Chapter 16 #2
He pulls me back up for another kiss. This one is deep, messy, and desperate. Our breaths mix. Teeth clash. It’s imperfect and it’s perfect.
There’s no pretending here. No hiding or shame.
When he drags me fully against him, skin to skin, I feel it all—the want, the history, the choice.
This isn’t falling. It’s choosing. Again.
Ollie’s hand slides between us like it never left, wrapping around my cock with zero hesitation. The contact punches the air from my lungs. I try to breathe, but he takes my mouth before I can.
No pause. No checking in.
We’re past that.
I grab him in return, heat and weight familiar in my palm. He makes this low sound against my lips—rough, almost surprised—and it goes straight through me. It’s not just arousal. It’s recognition. Like his body’s been waiting for this exact pressure.
We move like we already know the choreography.
His grip is steady, sure. Mine answers it without thinking.
The pace climbs quick, but neither of us reins it in.
There’s no awkwardness, no rediscovery. Just recognition.
Just the quiet shock of how easily we slot back into this—like the eight years in between were a held breath instead of a lifetime.
I slide my thumb over the head of him, spreading the slick there, and he curses softly.
“Still unfair,” he mutters against my mouth.
“What is?”
“That piercing.”
I huff a breath that’s half a laugh. “You like it?”
His eyes drop between us, dark and intent. “Yeah,” he admits. “I really do.” He adjusts his grip slightly, thumb brushing over the barbell as he moves, and I hiss at the extra friction.
“Jesus,” I breathe.
His mouth curves, just for a second. “Hmm. And it feels fucking incredible when you’re inside me.”
This man. Fuck. I catch his lower lip between my teeth and stroke him harder in answer. He rolls his hips into my hand, not shy about it. Not holding back. His confidence does something to me—because it’s not arrogance. It’s trust.
This isn’t some tentative reunion. It’s knowing exactly how his body reacts when I change pressure.
The way his breathing stutters before he’s close.
The tension that builds in his thighs, the flex of his fingers when he’s trying not to lose control.
It’s the way he looks at me—like I’m not just touching him. Like I’m choosing him.
“Rafe,” he says under his breath when I increase my grip.
I slow for half a beat just to watch him react. His head tips back, eyes closing, throat exposed. For a split second, he looks younger. Softer. Then he grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me back into a kiss that feels like possession.
There’s barely space to breathe.
Our hands work faster, slick and relentless. My vision flickers at the edges. The heat between us builds and builds until it feels almost unsustainable.
“Don’t stop,” he says.
“Not happening.”
Heat coils low. My pulse is everywhere at once. My heart’s slamming, but not from fear. Not this time.
“I’m close,” I warn him.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “Same.”
There’s something in that look. Not urgency.
Certainty.
That’s all the permission either of us needs.
Release hits sharp and blinding. My body jerks, fingers clamping down around him as I come. He follows almost immediately, spilling hot against my hand with a broken sound that cracks straight through me—raw and unguarded.
We stay pressed together, foreheads touching, breath coming hard and uneven. My heart’s still racing, but it feels steadier now. Grounded.
I lean in and press my mouth to his neck, slower this time, dragging my lips along damp skin. He exhales and tugs me closer like he has no intention of letting go.
I press my forehead against his skin, breathing him in. Soap. Sweat. Something that’s always just been him.
“You still here?” he murmurs.
There’s no joke in it. No teasing. Just quiet vulnerability.
I almost laugh, but it catches somewhere deeper. “Yeah,” I say. And this time, I mean more than just physically.
I stay where I am for a moment, breathing him in. His heartbeat is still fast under my palm. Mine is finally starting to settle. The urgency drains out of the room slowly, replaced by something quieter.
I brush my thumb along his jaw. “All good?”
He nods once, eyes still half lidded. “Yeah.” A beat. “You?”
“Yeah.”
We stay tangled together, skin cooling, sheets twisted around our legs. It’s comfortable and familiar.
Ollie is the one who breaks the silence.
“I fly back tomorrow,” he says quietly.
There it is. Reality.
