Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Not my fault you knocked me up and got hotter
Reid
The barbell dips, then rises slowly above my chest. I count the rep in my head, exhale through my nose, and lower again.
Six weeks ‘til puck drop. My body’s ready, finally. Stronger than it’s been since the surgery and the end of last season, but that doesn’t mean I’m easing off. If anything, I’m pushing harder.
She’s been pushing too, in her own way. Carina’s spent the last few weeks pulling together everything for the inquiry—notes, emails, witness logs, clinical evidence.
Still frustrated, but she’s calmer now. Every time I look at her, she’s got a different folder open or a new medical journal pulled up like she’s building a fortress out of facts.
And when she’s not doing that, she’s all in on baby prep.
Name lists. Nursery moodboards. Research tabs on everything from bottle sterilizers to car seat safety ratings.
She even went for coffee with Charlie, Lulu, Tamara, and Zoe last week. Brought Heidi along, and introduced her like they were all part of the same damn coven. I wasn’t invited—thank God—but the thought of that lineup still sends a ripple of fear through me.
I rack the bar and shift my grip. Sweat drips down my spine, and the hum of the air conditioning clicks on in the background.
Another set, another shot at getting it right. At being ready.
Because if this is my last season, I want it to be the one people remember.
Not the year I was injured, or the year I missed the Olympics.
The year I came back swinging.
I’m in the midst of another set when I hear it. Bare feet on concrete. I hear her before I see her, then her drowsy but amused voice.
“That bench taken?”
I turn my head, and the bar nearly slips.
Carina stands in the doorway of the home gym wearing one of my shirts—my softest Storm button-down, the navy one—and nothing else. It’s open, loose over her belly, her skin glowing in the morning light.
Her hair’s mussed, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. And somehow, still the most dangerous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Jesus, Park.”
She pads toward me. “You always this reverent at six in the morning, or is it the shirt?”
“It’s the shirt,” I lie. “Looks better on you.”
She stops at the edge of the bench and tilts her head. “You done?”
“Almost.”
“Shame.” She drags her fingers lightly across my shoulder, then lets them trail down my bicep. “Guess I’ll wait.”
My brain short-circuits as her hand slips even lower. “I gotta finish the set.”
“Mmhmm.” She perches on the edge of the bench between my knees. “Don’t mind me. Just observing proper form.”
I groan under my breath and lift the bar again, refusing to look at her. One rep. Two. I can feel her gaze like a spotlight.
She hums. “Nice… grip.”
“Park.”
“What?” She’s smiling now. “I’m just appreciating the view.”
“Then let me finish—” I grunt as the next rep burns through my triceps.
But she doesn’t let me, because the next thing I know, she’s swinging one leg over me and straddling my hips right there on the bench.
The bar hovers over my chest, and my brain flatlines completely.
“Carina.”
She leans forward, her palms dusting my collarbones for a moment. “Hi.”
I rack the bar with more force than necessary and grab her hips before she can do anything else that might break me.
“I’m sweating.”
She rolls her hips once. “I’m wet.”
“You’re seven months pregnant.”
“Mmhmm.”
“And horny.”
“Not my fault you knocked me up and got hotter.” She leans down and kisses the corner of my mouth. “It’s your fault I’m this horny.”
My grip tightens on her sides.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, Havoc.”
She just smiles. “Yeah, but what a way to go.”
Then she straddles me fully, sliding until her knees bracket my hips on the bench, belly prominent and shirt hanging open.
I groan low in my throat, as her fingers hook into the waistband of my gym shorts.
“Carina—”
“Can I?” Her voice is raspy, but she pauses, waiting for my answer.
“Yeah.” I nod once, already gone. “Fuck yeah.”
She pulls everything down in one motion, tugging until my cock springs free, already hard and aching and flushed with the same heat that’s rising in my chest.
“Jesus.” My head drops back against the bench, muscles flexing as she sinks onto me. “Fuck, baby.”
“Thought I better give you something fresh to jerk off to,” she exhales, grinding gently. “While you’re stuck in some hotel room next week without me.”
