Chapter 25
The doorman saw me coming.
I must have looked unhinged. And maybe I was, keys gripped in my fist like a weapon, walking across the lobby with singular purpose.
“Mr. Quinn—”
“Is he up there?”
The doorman hesitated. He knew me. He had seen me come and go for weeks. Had probably clocked that something was very, very wrong.
“Are you all right, Mr. Quinn? Would you like me to call up first, or maybe I could—”
I didn’t wait for more. Just walked straight into the elevator, hit the button, watched the doors close.
The ride up felt longer than usual.
My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored walls. Despite how I felt, my hair was still neat, and I still looked every bit the professional assistant I was supposed to be.
Except I wasn’t an assistant anymore.
Because I was fired.
The elevator dinged, and I stepped out, walking to his door. I raised my hand to knock, then stopped.
I still had keys.
Should I use them? Technically this wasn’t my workplace anymore. But technically I still had access.
I knocked instead.
Waited.
Nothing.
Knocked again. Harder.
Still nothing.
Oh my god. Was he seriously not answering? Was Andrew Knox, professional athlete, hiding from me like a child?
Fuck it.
I unlocked the door, and it swung open.
“Andrew?”
Silence.
I walked through the penthouse. Living room, empty. Kitchen, empty. Bedroom—I stopped at the doorway, didn’t go in.
It was empty.
He wasn’t here.
The absolute audacity.
He fired me and then just. . . left? Went out? Had a normal Monday morning?
I pulled out my phone and dialed his number.
It rang. And rang.
No answer.
I hung up and stood in the middle of his empty penthouse, trying to decide between screaming and leaving.
Where was he? Then it hit me.
The rink.
Exactly forty minutes and an expensive taxi ride later, the team’s practice facility looked the same as it had the first time Andrew brought me here.
Cold, bright, that specific smell of ice and rubber and sweat.
I’d met his teammates the last time I was at the rink; I’d been awkward, trying to stay professional.
Today, I didn’t give a fuck about professional.
It took less than two minutes to find him, and he was right where I thought he would be.
Andrew was alone on the ice. Skating. Which he technically wasn’t supposed to be doing with the hearing looming over him.
But Andrew Knox had never been great at following the rules.
He was shooting pucks at the empty net with that effortless power that made it look easy.
He looked free.
Happy.
Totally unburdened by the fact that he’d just fired me.
I watched him take a shot, and my hockey brain activated without permission. The puck hit the back of the net so hard it bounced out. His form was perfect, his weight transfer, follow-through, everything.
His edges were clean. Sharp. The kind of control that took years to develop. His stickhandling was fluid, natural, like the stick was an extension of his arm. When he turned, his crossovers were textbook perfect.
Andrew was really fucking good.
Which made sense. He was a professional, one of the best in the league, but watching him now, alone, just playing, it was different than watching highlights or games on TV.
This was Andrew in his element.
And it made me even angrier.
He must have sensed me watching because he looked up and saw me through the glass. He skated over to the bench, sweaty, his hair messy, breathing hard.
“Took you long enough,” he said.
I stared at him through the glass. “You fired me.”
“Yeah.”
“And now you’re just. . . skating?”
“Was gonna work out but figured I’d come here instead.” He grabbed a water bottle. “You coming in or you gonna yell at me through the glass?”
I walked around to the bench entrance and opened the door. Cold air hit me. The sound of the ice, the way it echoed in the empty rink.
Andrew stepped off the ice, still in his skates, towering over me even more than usual.
“You want to explain why you fired me?” I asked.
“We can’t fuck if you work for me. So I fixed it.” He started walking toward the tunnel that led to the locker rooms. “Problem solved.”
I followed him. “You can’t just fire someone because you want to sleep with them.”
Andrew huffed a laugh. “Right. So what’s the ethical option here?”
“That’s not—”
“You’re my assistant, Matthew,” he said, flat. “If I touch you while you’re working for me, I’m the asshole. So I fired you first.” He shrugged. “Now it’s clean.”
“Okay, I get that, but—”
“What?” He glanced back at me, still walking. “You want me to say sorry? Not gonna happen.”
“I need a job!” My voice echoed off the concrete walls. “I have rent. Bills. My sister. I have to have a job.”
“Then get another one.”