I hum once, because I knew that. Of course I knew that. He has practice. A team that doesn’t stop just because his personal life detonated in public.
“I didn’t forget,” I say.
“I know.” His fingers trace idle lines along my ribs. “We just… didn’t talk about it.”
“No,” I agree.
Because we’ve been too busy reconnecting. Too busy proving we still fit.
He shifts slightly so he can see my face properly. “I asked you for time,” he says, voice steady now. “To prove myself. To show up. That doesn’t work if you’re the one doing all the traveling.”
I study him. “You’re saying you don’t want me to come?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It sounds like it.”
He exhales. “I’m aware that asking you to bounce between cities while I finish the season feels… unfair.”
I almost laugh. “You think I can’t handle a flight?”
“That’s not it.” He rubs a hand over his face. “You have your own life. Your music. Your family. Your sobriety. I don’t want to drag you into my schedule chaos.”
I prop myself up on one elbow. “You didn’t drag me into anything,” I say. “I walked back into this.”
He watches me carefully.
“I can be out there in a week,” I add. “I’ve got a few loose ends in SF, but I can shift things around.”
His eyes flicker with something like hope and guilt tangled together.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“I want to.”
Silence drifts between us.
“I could stay a few days,” I continue. “See how it feels. Maybe catch a home game. Maybe a couple of away games if it lines up.”
He stares at me like I’ve just offered him oxygen.
“You’d do that?” he asks, and there’s no bravado in it. Just raw gratitude.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve only been to a couple of my away games.”
“Guess it’s time for a couple more. At least.”
He huffs a breath, overwhelmed. “Rafe….”
I brush my thumb over his hip absently. “We’ll look at your schedule. Figure it out properly. I’m not winging it.”
He nods slowly. “And if it gets messy?” he asks.
“It’s already messy,” I point out. “We survived that.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to wait until the season’s over,” he adds quietly. “If you wanted to, I’d understand.”
I hate that idea instantly. Waiting until the season ends? Standing on the sidelines of his life while he finishes this chapter alone?
“No,” I say, sharper than I intend. I soften my tone. “I don’t want that.”
He searches my face.
“I don’t want to be the thing you come back to when it’s convenient,” I explain. “I want to be part of it.”
His throat works. “That’s a lot of spotlight and hanging around waiting for me,” he warns.
“I’ve lived in worse.”
That earns a faint smile. He runs his hand through his hair, thinking. “We’ll need to talk to your team about schedules. Security. What we say. What we don’t.”
“I know.”
“And you still have stuff to do in California.”
“I’ll handle it.”
He nods slowly.
The gratitude in his eyes is almost too much.
“You don’t have to save me from my own season,” he says finally.
“I’m not saving you,” I reply. “I’m showing up.”
That lands.
He goes quiet for a second, just looking at me. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay.”
The weight of it settles between us.
We’re not pretending this will be easy. We’re not ignoring logistics or headlines or the fact that my name is currently trending alongside his. But we’re not deferring it either.
He presses his forehead to mine again, softer this time. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For letting me in.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“I won’t ever run again,” he says, almost to himself.
I believe him.
We lie here another minute before reality intrudes properly.
“You need to shower,” he says lightly, glancing at the sheets.
“So do you.”
He snorts.
We untangle slowly this time. As he sits up, the light catches the tattoo along his hip again, and something tightens low in my stomach despite everything we just did.
He notices.
“See something you like?” He smirks.
“I’m just appreciating the art.”
“Appreciate it in the shower.” He arches his brow before sliding off the bed, giving me a fucking incredible view of his ass.
I watch him disappear into the bathroom, and for a moment, I just sit here, bare and grinning like an idiot.
Tomorrow he flies back to Minnesota. In a week, I’ll follow. Maybe I’ll stay for a while.
We’re not promising forever tonight, but we’re not postponing it either.
And that feels like something solid enough to stand on.
Unable to control my grin, or how my cock is trying valiantly to get hard, I follow him into the bathroom, making sure to pick up the bottle of lube I slipped into my bag.