Chapter 29
PENALTY SHOT
JACE
Idressed like I was building a body that could survive one last night.
Tape first. Wrapped tight around the ankle, the knee, reinforcing joints that had held together through three weeks of brutal rehab.
The shoulder brace went on next, fitted snug under the padding.
Then the anti-inflammatory I'd swallowed dry because my hands were shaking too much to grab water.
Every movement was calculated. Every piece of gear a layer of armor between me and the pain I knew was coming.
The locker room buzzed with pre-game energy—guys going through their routines, music playing low, the familiar rhythm of preparation.
Win and we were in. Lose and the season was over.
And somewhere in the background of all that hockey pressure was the other thing—the photos, the scandal, the fact that half the arena would be watching me and Grant instead of the puck.
I pulled my jersey over my head carefully, testing the shoulder's range of motion.
It held. Sore, tight, but functional. The leg was worse—a deep ache that started in the hamstring and radiated down when I put weight on it.
I'd learned to hide it. Learned to move in ways that compensated without looking like compensation.
Tess had cleared me to play but the second anything spiked, I was supposed to signal.
I had no intention of signaling.
“Hart.”
I looked up to find Rook standing in front of my stall, already in full gear, face serious. “You good?”
“Yeah. I'm good.”
“Don't bullshit me. Can you actually do this?”
I met his eyes. “I can do this.”
He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder before moving off. I went back to my tape job, fingers working automatically while my brain ran through every scenario. Every shift. Every potential mistake.
The door to the locker room opened and June walked in, looking like she'd aged five years in the past week. She made a beeline for me, voice low.
“Final optics rules,” she said. No preamble. “No lingering near Coach Sutherland. No private moments that cameras can catch. Keep it clean until the final horn. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Jace. The media is salivating for another photo. One slip and this whole thing explodes again.”
“I said I understand.”
She studied my face, then sighed. “Good luck tonight. Win this thing.”
She left, and I stood up, testing my weight on the bad leg. It held. Barely. But it held.
The arena atmosphere filtered through the walls. People weren't just here for hockey. They were here for the story.
I grabbed my stick and headed toward the hallway, needing a moment away from the noise. The corridor outside the locker room was dimmer, quieter, and I leaned against the wall, breathing through the pain and the nerves and the fucking fear that I'd worked so hard to bury.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. I knew them before I looked up.
Grant.
“You shouldn't be out here,” I said quietly. “June will have a stroke.”
“Fuck June.” He moved closer, and I saw the hint of a smile. “I needed to see you before you go out there and make me look good.”
Despite everything, I felt myself relax slightly. “Pretty sure that's my job every game.”
“Exactly. So don't fuck it up tonight.” His hand found my wrist, thumb pressing against my pulse. Not checking if I was okay—just touching me. Grounding both of us. “You ready?”
“As I'll ever be.”
“Good. Because I've watched you work your ass off to get here, and I'll be damned if you don't go out there and remind everyone why you're on the first line.” His voice was steady, certain. “You've earned this, Jace. Every second of ice time tonight.”
My chest went tight. “Grant—”
“And when you score—not if, when—I'm going to stand behind that bench and try very hard not to smile like an idiot.” He squeezed my wrist. “Which will be difficult because I'm incredibly proud of you.”
I felt my throat close up. “You're not supposed to say shit like that right before a game. You're supposed to give me a pep talk about playing smart and following the system.”
“Fine. Play smart. Follow the system. Don't do anything stupid.” He paused. “But also, you're brilliant and I'm lucky to coach you. How's that for a pep talk?”
“Terrible. Completely unprofessional.”
“Good thing we've already blown past professional.” His smile was small but real. “Now get back in there before someone sees us and June actually does have that stroke.”
I glanced down the hallway, making sure we were still alone, then stepped closer. Close enough to feel his body heat. Close enough to smell ice and coffee and the faint scent of his cologne underneath.
Then he pulled me into the equipment room across the hall, door closing behind us with a soft click.
The room was small, crowded with spare gear and sticks, dimly lit. Grant backed me against the wall, hands framing my face, and kissed me like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
I kissed him back desperately, hands fisting in his shirt, needing this more than I'd realized. Needing him to ground me before I walked out onto that ice and faced everything waiting there.
