leans into my touch as I squeeze slightly, not to cut off the airway. My free hand slides between her thighs to their intended target. She fucks herself against me as my fingers continue their assault on her sensitive clit. 

“I’m almost there, baby. I got you.” Her body seizes and rolls back against my chest as I grip her tight, folding her in half so she falls forward on her palms. I fuck her through the aftershock, my thrusts becoming sporadic as I pump her full of my cum until its dripping down her thick thighs.

Sarah's POV

It hasn't even been a week, but with the chaos of three more away games and now a home game tonight, my head has hardly been able to process everything. Correction - I have processed it all with Melissa and she has been encouraging me every step of the way. Noah hasn't even looked at me once since that night. It's probably for the best that way, what with my dad being around at the games and practices. I know dad would freak out if he had any clue about what happened between me and Noah. He's always been overprotective. Still, it hurts not having Noah even acknowledge my existence. Now there's just cold indifference - like I'm no one to him anymore. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he wants to pretend it never happened. Most guys would probably react the same way. But that doesn't make it sting any less. Every time I glance hopefully in Noah's direction and am met with averted eyes, it's like a knife twisting in my heart.

The boys are on the ice warming up and I'm against the glass watching each players' moves with precision eyes. The last game Dominick subbed and took a hard hit to the legs, he was limping off the ice, but it was better in a few days later. As he skates around pushing his blades hard on the ice to come to a stop I watch to make sure he isn't favoring that knee. I notice his stride is strong and even, no hitch or stutter as he circles around the net. His crossover is smooth, knee bending deeply, weight shifting perfectly from leg to leg. A good sign his knee has healed. While my eyes watch Dominick's recovering form, Noah crosses into my vision and I'm distracted. Noah is a force on the ice, aggressive and fast, but sometimes too reckless. As he winds up and fires off a blistering slapshot I wince, hoping he doesn't injure himself or a teammate. The puck rockets into the top corner of the net, the loud ping echoing through the rink. Noah circles back, pumping his fist, eyes blazing with that fierce intensity he brings to every game. I know I should keep evaluating Dominick's knee, but I can't draw my eyes away from Noah's powerful strides and coiled energy.

Noah glides effortlessly across the ice, his helmet removed to reveal his soft brown locks flowing in the cool arena air. With an energetic grin spread wide across his flushed cheeks, he playfully bumps into his teammate Ruffilo, showing his lighthearted spirit. Noah's inner child emerges as he begins spinning and twirling across the slick surface, his lithe body sweeping into tight circles like a spinning top. His joyful energy is infectious, yet cuts deeply into my heart, worsening the gnawing ache I've felt since we parted ways. I force myself to shake off the pain as I refocus my gaze on the goal net, where Sanders is loudly screwing around.

Sanchez, Pierce, and Karlsson relentlessly hammer Sanders's knees with their hockey sticks, playfully shrieking as they jab at him in an attempt to poke their pucks past his sprawled legs and into the net behind him. Sanders laughs as he withstands the assault on his knees, trying his best to block the pucks despite the barrage of sticks poking into his joints. Eventually, the three give up their attack, grabbing their pucks as they circle around, chuckling at their failed goal attempts. Sanders, relieved, rises back to his feet and glides around the perimeter of the net, catching his breath. He sees Karlsson making another approach, stickhandling a puck as he winds up for a slapshot.

"Here comes six-two, I think he will get it through," Sanders chants mockingly, Karlsson leans into the shot, striking the puck with all his might and sending it careening towards the top corner of the net. But Sanders is ready,snagging the puck from mid-air with a dramatic flourish of his glove. "Oh, look what I got," he crows, waving the trapped puck teasingly at the frustrated Karlsson. 

Karlsson shakes his head in frustration as he flies around the net, stickhandling the puck but unable to find an opening to shoot through the impenetrable wall of Sanders' pads and blocker. Sanders nonchalantly tosses the practice puck out of his glove as he resets his focus on his teammates lined up for shooting drills. Pierce comes swooping in, faking left then cutting right as he winds up for a blistering slapshot. Sanders effortlessly crouches, trapping the puck between his pads with a satisfying smack.

"Fuck you, Sandy," Pierce teases as he playfully taps Sanders on his goalie mask with the blade of his stick.

"Your dick's gotta be bigger than your stick for me to ride it," Sanders retorts with a chuckle. Pierce rolls his eyes and turns away from the net, a wry smile crossing his face. "But I'm always willing to pitch instead! Love ya, Eric!" Their friendly trash talk echoes over the ice as the team continues honing their skills during practice. 