I stopped walking and stared at his back.
“Get another one,” I repeated.
“Yeah.” He pushed open the locker room door, held it for me. “You’re smart. You’re good at what you do. Someone will hire you.”
I followed him inside, fury building. “You think it’s that easy? You think I can just snap my fingers and find work?”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I have an NDA on my record! Vague references! Chronic anxiety! Gaps in employment!” I was yelling now. Couldn’t stop myself. “This temp agency was my last option when no one else would hire me. Do you understand that?”
Andrew set his stick down, started pulling off his gloves. “So work for the team some other way. Different department or something.”
“That’s not how it works—”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I stopped. Tried again. “Because you don’t get to just fix everything by throwing money or connections at it.”
He paused for just a moment. Of course he did. Because with his suspension, Andrew didn’t have connections, not really, with the hearing coming up.
But he recovered quickly and pulled off his jersey, then his shoulder pads.
I couldn’t form words.
He was undressing. Right there. Piece by piece. Shoulder pads hit the bench. Chest protector followed.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said, unlacing his hockey pants.
“What thing?”
“That thing you did at the movie.” He stepped out of the pants, down to compression shorts and skates. “And with Archibald. Getting all sharp. Defensive. Mad.”
“I am mad!”
“I know.” He sat on the bench, started unlacing his skates. “It’s hot as hell.”
Was he serious?
“Hot?”
“Yeah.” He looked up at me, smirking. “You get this look. Like you’re gonna tear someone’s throat out.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. Hopefully mine.” He pulled off his skates and stood. Just in compression shorts now. “And you followed me all the way to the locker room to do it.”
I froze.
He stepped closer. “You could’ve yelled at me out there. You could’ve left. But you came in here.”
“I—”
“I fired you so we could do this without the bullshit.” His voice dropped. “So do you want this or not?”
Yes. God, yes.
But I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit that even furious, even terrified about money and my future, I still wanted him.
“Matthew.” He was right in front of me now. Close enough to touch. “Yes or no.”
This fucking guy.
“Yes.”
He kissed me like he’d been starving for it.
Hard. Claiming. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to angle me exactly how he wanted.
The other gripped my jaw, thumb pressing into the soft skin under my chin, holding me open.
I kissed him back with everything I’d been choking down—fury, fear, raw want—teeth clashing, tongues sliding, a messy, desperate collision that tasted like salt and adrenaline.
We broke apart, gasping. My lips felt bruised already.
“Someone could walk in,” I said, voice wrecked.
“Don’t fucking care.” His eyes were black, pupils blown. “Let them.”
“Andrew—”
He dropped to his knees.
The tile was hard. Cold. I heard the faint slap of his kneecaps hitting it.
His hands were already at my belt—quick, efficient, practiced. Leather whispered through the loops. Zipper rasped down. Then he tugged my briefs and jeans just low enough to free me.
I was already hard. Achingly so. Had been since the second he’d crowded me against the lockers.
“Oh my god.”
He didn’t tease. Didn’t play. Just wrapped one calloused hand around the base and took me into his mouth in one slow, deliberate slide.
Warm. Wet. Tight. The heat of him was obscene.
My head thunked back against the metal locker behind me—too loud in the quiet room. My hands shot to his hair on instinct, fingers twisting in the blond strands, gripping hard enough to hurt. Trying to stay upright. Trying not to make a sound.
This was insane. We were in a public locker room. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The faint smell of chlorine and rubber mats. Echoes carrying every small noise. Anyone could walk in—teammates, staff, some random guy grabbing his gym bag.
Andrew didn’t care.
He took me deeper, throat relaxing around me, nose brushing my pelvis.
Hollowed his cheeks and sucked, slow and filthy, tongue curling under the head on the upstroke.
One hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach; the other slid up my thigh, fingers digging into the muscle, anchoring me.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.
“Andrew—fuck—”
He hummed. The vibration shot straight through me, white-hot. My knees buckled; I had to lock them or I’d collapse.
He pulled off just enough to speak, lips brushing the slick head. Voice rough. “Quiet, Quinn. You want them to hear you come apart?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Just nodded frantically, hips jerking forward on instinct.
