Epilogue One Year Later
DARIUS
I walk into the apartment, and the aroma of Harry’s cinnamon tea lingers in the air.
The same scent fills the apartment every evening, wrapping itself around our home like a quiet embrace.
The sound of the door clicking shut brings me back to the present, and I lean against it for a second, taking in the familiar warmth of the space.
A lot has happened in the last year, since we won the finals. We didn’t even make it to the semis this year, but we had a fantastic season. New boys. New dynamic. Everyone had fun, and that’s what truly matters.
Last summer, after dating for a few months, I asked Harry to move in with me.
He laughed so hard, I thought he might choke on his tea.
“No way,” he’d said, shaking his head. “Your place looks like a sad dorm room, Darius. And besides, my bookshelves are non-negotiable.” He loves those built-in bookshelves as much as I love hockey.
But then Harry came around. Kind of. He didn’t want to leave his place but didn’t want to lose me.
So, he did what Harry does—he compromised.
He asked me to move in with him, and it was ridiculous, because I had already been given a dresser drawer and a shelf in his medicine cabinet, but I couldn’t help the grin that illuminated my face.
I mean, it was the bookshelves. Apparently, bookshelves can cause the guy you're wild about to ask you to move in.
And now, here I am. With Harry. Together. In his apartment. Our apartment.
Even though Harry’s place is smaller than mine, it feels like ours.
There’s an easy rhythm to everything—comfortable, lived-in.
My old place never really felt like home.
Aside from a few trophies, it was just a space.
This, though . . . this feels grown-up. And I like that.
I like living somewhere that feels more like real life.
Fuck—I’m an adult, with a place that feels like home, and a boyfriend who’s sweet, smart, and sexy as hell.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and head toward the living room where Harry’s sitting, his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a book open in his lap. He doesn’t look up when I sit down, but I can tell he’s aware of me. His lips twitch as if he’s holding back a smile.
“Practice went well,” I say, stretching out my legs and leaning back. “Starting with a new group of boys is always a bit of a mess, but I think the kids are getting it.”
Harry nods, the faintest of smirks pulling at the corners of his mouth.
He’s wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of my gym shorts and his curls are damp.
“They’ll be fifth graders soon enough. I’m sure they’re coming along well with such an attentive coach.
Did you teach them how to pass, too, or is that next week’s lesson? ”
“Hey,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him, “are you using hockey terminology now?”
He laughs softly, setting his book aside, and then glances up at me, his expression softening. “When you’re sleeping with the coach, a few things sink in.”
“I love you, Peterson.” The words fall out of my mouth like a slapshot—fast, unexpected, and with a force I didn’t know I had.
Harry leans over, and I notice that familiar glimmer in his eye, the one that makes me wonder how I ever got so lucky to call him mine.
“I love you too, Coach.” He nods to the neatly piled papers on the coffee table. “Especially after spending my evening combing over essays on A Wrinkle in Time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like . . . a blast.”
“Actually, it wasn’t terrible,” he says, his lips twitching in that way he does when he’s trying not to smile too much.
“Some of them had great ideas. Others—well, they still think time travel involves more high-fives than physics, but, you know. It’s all part of the process.
” His lips close in on mine. “And I rewarded myself with a long, hot bath.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Essays and hot baths. Living the dream.”
“Absolutely,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s a tough life, but someone has to live it.”
I watch him for a moment, the way he’s so comfortable in this place, in this life we’ve built. I’ve been lucky to find that here. With him.
“I’m glad to be home,” My voice is quieter, more sincere. I don’t know if it’s the exhaustion from practice or just the weight of everything falling into place, but it feels important to say. “With you.”
Harry gives me a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. Me too.” Then he leans back, his eyes twinkling. “That bath got me all worked up. Thinking about you on the ice.”
“With a bunch of almost fifth graders,” I say with a smirk.
“Okay, not that part.” He tugs at my warm-up jacket. “More you in that jockstrap. Getting all sweaty.”
“No shower?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Harry buries his face in my chest and takes a deep inhale through his nose.
“Got it,” I say.
I’m yanking at my jacket while he tugs at the hem of my shirt. He’s got it up just past my chest before his face returns, planting his nose in my armpit. Harry loves his books, but he may love my scent after practice even more.
“Harry?”
