Chapter 5
The ice was my sanctuary. Usually. The place where the world narrowed to the width of the boards, the weight of my stick, the feel of the puck on my tape. It was where thinking stopped, and instincts took over.
Today. It was a special kind of hell.
My skates felt like they were filled with lead. My gloves were too big, my stick a foreign object. Every drill was a battle against my own brain, which had apparently decided to upload Henry Emerson kiss on continuous, high-definition loop.
The sound of his voice, low and sure. “There's better Chocolate at my place.”
The feel of his thumb brushing my cheek. “Smudge.”
The crushing, Perfect pressure of his mouth on mine.
The way my knees had practically turned to water.
“Holt! Heads up, for Christ's sake!”
Coache’s whistle screeched, slicing through the fog in my head. A puck I should have easily intercepted, slid past my blade and trickled into the corner. I'd been so busy replaying the moment I pulled away, my back hitting Henry's kitchen counter, that I’d completely missed a basic passing drill.
“You waiting for a written invitation?” coach bellowed, his face mottled red. “Skate!”
I pushed off, my calves burning with fresh wave of exertion-or maybe it was shame. I could feel the eyes on me. Not just Coache's. My teammates. This wasn't the quiet, focused Charlie Holt they were used to. This was a mess in skates.
The worst part was he wasn't even here. There was no Immaculate suit watching from the other side of the glass today. No quiet, imposing presence to pin the blame on. This was all me. My own brain had been hijacked.
We finished that drill, and coach blew the whistle for a water break. I glided to the bench, grabbing my bottle and squeezing the stream of water into my mouth, hoping it would cool the heat that had been living under my skin since last night.
Shay slid up next to me, his breath clouding in the cold air. “So,” he said, leaning close so the coaches wouldn't hear. “How was the dinner?”
I choked on the water. “What?”
“From your dinner. with the billionaire.” He waggled his eyebrows
“It was dinner, Shay. It was fine.” I avoided his eyes, focusing on retying my helmet strap.
“uh-huh. And that's why you’re playing today like you’ve never seen a puck before? Because the dinner was fine?” he nudged me with his shoulder. “C’mon. Details. Did he try to buy you? Offer you a private island? What does a guy like that even talk about?”
He talks about building empires and not feeling powerless. He kisses like it’s a negotiation he’s already won.
“Mostly team stuff,” i liked, my voice tight. “sponsorship, the usual”
Shay's smirk widened. “Bullshit. You're blushing. I can see it under all that gear.”
“It's called exertion, you idiot.”
“It's called a crush,” he sing-songed, just as Felix joined us.
“who’s got a crush?” Felix asked, taking a long drink from his bottle.
“Holt. On our new sugar daddy.”
OMG why do I tell them about my life.
Felix snorted. “Figured. He’s been staring into space like someone replaced his hockey IQ with a romance novel.” he clapped me on the back, hard enough to make me stumble. “don’t worry, rookie. It happens to the best of us. Just don’t let it mess with your game.”
Too late.
The rest of the practice was an exercise in humiliation. I fumbled simple passes. I overskated the puck. During a two-on-one drill, I sent a shot so wide it hit the glass with a pathetic thud instead of the sharp crack of a goal.
Coach's patience, never a deep well, ran dry. “Holt! My office after you shower! The rest of you get off my ice!”
The locker room was a welcome cacophony. The banging of sticks against lockers, the hiss of the showers, the loud, stupid jokes- it was normally a balm. Today, it just felt like noise I had to wade through.
I kept my head down, peeling off my gear with more force than necessary. The smell of sweat and steam usually felt like accomplishment. Today it just felt heavy.
“Coach’s office huh? Shay said, dropping onto the bench beside me, already half-undressed. “What’s the bet? Fifty says he asks you if you're feeling sick.”
“A hundred says he asks if you’ve got a girlfriend,” Felix called from his locker.
Their teasing was normal, good-natured. But it felt like needles on my raw nerves. Every word pushed me closer to the edge of confessing everything. No, not a girlfriend. Just the billionaire who kissed me senseless and now I can’t think straight.
I grunted a non-answer and grabbed my towel, heading for the showers to escape.
The hot water did little to soothe me. It just provided a private space for the memories to flood back, sharper and more intense. The feel of Henry's shirt under my hands. The taste of dark chocolate and expensive wine on his tongue. The low, approving sound he made when I'd kissed him back.
