Chapter 3 #2
Outside the room, the fluorescent light is too bright, the hall too quiet.
I move like a ghost, feet carrying me toward the showers and the small mercy of scalding water.
My mind replays things in tiny, jagged loops—the way he said my name, the way his hands held me down, the way he refused me the easy release I needed so badly at that moment.
Anger coils with desire until I am dizzy.
I don’t slow down until I’m halfway down the hall, sneakers squeaking against polished concrete, breath burning in my lungs. My shirt is half off my shoulder, lips still swollen from his kiss, and every inch of my body feels alive in a way I can’t stand.
I should feel clean, clear, controlled. But all I feel is fire. Magnus. His grin. His voice. His body pressed tight against mine. It lingers on me like smoke that won’t wash out.
I rake a hand through my hair, dragging air into my lungs, trying to steady the storm inside me.
It doesn’t work. My skin is buzzing, hypersensitive, remembering every point of contact.
His mouth rough on mine, his laugh curling dark against my lips, the heat of him when I had him pinned by the throat.
God, the way he moaned when I squeezed my thighs.
At the corner by the vending machines, someone steps into my path. Kyle.
He’s changed into a compression shirt and some sweatpants, blond hair damp from a quick rinse, face pink from the cold. His expression softens under his wired glasses when he sees me. “There you are,” he says, relief edging his voice. “I was getting lonely.”
I can’t meet his eyes. “Just needed some space to think.” My voice sounds wrong, hoarse and thin.
“Dude, everyone’s already over it. Peter is drunk off Mountain Dew and vodka. I’m sure he doesn’t remember.” Kyle chuckles softly, like he’s trying to break through my tension.
I don’t. The laugh slides right past me, swallowed by the noise in my head.
He looks me over—really looks—and his brow furrows. “Al, you’re pale. You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I try to step past him, but his hand comes out automatically, fingers brushing my forearm. It’s a light touch, but my body jolts like he’s pressed a live wire to my skin. He notices; his hand withdraws a fraction.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I said I’m fine.” My words come out sharper than I intend. He doesn’t flinch.
Kyle takes a half-step closer, lowering his voice. “Hey. Look at me. You don’t have to keep everything bottled up, alright? You can tell me.” His thumb grazes the inside of my wrist, just once, before he lets go. It’s such a small touch but it feels intimate, like something more than teammates.
I relax slightly. His presence has always grounded me, but right now I feel like I’m teetering on the brink of madness.
His cheeks flush faintly, but he covers it with a crooked smile. “I gotta pack of cards downstairs. Why don’t we play a game? I’ll buy you those shitty sour candies that you like.”
I blink at him, trying to read his tone. “They’re not shitty.”
He snorts. “I don’t understand how you eat those. I feel like they’re gonna burn my tongue off.”
I laugh through my nose. Before I can answer, a voice cuts through the air like a blade.
“Oh, hey, Thorn.” His voice claws down my spine.
Magnus.
He walks up to us calm, cool, collected. Like he just didn’t make a mess of me on the conference room floor. The scent of him hits me before I even look up—faint whiskey, sweat, a trace of his cologne. My stomach flips.
Kyle notices my sudden shift. He takes a subtle step, putting his body between Magnus and me.
“Flint,” Kyle says flatly.
Magnus’s smirk sharpens as he takes in the scene.
He’s still damp from our rendezvous, curls sticking to his forehead, lips faintly swollen.
His blue eyes flick to Kyle’s hand near my arm and then back up, narrowing slightly.
“Relax. I was just apologizing to Hale for distracting him on the ice,” he says lightly, but his tone has an edge.
“Wasn’t anything serious, just wanted to knock him off his game. ”
He licks his lips, slow, deliberate, and I know he’s still tasting me on his mouth. “Is all forgiven, Prince?”
The nickname hits me low in the gut. I stuff my hands in my pockets to hide the apparent blood rush to my crotch. “I gotta take a call.” My voice is paper-thin.
“Al—” Kyle starts, but I’m already moving.
Behind me, I hear Kyle’s voice harden. “Cut the crap, Flint. You’re toying with him.”
Magnus laughs, low and dangerous. “Toying? Please. We’re rivals. A little mental game never hurt anyone.”
“You’re not just playing head games on the ice.” Kyle’s voice drops lower, more controlled. “You know he’s—” He cuts himself off, but the implication hangs between them. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Do I?” Magnus’s tone turns sharp, territorial. “And what is it you think I’m doing, Thorn?”
“I think you’re sniffing around him because you know he’s vulnerable. Because you know he won’t bite back. Because you like breaking things.” Kyle’s fists clench at his sides. “You’re not gonna break him.”
For a moment, there’s silence, and I can almost feel Magnus’s grin turn predatory even without looking back.
“Break him?” Magnus echoes. “No, Thorn. I take very good care of my toys.”
