Chapter 25
JACK
“If Asher Graves hadn’t blown a tire, he’d have won for sure.”
I laughed and elbowed Devon before bringing my beer bottle to my lips. “But Graves did blow a tire, so…” I tilted the bottle toward the screen. “All hail the new fastest skater.”
He chuckled, elbowing me back.
I put my beer on a coaster on the coffee table, then wrapped my arm around Devon’s shoulders.
He settled in against my side like we were a couple of puzzle pieces made specifically to fit together.
His arm rested across my stomach, and his leg was draped partway across mine.
In some remote recess of my mind, I wondered if the roles should’ve been reversed—if I should’ve been curled against my Dom’s side like he was curled against mine.
But who cared? He was apparently comfortable.
I was definitely comfortable. Hell, maybe he needed to be the cuddling-on-the-couch equivalent to the little spoon sometimes.
He wasn’t complaining and neither was I, so I stopped questioning it.
“What event is next?” he asked. “Hardest shot?”
“Probably backward skating. Since they don’t have to reset the rink.”
“Ooh, makes sense. I bet Vic Maynard has this one in the bag.”
I scoffed. “Uh, I don’t know if you noticed, but New York sent Nikolai Fedulov.” Gesturing at the screen, I added, “No one can skate backward like Feds.”
“Pfft. Mays could probably beat Graves in a race if he was going backward and Gravy was going forward.”
“Is that before or after he blew a tire?”
Devon barked a laugh. “Shut up.”
I just chuckled, and we watched as the event continued. Our league’s All-Star event wasn’t televised, but the national league’s was. After we’d woken up from our nap, we’d ordered pizza, cracked open a couple of beers, and settled on the couch to watch the festivities.
“If we start drinking,” Devon had said earlier, “everything else is off the table for the rest of the night.”
“Kink, you mean?”
He nodded. “Sex is fine as long as we’re not drunk. But once either of us starts drinking… the rest is a no go.”
My response to that had been a smile as I’d handed him one of the bottles. “We’ve still got time. I don’t mind relaxing for today.”
He’d seemed uncertain for a couple of beats, but then he’d taken the beer and returned the smile. “Guess we should pace ourselves, shouldn’t we?”
“Probably not a bad idea.”
It wasn’t, and we clinked the bottles together before moving into the living room.
Now the remaining pizza had been put way, we were each on our second beer, and I was more relaxed than I’d been in ages.
Not just because of the food and alcohol.
Just… this. Curling up on the couch with someone.
Feeling the weight of another person against me, their body heat through our clothes as we touched with no expectations except closeness.
No, that wasn’t right either.
It wasn’t curling up on the couch with someone. It was curling up on the couch with him. With Devon. With the man who inflicted so much delicious pain and maddening pleasure, it was a wonder I held on to my sanity when we were in bed. The intensity was off the charts. The trust was exhilarating.
That fact that it was so easy to trust him—had been from our first semi-anonymous hookup—was mind-blowing.
I ran my fingers up and down his arm as I stared at the TV screen, not really paying attention to what was happening. It was just a talking head yammering into a microphone anyway, so whatever. I could zone out for a moment and marvel at how I’d landed here and with whom.
This didn’t feel wrong. Quite the opposite. Everything about us fit as perfectly as our bodies on this couch. I craved the kind of domination he apparently liked to give. The submission I offered seemed to be exactly what he needed to receive.
I’d always been repulsed by the idea of a professional dynamic like ours.
As a player, I couldn’t imagine getting involved with a coach.
As a coach, getting involved with a player seemed like it was asking for severely lopsided power dynamics.
Especially when I was in my forties and the player was in his twenties. None of it should’ve worked.
Except… it did.
I might’ve ruled the ice, but the moment we were alone, I was—sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally—kneeling at Devon’s feet.
He called the shots. He laid down the law.
Yes, the submissive was the one in control through their needs and limits, but Devon held the reins.
I trusted him not to steer me past my limits or to ignore my needs.
Whatever he ordered, whatever he demanded… yes. Always yes.
And the age gap—was it really as big as it looked on a calendar?
Yes, there was eighteen years between us.