He smirked—dark, triumphant—and took me again. Faster this time. Deeper. Relentless. The wet sounds were obscene in the empty room—slick, rhythmic, filthy. His free hand slid between my legs, cupping my balls, rolling them gently, then tugging just enough to make me choke on a moan.
I was going to come. Too fast. Too hard. The risk, the heat of his mouth, the way he looked up at me—eyes locked on mine, dark and hungry, like he was daring me to hold out—pushed me right to the edge.
“I’m—” My voice cracked. Barely a whisper. “Andrew, I’m—”
He didn’t pull off.
Just took me to the back of his throat again, swallowed around me, and I shattered.
My vision whited out. I came with his name strangled in my throat, hips snapping forward, body shaking so hard the locker rattled behind me. Wave after wave. He took it all, swallowed every pulse, throat working, never breaking eye contact.
When it was over, he pulled off slowly, lips swollen and glistening. He licked his lips once, deliberate, then sat back on his heels, looking up at me like a man who’d just won something.
“Still mad?” he asked, voice hoarse.
I couldn’t speak. My legs were jelly. Chest heaving. Brain offline.
A door slammed somewhere down the hall.
Voices. Footsteps. Getting closer.
Oh shit.
I scrambled, hands shaking, tucking myself back in, yanking the zipper up, fumbling the belt. My reflection in the mirror across the room looked wrecked: flushed, lips red, hair a mess from his fingers.
Andrew stood, completely unbothered. He grabbed a towel from the bench, wiped his mouth casually, then tossed it over his shoulder like nothing had happened. His shorts were still tented, obvious, but he didn’t seem to give a damn.
The locker room door swung open.
Kirk Chappell walked in, gym bag over his shoulder, and stopped when he saw us.
“Matthew.” His eyes flicked to me, then back to Andrew. “Knox. Didn’t know anyone was here.”
“Just finished skating,” Andrew said easily.
Kirk’s eyes narrowed slightly, something calculating in his expression, but he just nodded. “Cool.”
He started to move past us toward his locker.
“Hey, Chappell.”
Kirk turned back. “Yeah?”
Andrew pointed at me. “You’re hiring him. Assistant work.”
The locker room went very quiet.
“I—what?” Kirk blinked.
“You heard me.” Andrew’s voice had that edge I’d heard on the ice. “He needs a job. You need an assistant. Problem solved.”
“Um. Doesn’t he work for you?”
“Not anymore.”
“Andrew—” I started.
“He organizes files, schedules shit, answers emails. Easy.”
“I do way more than that,” I protested. “Come on.”
Andrew’s smile turned wicked. “Oh yeah? What else do you do for your boss?”
My face went nuclear.
Kirk made a strangled noise.
“He’s good at his job,” Andrew continued, completely unbothered. Still shirtless. Still sweaty. Still very clearly enjoying this. “Works hard. Keeps things organized. Just don’t get on his bad side.”
Kirk looked at me. At Andrew. At the ceiling like he was praying for intervention.
“When can he start?” Andrew’s tone made it very clear it wasn’t really a question.
“I. . .” Kirk shifted his gym bag. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.” He looked at me with something between sympathy and horror. “You available this week, Matthew?”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
“He is,” Andrew answered. “He doesn’t have a job.”
“Whose fault is that?” I shot back.
Andrew’s grin widened. “Mine. That’s why I’m fixing it.”
Kirk looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else.
“Cool. Great. We’ll, uh.” Kirk was backing toward his locker now. “Work out details later. Practice schedule and. . . stuff.”
“Perfect,” Andrew said.
Kirk nodded too many times. “Yeah. Good. Great.” He gave Andrew a look that clearly said I hate you right now before turning away. “Good to see you again, Matthew.”
Andrew grabbed his gear, started gathering his things like he hadn’t just steamrolled both of us.
Kirk practically fled to his locker.
I stood there, frozen, trying to process what had just happened.
Andrew had just gotten me a job.
By demanding his teammate hire me.
Without asking.
Thirty seconds after I’d come in his mouth.
“Let’s go,” Andrew said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“You can’t just do that.”
“Can. Did.” He headed for the door without looking back. I followed, still reeling.
As we stepped into the hallway, the locker room door swinging shut behind us, Andrew slowed just enough to lean in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Coming?” he murmured.
Then, lower. Private. Just for me.
“Oh—wait. You already did.”