My body reacted instantly, a jolt of pure heat that had nothing to do with the shower. I was hard, aching, right here in the team shower with my teammates just a few feet away. I turned quickly, facing the tiled wall, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was insane. I was losing my mind.
I shut the water off abruptly, the sudden cold a brutal shock. I wrapped the towel around my waist, clutching it tightly, and hurried back to my locker, keeping my head down.
The room was clearing out. Shay and Felix already dressed, slinging their bags over their shoulders.
“You surviving, man?” Shay asked his tone softening a fraction.
“Yeah. Just gonna get dressed and face the music,”
“You want us to wait?”
“Nah. Go ahead.”
They left, their laughter echoing down the hall. Finally, silence, well almost. The drip of a showerhead, the hum of the lights. I was alone.
I sank onto the wooden bench, the towel still clutched around my waist, I needed to get dressed. I needed to go see coach and get my ass chewed out. I needed to do a lot of things.
My phone, tucked in the side pocket of my gear bag, buzzed.
The sound was unnaturally loud in the empty room. A prickle of awareness, stupid and hopeful, went down my spine. I knew. I just knew.
I fumbled for the phone, my wet fingers slipping on the screen.
One new message. From an unknown number.
The message preview glowed on my lock screen: I trust you found your way home safely. I've been thinking about the...
My thumb unlocked the phone before I'd even made the conscious decision to do it.
The full message loaded
Unknown number: i trust you found your way home safely. I've been thinking about the taste of chocolate. Pity it was so fleeting.
A sound escaped me, something between a gasp and a groan. I stared at the words until they blurred. It was him. Of course it was him. Cool, teasing, utterly controlled even in text. He waited a full day to send it. Let me stew.
My body, which had just begun to come down, was instantly back on high alert. Blood rushed south, a relentless, pounding ache. The towel felt impossibly restrictive.
Another buzz. A second message.
Unknown number: I find myself... distracted today.
That was it. The final straw. Those five words, an admission that mirrored my own pathetic state, shattered whatever was left of my composure.
My breath hitched. This was a terrible idea. This was the team locker room, period. Anyone could walk in. The janitor. A coach. A teammate who forgot something.
But the image was already there, seared into the back of my eyelids. Henry, leaning against his kitchen island. His hand cupping my jaw. His mouth on mine.
My hand slid under the towel. The touch was electric, a jolt of sensation so intense it was almost painful. I was already fully hard, leaking. I wrapped my fingers around myself, a low moan escaping my lips as I leaned back against the cold metal of the lockers.
I stroked once, twice, a slow, rough friction that made my toes curl against the dirty tile floor. My head fell back, thumping against the locker door. This was stupid. Reckless.
But I couldn't stop.
I thought about his hands. Those clean, manicured fingers that gripped a pen to sign million-dollar deals. What would they feel like on me? Would they be firm? Demanding?
I quickened my pace, my hips lifting off the bench to meet my fist. The room was filled with soft, wet sound of my own desperation.
I thought about his voice in my ear. “You carry yourself like someone who knows where he's going.” Did he know where this was going? Did he know he'd reduced me to this, a panting, frantic mess in an empty locker room, jerking off to the memory of him?
The pleasure built, a tight coil low in my stomach. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, the taste of blood metallic on my tongue. My free hand braced against the bench, knuckles white.
The text message glowed on the phone screen where I’d dropped it on the floor. Distracted.
I was more than distracted. I was unravelling.
My climax hit like a check into the boards, sudden, brutal, and breathtaking. It ripped through me, wave after wave of blinding release, my entire body seizing up. A strangled, choked-off sound was torn from my throat as I came all over my stomach and the towel, my vision spotting at the edges.
For a long moment, I just sat there, boneless and spent, trying to remember how to breathe. The only sounds were my ragged gasps and the steady drip... drip... drip... from the showers.
Reality crashed back in, cold and unforgiving.
I was sitting in the locker room, covered in my own cum, after jacking off to a text message from the owner of my hockey team.
I dragged a clean part of the towel over my stomach with a trembling hand, a wave of nausea and wild euphoria warring inside me. What the hell was I doing?
My phone buzzed again on the floor.
I flinched, my heart lurching back into a frantic rhythm. Slowly, hesitantly, I picked it up.
Unknown number: I look forward to seeing you focus on the ice again. Until then.
I stared at the message, a fresh, terrifying thrill shooting through me. He knew. Somehow, he knew exactly what effect he had on me. He'd probably known this would happen the second he hit ‘send’.
And the worst part? The absolute, undeniable worst part?
I already wanted him to do it again.