The buzzer sounds concluding warm ups and I make my way back to my spot by the team bench. The game soon starts as the Gladiators take their positions. It’s several uneventful periods, a few penalties, a couple points on both sides. But I watch closely, the gladiators tend to be ruthless when the chips are down, now that we are coming close to time I’m seeing them start to push and hit with more force. As the game clock winds down, the intensity on the ice ramps up. The Gladiators, known for their aggressive and hard-hitting style of play, seem to hit another gear. They forecheck ferociously, finish every check, and battle furiously for every loose puck. Their hits echo through the arena as bodies crash against the boards. The referee's whistle pierces the air frequently now as tempers flare and penalties mount. The Gladiators' frustration boils over as they try desperately to tie the game up before time expires. Sticks slam, gloves get dropped, and punches are thrown as scrums break out after nearly every whistle. The fans are on their feet, living and dying with every big hit and scoring chance. My heart pounds with excitement but also concern as I watch my teammates get rocked again and again.

Despite having no obligations or reasons to rise early, I find myself waking before dawn, a nagging sense of unfinished business rousing me from slumber. I rummage through the cluttered closet, pushing aside the detritus of my old life to unearth a relic from simpler times: my pristine white ice skates, barely used since training gave way to textbooks and 12-hour shifts. Running my fingers over the smooth leather, I marvel that they have waited so patiently while life pulled me away. I dress in fleece leggings and a sweater as I grab my purse and head to the car. 

The rink should be empty, the guys left around four this morning, as I pull into the parking lot it’s already six. I see some of the players' cars parked in the garage as I head to the elevator to enter the rink. The lights are on, but that’s to be expected, with the team gone, deep clean can commence. Yet as I walk through the quiet, empty halls of the arena, the familiar sounds of hockey emanate from the rink ahead. The rhythmic slapping of a composite stick striking a frozen puck echoes down the corridor. Scraping, swishing - the nostalgic melody of steel blades carving arcs across the freshly resurfaced ice. I push through the heavy wooden doors and gaze out at the rink. There before me a solitary figure glides smoothly about the ice, stickhandling a puck through an intricate array of cones.

Noah isn't in a uniform, just his athletic wear and skates, simple winter gloves on his hand as he skates around. The cold air nips at my cheeks as I observe him gliding effortlessly across the smooth, glassy ice. He looks so graceful and at ease, carving gentle curves with each push of his skates. I suddenly wonder if I should continue with my plan. It's been years since I've set foot on the ice. The last time I tried skating I clung desperately to the wall, my ankles wobbling with each tentative stride. I was that bumbling, awkward beginner all over again. What if I make a fool of myself out there? What if I slip and stumble repeatedly in front of Noah, struggling just to stay upright while he floats by with poised confidence? The thought makes me hesitate. I don't want to embarrass myself or look incompetent compared to Noah's natural skill.

"What are you doing here?" I call across the rink, seeing him turn and find me by the benches. He pushes the puck back and forth between his stick, the repetitive motion seeming to soothe his obvious frustration.

 "Medics benched me for two games, to make sure my shoulder isn't seriously injured," he responds, and I can hear the pain in his voice - not physical, but emotional. Being forced to sit out is agonizing for any athlete, but especially for someone as passionate and competitive as him. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to watch his teammates head off without him this morning, their bus pulling away as he stood there, barred from joining them.

“Why are you here?” he ponders the question to me and I feel my cheeks go red as I stammer a response. 

“Came to um-um-skate. But I didn’t expect…it’s okay, I’ll go.” I turn to leave. But I hear the hard scrape of blades on ice as Noah skates to the wall close enough to me I can smell the scent of his body wash from his shower. 

“Where you going? Let’s see what you got, little fox.” I feel my heart race and my palms grow sweaty as Noah's intense gaze bores into me. His muscular frame towers over me, broad shoulders and chiseled torso accentuated by his tight black shirt. I'm frozen in place, mesmerized by his masculine beauty and commanding presence.

“Lace up. Get out here." he teases as he skates out to the rink, picking up the cones he'd laid out. I am not sure what propels me but I do as he says, slipping into the leather slippers and double knotting the laces. I stand on the blades feeling the unusual balance of them as I take long steps to the ice. The blades touch the ice and suddenly I'm wobbling on my knees as one hand grips the wall and the other wraps around myself trying desperately to hide the embarrassment. The empty ice rink echoes with each scrape of his skates as he circles me like a predator stalking prey.