He’s lost in the moment.
“Harry? Let’s go to the bedroom. Please.”
His face remains plastered against my skin. “Mmmmh.”
He comes up for air with a radiant smile spread across his face.
“Come on,” I say, tugging at his hand. “You can smell me better lying on the bed.”
We stumble into the bedroom, removing the rest of our clothes, but I leave my jockstrap on, at least for now. It’s Harry’s kryptonite.
When he pushes me back on the bed and crawls over me, I know he means business. But I have some ideas of my own.
On all fours, Harry crashes his mouth on mine, his tongue eager to fill my mouth, and those cute little groans spilling into me as we kiss.
My fingers reach for the sides of his face, but they soon migrate to his curls, slowly drying, their familiar softness soothing my skin. The heat between us ignites a spark, and I hold him closer.
“Harry,” I pull back. “I want to taste you.”
“Oh, do you, Coach? What part of me would you like to sample?”
“All of you.”
I glide my thumb along his jawline, tracing the outline of the face I love so deeply it hurts. “But let’s start with your dick.”
He chuckles, resting his head in the crook of my neck, and the vibrations from his laughter set my insides aflame.
Harry tosses me a pillow, and I fold it in two, propping my head up while he scoots into position. We’ve done this before and know the play.
Taking him in my grip, the heat of his shaft is electric as his flushed head glistens with a bead of precum. “Fuck, your cock is superb.”
“Open your mouth,” he says. “Tongue out.”
He slaps his dick against my tongue, and I reach under, cupping his balls, the lavender bath soak on his skin filling my nostrils. He takes a turn, smacking his cock against my cheek, chin, and then returning to my tongue. I close my lips around him, and he finally slides in.
“You like it when I fuck your mouth?”
Unable to speak, I nod and let out a sound I hope he interprets as affirmative. Harry reaches back, cupping the stretched pouch of my jockstrap. “You ready to slam me with your stick?”
He runs his fingers over the fabric, teasing. I feel myself almost escaping from the waistband as Harry’s thumb brushes the tip. He brings his hand to his face and pops it into his mouth. “Tasty.”
He moves his hands next to my head and lifts himself so he’s able to plunge into my mouth. After almost a year, I know exactly what he’s doing. Harry likes to get right near the edge before I fuck him.
And I’m happy to help with anything he wants.
We’ve grown so close. Occasionally, a tinge of regret sneaks in when I think about all the years I wasted being an asshat because I didn’t know how to simply tell Harry how I felt.
But that’s the thing about banking time with someone.
With each day we spend together, the version of us that existed before fades into the background.
I lap at the sensitive spot right below the head, and the precum becomes more evident as he pounds away at my throat. It’s almost time. His balls contract in my hands, and he pulls out, gasping.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Harry moves beside me, lying on his stomach, softly kissing my cheek. “Never in a million years did I think you’d have those blow job skills.”
“Well, I’ve had an excellent coach.” I extend my left arm, and Harry places his head on my chest. “Don’t move.”
I’m up, hoisting his ankles above his head, burying my face in his ass. Kissing, licking, and finally fucking him with my tongue, as Harry’s moans fill the bedroom. The bath, the blowjob, my jockstrap. It’s all got Harry horny as hell. He’s wide open.
“Darius, Coach. Fuck.” He grabs onto his feet, allowing my hands to reach down and spread him wider.
My tongue burrows deeper, and, fuck if his ass isn’t the sweetest, most delicious treat.
I’m jutting in and out while Harry does his best to thrust his pelvis to match my rhythm.
My right hand lets go of his butt cheek and snakes up to his cock.
He’s dripping precum like a soft serve on a July afternoon.
“Darius, please. Your cock. I want it inside me. Now.”
I pull back, my face covered in spit. “How do you want to . . .”
Harry reaches over and grabs the lube from the nightstand drawer. “Why don’t you just stay here and let me get things started?” He sits up, crosses his legs, and places a hand on my shoulder.
Glancing up at him, I’ll never tire of admiring how fucking handsome he is. And knowing he’s all mine.
“Sounds good to me.” I lift my hips to slide my jockstrap off, but Harry pushes me down.
“Let’s leave it on.” He tugs the hem of the pouch to the side and my cock pops out, finally free.
“Now, let’s get you nice and ready,” he says.