My palm lands on her ass with a sharp clap before I can stop myself.
“Filthy little mouth.”
She moans, eyes fluttering. “That a complaint?”
“No,” I growl. “That’s a never stop.”
Her body’s different now—fuller, softer, skin flushed and glowing—but she’s still her, and I’m still a fucking goner.
She starts to move faster, wringing the pleasure out of every inch, even as she wobbles.
“Hey, careful.” I tighten my grip on her thighs. “You sure you’re okay like this?”
She braces one hand on my chest and meets my eyes. “Reid, I’m seven months pregnant. I’ve researched every safe position twice, and I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to ride you right now. So unless you wanna be medically overruled…”
I groan again, shaking my head.
“Is this how I go?” I manage. “Fucked to death on a bench press?”
She grins. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
“You stop,” I grit out, “and I’m divorcing you before we even get married.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, and I feel it all the way through me as much of the idea of it all. Especially as she leans forward, palms flat on my chest, and grinds down harder.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “Keep going.”
I brace her thighs with both hands, helping her move, helping her take me deep.
Sweat beads along my spine, but I don’t care, not when she’s looking at me like that.
Not when she’s so wet, so tight, so fucking mine.
Flushed and wild-eyed, sweat-slicked and glowing—something holy and dangerous all at once.
“You feel so good like this. Look at you, taking me so fucking well.”
I let one hand drift between us, thumb swirling over her clit, and she jerks with a gasp.
“Stay still,” I murmur. “Let me work that needy little clit.”
I circle in slow circles, and her hips buck again.
“Uh-uh.” My grip tightens. “I said stay still.”
She whines and bites her lip, looking down at me.
“Mm,” I chuckle. “So sensitive.”
“Shut up,” she pants. “And do it again.”
I do, with a taunting pressure, then a few quick, soft, rhythmic taps until she lets out a string of expletives that would make Chase proud.
“Language,” I grunt.
“Reid—fuck—”
“Eyes on me.” My voice drops. “Stay right here.”
“Don’t stop,” she pants, dipping her head low. “Please—”
“You don’t beg.” I brush my mouth to her ear. “You listen.”
Her body melts against mine, head falling to my shoulder as I swirl my thumb harder.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You,” she whimpers. “Always.”
“That’s right.” I brace her hips and angle deeper as her pussy tightens around me. “You’re gonna come for me, right here, riding my cock.”
She sits back up again, rocking faster as her eyes roll back, nodding on a half gasp, half sob.
“Now,” I order. “Come for me, Havoc.”
And fuck, she does—crying out softly as her body clenches, trembling as she comes with her nails digging into my skin. It pulls me right over the edge with her. I groan, hips jerking up as I spill inside her, one hand sliding to cradle the curve of her belly.
“Fuck,” I bite out. “Good girl, just like that.”
She gyrates slowly on me for a moment longer, and then stills, her chest rising and falling as she slumps sideways into me.
“You’re unbelievable,” I whisper into her hair, my heart still racing.
She hums. “Hormones. Don’t get cocky.”
I grin up at the ceiling, still inside her.
Best damn workout of my life.
***
The locker room’s a battlefield of chirps and stick tape, sweat and liniment, half the team still jetlagged from off-season chaos.
“Look who finally shows up,” Chase calls, tossing a roll of tape at Logan. “Hope Lulu let you hydrate between rounds.”
Eli looks up from lacing his skates, eyes narrowing like he’s two seconds from homicide. “Say one more word about my sister, I dare you.”
Chase smirks at him, dodging Eli’s swipe. “Relax, Big Brother. I meant rounds of Mario Kart.”
“Same.” Logan snags the tape midair. “And you’re dogshit at Mario Kart.”
“Tell that to my turtle shell, bitch.”
“Don’t,” I mutter.
Chase wheels toward me. “What?”
“Don’t talk about turtles.”
Jake snorts. “Christ, you really are traumatized.”
“It’s not trauma,” I say flatly. “It’s survival instinct.”
Chase grins, eyes immediately lighting up. “Oh, I’m bringing the balloon back.”