I tentatively step onto the icy surface, the razor-sharp blades beneath my feet gliding smoothly at first. But as I push off, my ankles wobble precariously, threatening to tip me face-first onto the cold, unforgiving ice. I flail my arms, grasping for something, anything to steady myself. My hand finds the wall just in time, saving me from a humiliating fall. Meanwhile, he is gliding effortlessly around the perimeter, his strong strides propelling him forward with ease. I watch enviously as he picks up speed, the toes of his skates carving graceful arcs into the glossy surface. My own skates feel awkward and foreign beneath me, the thin blades clacking loudly with each uneasy step. I wrap my free arm around my middle, trying in vain to conceal my evident lack of skill. This was a mistake. I never should have let him goad me out here. 

Noah skates around me, effortlessly turning his feet outwards to slow himself before sliding to a smooth stop, sending ice shavings scattering across the glossy surface of the rink. He looks back at me with a playful smile, taking in my awkward, shaky form as I struggle to maintain my balance on the slippery ice. I clutch the wall, my legs stiff and tense, my movements rigid and unstable. Noah glides back over to me, the blades of his skates slicing rhythmic patterns into the ice, and holds out his gloved hands, wiggling his fingers invitingly. "Here," he says, his voice warm and reassuring.

I eye his outstretched hands warily, hesitating. A painful memory surfaces of myself as an awkward thirteen year old girl, when a boy in skating class had offered to help me up, only to let go and trip me instead. I had fallen hard on the unforgiving ice, the wind knocked out of me, my pride injured far more than my body. I had never forgotten that humiliating experience, and since then, I harshly refused any offer of help when trying to skate, not trusting anyone to not let me fall.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Noah grumbles, breaking me out of my bitter recollections. Not waiting for me to decide, he takes my hands firmly in his, enveloping my fingers in the soft wool of his gloves. Then he begins skating backwards, pulling me along with him, his strokes smooth and steady. My legs tremble violently, overtaken by the fear of falling and I cling to his hands for dear life, as if I'm moments from plunging to my death. My ankles wobble and feet slip on my first few strides, struggling to find my balance. But Noah's graceful momentum carries us, and slowly I feel my legs begin to glide in sync with his, my rigid muscles easing. My confidence builds as Noah patiently guides me around the rink, the ice smoothly passing beneath me.

“I figured the coach’s daughter would know how to skate.” he teased. I rolled my eyes at his assumption that just because my dad was the hockey coach, I would naturally be an expert skater myself. Sure, growing up as the coach's daughter, I had spent countless hours at the rink, watching practices and games from the stands. And yes, I had even taken some basic skating lessons as a kid. But that was years ago now, and so much had changed since then.

“It’s been a while,” I countered, “I had other things going on.”

“Let me guess,” he looked at the white leather of my skates and smiled, “Figure skating.” 

“Nope. Just lessons.” The truth was, once I hit high school, skating had faded into the background. I became absorbed in academics, friendships, and other activities that didn't involve blades on my feet and cold rinks. Sure, I had taken some recreational lessons here and there to appease my dad, but nothing stuck. “Dad really wasn’t a fan of figure skating, some unspoken rivalry with Hockey I think.” 

My hold on Noah’s hands relaxed as we glided hand-in-hand across the ice rink, my fingers barely holding onto his gloved hands anymore. As we swayed our hips in unison, Noah gently turned our wrists, overlaying our hands before interlacing our fingers together. His soft yet firm grip provided a sense of security and balance as he led us around the rink, periodically looking back over his shoulder to navigate and ensure we wouldn't crash.

“And mom?” 

“Mom wasn’t, the mom type.” I confessed with a sigh.  I felt a familiar pang of sadness in my chest at the thought, dropping my head a little in shame. Noah raised an eyebrow, prompting me to reluctantly explain further. “Divorce. Just before I was twelve. Mom moved down to Florida with her new boyfriend, got the occasional birthday card then silence.” 

“I get that,” Noah nodded in understanding, releasing our clasped hands so we could skate shoulder-to-shoulder, my legs now gliding on their own as we lazily circled the rink.

"Your mom too?" I asked gently. 

"Dad," he replied tersely. "Wasn't the dad type. Mom did her best, but I lost her." His words sank in, my own petty grievances seeming trivial in comparison. While my mother may have been absent, at least she was still living. Noah had no one left, both parents gone, leaving him truly alone in the world. A swell of empathy rose within me, along with a new appreciation for the family I still had, dysfunctional as we may be.

As we glide, our skates' soft swish and measured breathing form a quiet harmony. All too soon, our wordless waltz comes to an end. I make my way to the bench on rubbery legs, fumbling with the laces and easing my numb feet from the rigid boots. Noah gathers his stick and returns to his solitary target practice, slapping puck after puck into the empty net with a methodical rhythm. The sharp crack of composite meeting vulcanized rubber echoes through the cavernous arena. I watch him for a moment, marveling at his self-contained focus. Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I turn to leave, savoring the lingering chill on my cheeks. But then his voice stops me - that gentle tenor tone that never fails to make me shiver.