Yes, I’d been drafted into the League the same year Devon was born.
But circumstances had forced him to mature beyond his years.
My hyperfocus on hockey above all else had probably held me back in other areas.
Temporally, sure, nearly two decades separated us.
In terms of maturity and life experience? I had to wonder if the gap was actually much smaller.
When we returned to Abbotsford next week, we’d snap back to our coach-player dynamic. I’d be in charge again. He’d take a knee alongside his teammates and listen to my instructions.
And when we weren’t on skates…
My stomach knotted.
This easy dynamic we had now wouldn’t exist anymore.
Not because we couldn’t keep the lines clear between us, but because the League would never tolerate a coach being involved with a player.
Under the vast majority of circumstances, I agreed with that.
It was difficult to imagine such a relationship not being incredibly problematic.
Except when it came to Devon and me.
Was I delusional? A hypocrite? Fuck. I had no idea. I just knew that this thing—it worked. It was incredible.
But when this week was over, I’d have to let it go because there was no way I was compromising Devon’s career. Absolutely not.
“Oh hey!” Devon’s voice jarred me into the present as he pointed at the screen. “Look at you!”
I focused on the screen and realized they were showing highlights from past All-Star events. In particular, the year I won for backward skating.
There I was, twenty-six and full of myself, decked out in that year’s retina-searing bright-green All-Star jersey.
The camera followed me around the rink as I skated backward for all I was worth.
I even caught myself grimacing as I took one of the corners; I knew full well I made it without wiping out, but holy shit, it was close.
Devon whistled as I crossed the finish. The leaderboard updated with my time dramatically bumping all the other players down the list.
“Jack Showalter’s record still stands,” the present-day commentator said. “Maybe we’ll see it broken here today.”
Devon patted my chest. “Think you can still skate that fast?”
I snorted and reached for my beer. “I haven’t been able to skate that fast in years. I’d probably fall and break my hip or something.”
He laughed. “Oh, come on. You’re not that old.”
I almost choked on my beer, and I rolled my eyes as I elbowed him. “Gee, thanks.”
He laughed harder, and it was all I could do not to just stare at him and drool. I loved it when he was like this—relaxed, smiling that brilliant smile, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Holy fuck, you’re so beautiful.
We settled against each other again. Somehow, the moment of snark and levity had scattered all my melancholy thoughts. I didn’t question it—I just held Devon closer as we watched the various skaters take their turn going backward.
One defenseman from Dallas took his place on the starting line.
“Gustavs Kaminskis is setting up,” the commentator told us as if we couldn’t clearly see. “Gus has come closer than anyone to Showalter’s record, landing just four-tenths of a second shy two seasons ago. Let’s see if he can close that gap today.”
Devon shifted a little. “Think he will?”
“Maybe. Records are meant to be broken.” I had a few that still held with my old teams and in the League, and I had this All-Star record. Sometimes new players came along and broke them, and I always celebrated that. Jealousy accomplished nothing when there was greatness to be honored.
The starter pistol went off, and Kaminskis flew off the line.
He was smaller than some of the other guys in the competition—smaller than a lot of defensemen—but holy shit, he was fast. He took the first corner with all the ease of someone gliding along at half his speed.
On the second corner, he overshot it ever so slightly, but he didn’t lose his balance or any time.
We both sat up a little as the kid picked up speed on the straightaway. Like the crowd onscreen, we both called out, “Come on! Come on! You’ve got this! Go! Go! Go!”
In a blur of black skates and a red jersey, he whipped across the line.
And beat my record by two-tenths of a second.
Devon and I both flew to our feet like lunatics, pumping our fists, high-fiving, and cheering.
“We have a new record in backward skating!” the commentator declared. “Seventeen years after Jack Showalter set the benchmark, Gustavs Kaminskis is the new king!”
As we eased back onto the couch, both chuckling at our own exuberance, I bit back a wince. It was hard to believe this was the body that had set that record a lifetime ago. Then again, I hadn’t set that record after being whipped and flogged, so… maybe it made sense.
“So it doesn’t bother you?” Devon asked as they interviewed a sweaty, panting, smiling Kaminskis on the screen. “Watching your record get broken?”