“We shouldn't—” I said against his mouth.
“I know.” But he didn't stop. His hands slid down to my waist, gripping tight, and I gasped when he pressed closer.
“Grant, the game—”
“We have some time.” His voice was rough, wrecked. “I need this. I need you.”
And god, I needed him too. Needed the weight of him against me, needed his hands on my skin, needed proof that we were real and solid and worth fighting for.
His mouth moved to my neck, teeth scraping, and I bit down on my lip to keep from making a sound. My hands found his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, and he groaned low in his throat.
“Jace—”
“Please.” I didn't care that we were in an equipment room. Didn't care that the game started in thirty minutes. Didn't care about anything except the way he was looking at me.
He kissed me again, harder this time, and I felt the last of my control shatter. His hands were everywhere. I arched into him, and pain flared in my shoulder but I didn't care. Couldn't care. Not when he was touching me like this.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against my mouth.
“Don't you fucking dare.”
He didn't.
His hands moved lower, finding the waistband of my hockey pants, and I helped him shove them down along with the compression shorts underneath. The jockstrap stayed in place—standard game-day gear—but it left me exposed enough that when his hand wrapped around my cock I gasped.
“Fuck—Grant—”
“Shh.” His other hand came up to cover my mouth. “Quiet. We can't let anyone hear.”
I nodded against his palm, biting down on my lip as his hand started stroking me. I was already hard, had been since the moment we'd stepped into this room, and every touch sent sparks of pleasure through my oversensitive body.
“Turn around,” he said, voice low and commanding.
I did, bracing my hands against the wall, and felt him press against my back. His hands ran over my ass, squeezing, spreading, and I heard the sound of a bottle cap popping.
“You keep lube in the equipment room?” I asked, voice strained.
“Shut up.” But I could hear the smile in his voice. His slick fingers found my hole, circling, pressing, and I pushed back against them.
“Please,” I breathed. “Please, Daddy. Need you inside me.”
He added a second finger, working me open quickly, and I bit down hard on my forearm to keep from making noise. The stretch burned but I didn't care. Needed more. Needed him.
“Please, Daddy. I'm ready. I can take it.”
The filthy words did something to him. I heard his breathing change, felt his fingers withdraw, and then the blunt head of his cock was pressing against my hole.
He pushed in slowly despite the urgency, and I felt every inch as he stretched me open. The burn was intense but I pushed back against it, taking him deeper, needing him all the way inside.
“Fuck—you feel so good—” His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.
“More. Deeper. Give me all of it.”
He bottomed out and we both went still, breathing hard, adjusting to the fullness. Then he started to move.
It was fast and desperate and nothing like the careful, thorough fucking at the cabin. This was need and fear and love all tangled together, both of us chasing something we couldn't name.
“That's it—fuck—taking me so well—” His voice was wrecked.
I braced myself against the wall, letting him use me, and felt pleasure building despite the time crunch and the fear of getting caught. Every thrust hit my prostate, sending shocks of sensation through my body.
“Harder,” I gasped. “Need it harder.”
He complied, slamming into me, and I had to press my face against my forearm to muffle the sounds I was making. The pain in my shoulder and leg faded into background noise, overwhelmed by the pleasure and the desperate need to feel him come inside me.
“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Gonna breed this hole and send you out there full of me.”
“Yes—please—need it—”
His hand wrapped around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and I felt my orgasm building fast.
“Come with me,” he ordered. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”
“Close—so close—”
He thrust harder, deeper, hand working my cock, and I felt him swell inside me. “Fuck—Jace—gonna come—”
“Do it. Fill me up. Please, Daddy, give me your come—”
He came with a muffled groan, burying himself deep, and I felt the hot pulse of him filling me. The sensation pushed me over the edge and I came hard, spilling over his hand and onto the floor, biting down on my arm to keep from crying out.
We stayed like that for a moment, both shaking, both trying to catch our breath. Then he pulled out carefully and I felt his come start to leak from my hole.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
I straightened slowly, testing my legs, and turned to face him. He looked wrecked—hair messed, face flushed, eyes dark with satisfaction.
“That was insane,” he said.
“Worth it.”