We watch with bated breath as Noah crumples to his hands and knees on the icy rink, his body curling in on itself as he writhes in pain. The crowd falls into a hushed silence and the other players come to a standstill, their sticks and skates frozen in place as all eyes focus on the fallen player. I feel my body tense, ready to hurdle over the wall and rush to Noah's aid, but a stern glance from my father and Jack roots me in place. I know I must wait, though every fiber of my being strains to run to him. 

Noah's back arches, his face twisted into a grimace beneath his helmet. Then, mustering his strength, he begins to push himself up, first to one knee, then steadily to both feet as a cheer erupts from the stands. The crowd claps and shouts encouragement as Noah skates in a shaky loop, waving to let everyone know he's alright, though one arm hangs limp at his side. His teammate Anthony takes his place on the ice, and the game resumes its frenetic pace as Noah makes his way off the rink. I grab my medical bag and follow close behind, knowing his pride has taken a bigger blow than his body. 

“Don’t need your help.” Was all he said as we pushed through the locker room doors. Noah's gruff demeanor was apparent as he grumbled angrily and tossed his hockey stick across the locker room in frustration. Ripping at the gloves on his hands, he started aggressively tearing off his helmet as well, desperate to rid himself of his equipment. 

When I tried to explain that protocol mandated he undergo a medical exam after such a dangerous collision, he sneered sarcastically back at me, "No, I thought it was a love tap." 

Whipping the sweat-soaked jersey off his muscular torso, he slammed it angrily into his locker space and began roughly yanking off his bulky pads. I closed the space between us and tried to help relieve him of the cumbersome protective gear weighing down his shoulders. But he brusquely pushed my hands away with his elbow, bucking his arm up in defiance. 

"No need to be a dick, Sebastian," I admonished sharply. When he continued resisting, I put my foot down, "Knock it off, Noah. You're benched." 

He turned on his heel, pads and jersey gone, tattooed sweaty torso out on display his pecs rising and falling with each breath. I felt myself swallow down the lump in my throat, trying to look anywhere but him. 

"You can't bench me, you're just a nurse," he sneered looking down at me with a power I'd never seen before.

"No, but I can strongly recommend," I tried to keep my voice steady, no stammering, not now. I knew if I showed any weakness, he would pounce. 

"Oh that's right, you got daddy to run too," he jarred his lip curling at the words, and suddenly I felt like an arrow had been shot right through my chest. "You gonna tell him about us, maybe he will have me benched for the season."

"Don't you put that on me, Sebastian! How many teammates did you tell?" I felt the tears burn my eyes, the pressure in my face too much. I'd been burned by players before - they were all the same, with their lewd bets in the locker room that I knew all too well. Who could seduce the coach's daughter first? How many guys on the team could she be coerced into sleeping with? How much alcohol could they sneak without the coach finding out? I'd heard it all before, their objectification and scheming.

“How many more did you brag too? How many want a piece, huh?” I can see his face soften but I don’t break. The harsh words stung as they left my lips, his eyes narrowing as he took in all I was saying. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I struggled to hold his piercing gaze.

I yearned to run away, to escape the sudden intensity of emotions flooding through me. I pivoted on my foot, ready to grab my bag and flee this charged encounter. But before I could, he grasped my upper arm tightly, spinning me back around to face him. In one swift motion he pulled me against his firm body, effortlessly lifting me until my legs wrapped around his waist. He carried me the few steps to the bench in front of his locker, sitting down with my legs straddling his lap. We were locked together, his strong arms keeping me from escaping as his eyes searched mine. I was cornered, forced to confront what I had been trying to avoid. The chemistry between us was undeniable, and there was no more running away. We would have to deal with the fallout of our actions, together.

“None.” I feel the warmth of his body pressed against mine as his strong arm holds me close, preventing my escape. His hand is gentle yet firm on my neck, directing my eyes to meet his intense gaze. Those deep brown eyes pierce into my very being, seeing through my facade and exposing my vulnerabilities. I feel the swell of emotions rising within me, my eyes welling with tears I desperately try to hold back. But I cannot look away from the power of his stare, stripping me bare before him. When he speaks that single word again, "None," it resonates through every fiber of my being. My struggles cease as I surrender to his will, my body going pliant and yielding against him. His voice and touch soothe me, calming the storm inside until I am putty in his hands.