“You bring another turtle balloon near me,” I say, “and I’ll duct-tape you to Evan’s glove.”
Evan, our backup goalie, goes pale.
Logan grunts. “Better Evan than me.”
“Pookie!” Chase gasps. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, my little schnookie wookie!”
He lunges, and one arm snakes around Logan’s head in a dramatic noogie attempt. Logan squawks and shoves him back, and suddenly, they’re wrestling like toddlers—sticks clattering, tape flying, Chase cackling like it’s the best day of his life.
“Careful, big guy,” Logan says, grinning as Chase tries to pin him. “Wouldn’t wanna wrinkle my Zoe-branded shorts.”
Chase’s smile fades fast. “You’re gonna die!”
“Get off me, Walton!”
Jake doesn’t even look up. “If you two clowns get us kicked out of training camp, I’m telling Coach you’re both concussed.”
“I am concussed,” Chase says cheerfully as Logan pushes him and turns back to his stall. “From carrying this team’s personality on my back.”
Viktor adjusts a strap. “Your back must be very small.”
“Vikky. Did you just make a joke?”
“I am working on my social skills.”
“I’m so proud of you, buddy.” Chase slaps his chest. “That was almost human.”
I finish taping my pads and let the noise wash over me. The pulse of pre-season—familiar and relentless. I missed this.
Two stalls down, Evan fidgets like he’s about to be drafted into combat instead of practice. He’s our backup goalie who played most of last season, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he won’t meet my eyes.
“Uhh… Hutchison?”
I glance over.
He clears his throat. “Your reckon Coach is still doing that thing where he rips into you mid-drill, then tells the media you’re the backbone of the team?”
I huff a laugh. “Yep.”
“Right.” He nods too fast. “Cool, just checking.”
“Don’t flinch,” I add, standing to roll out my shoulders. “He feeds on weakness.”
That gets a ghost of a smile.
“And if you hesitate again when Chase winds up, I’m painting a target on your chest myself.”
Chase sighs dramatically. “Ahh, the warm, nurturing energy of the Storm mentorship program.”
Eli whistles low. “That was mellow for Hutchy. Must’ve got laid.”
Coach Benson steps into the room before I can claw my way out of their bullshit. He doesn’t give speeches, doesn’t really need to. But he pauses just inside the door, eyes sweeping over the stalls to Jake, Logan, Eli, Chase, and Viktor. All here, early and voluntarily, for training camp.
“Half of you aren’t even scheduled for camp,” he says. “But I guess when your starter misses half the season and comes back swinging for playoffs, the rest of the pack comes running.”
He doesn’t smile, but there’s a beat of pride beneath it. A glint in his eyes as they sweep over us all and land back on me.
“It’s because he gives off Daddy Energy, Coach, and he—”
“Shut the fuck up, Walton,” Logan groans through a chuckle, shoving him.
“The day Hutchison’s your daddy is the day I let you run a press conference,” Coach says without looking over at Chase, and the entire locker room loses it.
Coach makes his way to the exit. As he passes my stall, he turns to me and mutters almost inaudibly.
“Lead like you mean it, Hutchison.”
Then he’s gone.
I nod once to myself and get back to taping.
Already am.
***
Coach Benson claps hard once. “Last set. Battle drills. Hutch, crease.”
I tap the pipe with my stick and drop into stance.
Jake’s first up. He’s fast, but I know him too well. I block the shot low and hard, and feel it vibrate through my chest. Chase takes the next one and gets too cute. I flash the glove and toss the puck back at his skates.
“Try again when you’re house-trained.”
“Oof,” Chase mutters, skating around the net. “Daddy’s in a mood today.”
There’s another whistle, followed by another drill. By the end of the skate, sweat’s soaking through my base layer, and my legs are on fire. But I feel good. Solid and ready.
This year, I’m not easing in. This year I’m making it count.
As we wrap the last drill, Benson calls out the schedule—first pre-season away game’s in Calgary, then a two-city stretch before we’re back for the home opener.
Three weeks, five games. A lot to prove.
I strip off my gloves and stretch out my shoulder, heat still humming through me.
Yeah.
I’m ready.