Kyle steps in closer, squaring up. “Stay away from him.”
Magnus tilts his head, eyes flicking to me retreating down the hall, then back to Kyle. “Or what? You’ll protect him?” His voice drips mockery, but underneath there’s a flare of something else—territory staked, a warning. “You think you know what he needs?”
“I know he doesn’t need you,” Kyle says quietly.
Magnus chuckles, low. “Whatever, man. You’re making this more than what it is.”
That’s when I push through the stairwell door, cutting off the sound of their voices. The heavy door swings shut behind me with a thud that echoes down the concrete steps.
I stop in the stairwell, gripping the railing like I can crush it. Shame claws at me, sharp and suffocating, but beneath it—worse—is a pulse of pleasure. I liked it. I liked hearing him speak my name, liked seeing hunger flare in his eyes instead of disgust. He wanted it. He wanted me like that.
And I wanted it too.
My cock stirs in my compression shorts, traitorous, hungry. I squeeze my thighs together, furious at myself, but it only makes the ache sharper. I sink onto the steps, elbows braced on my knees, dragging both hands down my face until my skin burns.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I can’t stop replaying it. The way he tasted—whiskey, sharp and bitter. The scrape of his stubble against my skin. The way his body pushed back against mine was solid and unyielding. And underneath the anger, underneath the rivalry, there was something else. Something dark, something electric.
The truth is, Magnus made me feel alive.
I’ve spent years locking myself in ice, burying everything under control—family expectations, team pressure, the constant whisper that I don’t belong here, that I only made it because of my father’s money. I’ve carried all of it like armor. Untouchable. Perfect.
And Magnus shattered it with a grin and a kiss. Maybe a little more.
I hate him for that. But I hate myself more, because I fucking let him defile me.
I drag in a breath, but it’s useless. My body won’t calm down. My cock is thick and aching now, pulsing with every memory. Him grinding against me, taunting me, saying I was hard just from his words. He was right. He is right.
I slam my fist into the step, the crack of knuckles on concrete grounding me, pain spiking through my hand. It’s not enough. Nothing is enough to drown this heat.
The locker rooms are empty, most of the guys sleeping in the halls or downstairs green rooms. I strip my clothes off in a haze, leaving a trail to the stall.
The shower is hot enough to sting, and I let it run over me until my skin is raw and pink.
I scrub with practised aggression, soap foaming into the drain, as if I can scrub out the memory with lather.
Instead, every movement of my body brings it back: how his mouth found the hollow under my ear, the way he claimed my breath with his lips. The ache in my groin throbs, angry and constant; the denial he engineered sits like a coal at the base of me.
I sink to the tile and let the water wash me into small sobs that I keep boxed inside my throat. Rage and lust and humiliation tangle into something I cannot tease apart. For all my training, all my polished composure, this is what he’s done to me—left me raw and aching, furious and needing.
And yet even as I tell myself these things I can feel the ache still humming beneath my ribs. The memory of him—of how he denied me, then left me burning—will not let me go. The nearest, simplest truth sits in the back of my mind like a thumb pressing in a bruise:
He knows how to take what he wants. And I am terrified that I’ll want him to take it again.
I close my eyes and see him against the glass, lips red, eyes alight, whispering Say it… say you want me.
I see the way his body shuddered when I tightened my grip on his throat. The way he got hard for me.
The image makes my cock throb, hard and urgent now, and before I can stop myself, my hand is wrapping around it. Shame floods me even as a groan escapes my throat, echoing in the empty shower. I stroke myself fast, furious, chasing relief and hating every second of it.
I imagine him again. His laugh. His mouth. His voice taunting, filthy. You hate how my hand is about to make you come.
I imagine it’s his hand rubbing me so aggressively. That it’s his mouth making me wet and sticky and not from the lonely cum leaking from me.
His name ghosts my mouth.
My name isn’t a safe word, Hale.
I come hard, bracing against the tile, spilling down the drain as my body shakes. And then the shame drowns me. I sag against the wall, chest heaving, water sliding down, washing away the evidence but not the truth. My hands tremble. My throat burns with disgust.
I gave in to him in that room. And I gave in again here, alone.
Magnus owns me now. Not just my body, but my mind. He’s in me, under my skin, in my fantasies, in my shame.
And the worst part is—I don’t want to let him go.
I stay under the water until it runs cold, punishing myself with the sting. When I finally shut it off, my skin is red and raw, my body exhausted. I dress quickly, jaw tight, every movement sharp with anger.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I’ll bury this. Tomorrow I’ll lock it down, rebuild the walls, pretend it never happened.
Never again. But even as I whisper it under my breath, I know it’s a lie.
Because if Magnus Flint corners me again—if he looks at me with that fire in his eyes, if he taunts me with that voice—
I won’t be able to resist.