"You're my little fox," he purrs forehead pressed to mine as the hold at the back of my neck releases. My hands rest on his biceps before they are sliding up his shoulders to cup his face. We stare into each other's eyes, lost in our own world. I can feel his warm breath on my face as his hands tenderly caress my cheeks. 

Despite the tender moment we just shared, I can feel the adrenaline rushing through me. My body is a hurricane of emotions right now, each one more intense than the last, and they all need to be released. As I lean back in Sebastian's lap, desire takes over and I start to eagerly pull and tug at the waistband of his pants, desperate to feel his skin against mine. "My skates are still on," he argues half-heartedly as I frantically try to undress him, my hands fumbling in my haste. But his skates are the furthest thing from my mind in this heated moment.

 "It's not your feet I need Sebastian," I whisper, my voice husky with desire. Slowly, he stands, lifting me effortlessly before setting me back on my feet. Our clothes seem to melt away as we shed the barriers between us - his pants and pads bunching just below his knees as he reclines on the bench, thighs splayed invitingly. I straddle his lap, skin against skin, relishing the heat radiating from his muscular form. Our breaths mingle as I reach between us, fingers curling around his impressive length to guide him to my slick entrance. Ever so slowly, I sink down, enveloping him in my warmth as I throw my head back in ecstasy. He fills me completely, stretching me in the most delicious way. I begin to move, undulating my hips as I ride him unhurriedly, savoring each glorious sensation. His strong hands grasp my waist, guiding my movements as our passion builds. I lean forward, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, our tongues dancing as our bodies join in perfect harmony.

“We’re gonna get caught,” he pants, open mouth breathing hot air on my neck as I move up and down on his lap. 

“Then we better make it quick, huh?”

–

I barely have my clothes back on and take a quick look at Noah’s beat up shoulder before the team doc comes in looking for him. I leave just as the portable Xray machine comes in. The game finishes quick with no more injuries other than some minor cuts and scrapes. The guys are more wounded over the loss than anything that could have happened to them on the ice. After the team has retired and I turn in my bag for the night Dad catches me on my way out to the parking garage. 

“Kiddo, wait up.” He calls out to me, his voice echoing through the concrete structure. I turn to see him jogging to catch up, the sound of his dress shoes clicking on the pavement. He asks how the game went as he falls into step beside me. I give him a rundown, explaining Noah's injury and the morale following the tough loss. Dad nods along, his brow furrowed with concern. I know it’s not what he wants to talk about, but I ramble when i’m nervous. 

As I stand there nervously awaiting his reaction, memories of my teenage years come flooding back. I feel like that angsty, rebellious girl again who was always pushing boundaries with boys, staying out too late, and giving my parents gray hairs. Even though I'm an independent woman now, an instinctive sense of dread washes over me as I prepare for the worst, just like when I was 16. I shift my weight between feet, focusing intently on the keys in my hand rather than making eye contact with him. I know realistically that the worst he can do now is lecture me, but it doesn't make this confrontation any less nerve-wracking. The power dynamic has shifted over the years, but he's still my dad, and I still feel accountable to him.

"Well, listen, I know we talked about you only being here temporarily," there it was, he was letting me go, he found out and was letting me go. I had two more months before Seattle opened a position at one of their hospitals and I couldn't bear to be without a job and be living with dad after all this embarrassment. My mind was racing with anxiety as I imagined the shame of having to move back home after working so hard to build an independent life. I almost started to blab excuses and defend myself, but instead bit my lip to hold back the torrent of nervous words.

"Yeah," I said as nonchalantly as I could, turning to walk towards my car, bracing for the dismissal I felt sure was coming. But then he threw an arm over my shoulders, following me in perfect sync.

"Well, see, Jack and I think you are doing such a great job and it's not like it isn't a real position," he continued, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I realized he wasn't firing me after all. In fact, it sounded like he wanted me to stay on permanently. But did I want to be permanent? 

"Dad, what are you saying?" I make it to my red Corolla and turn to face him. I can see the crows feet around his eyes, the sagging of his cheeks, the grey in his hair and goatee. He looks so much older now. As I take in the aging features of his face, I'm reminded of how quickly time passes. It seems like just yesterday he was young and virile, playing catch with me in the backyard. Now here he stands, worn down by decades of hard work and stress, asking me to take on a new responsibility.

“How do you feel about being our permanent team nurse?”

I knew this question was coming, but still the words hit me with a shock. My mind races as I contemplate my options. This job would require me to move back home permanently, leaving behind the independence I've grown accustomed to. Though part of me wants to cling to my freedom, I know deep down that my rightful place is here, helping him just as he spent so many years helping me.