Chapter 29 #2
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small silicone plug. My eyes widened.
“You came prepared.”
“I know you.” His voice was rough but fond. “Knew you'd want this. Need this.”
He turned me around gently, hands on my hips, and I braced against the wall again. I felt his come still leaking from my hole, warm and slick, and then the press of the plug against my entrance.
“Relax for me,” he murmured.
I breathed out and felt him push it in slowly. The stretch made me gasp but he worked it in carefully until it was fully seated.
The fullness was immediate and overwhelming. His come was trapped inside me, the plug keeping me constantly stuffed, and the knowledge that I’d be skating with this still in me made my spent cock twitch with interest.
“How's that feel?” he asked, hands smoothing over my ass.
“Perfect.” My voice came out wrecked.
“Good.” He turned me back around and kissed me slowly. “Want you to feel me the whole game. Want you to remember who you belong to.”
“Yours,” I breathed against his mouth. “Always yours.”
He pulled back and looked down at himself—his cock still slick with lube and come, softening now but still impressive. “Clean me up.”
It wasn't a question. It was an order.
I dropped to my knees immediately, ignoring the protest from my bad leg, and took him in my mouth. He was soft enough that I could take him all the way, and I worked my tongue over every inch, tasting myself and him mixed together.
“That's it,” he said, hand coming to rest in my hair. “Good boy. Get me clean.”
I sucked gently, thoroughly, making sure I got every trace of come and lube. The taste was familiar now—salt and musk and something uniquely him—and I savored it, knowing I wouldn't get this again until after the game.
When I was satisfied, I pulled off and looked up at him. “Good?”
“Perfect.” He helped me to my feet and tucked himself back into his pants. “You're perfect.”
I pulled up my compression shorts and hockey pants carefully, adjusting around the plug, and felt the shift of it inside me. Every movement was a reminder. Every step would be a reminder.
I was carrying him with me. Literally.
He helped me straighten my jersey, hands gentle now, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You're going to be amazing out there.”
“I know.” I grinned despite the nerves and the pain and the absurdity of what we'd just done. “I've got the best good luck charm.”
“Insane,” he repeated, but he was smiling.
We cleaned up quickly—wiping down the wall, making sure there was no evidence of what had happened—and I tested my weight on the bad leg. It held. The pain was still there but manageable, overshadowed by the satisfied warmth spreading through my body and the constant pressure of the plug.
Twenty minutes later, we emerged from the equipment room separately—me first, then Grant a careful two minutes later.
I was flushed, breathing hard, my jersey slightly askew.
Grant looked wrecked and steady at the same time, and when our eyes met in the hallway, I felt everything we couldn't say out loud pass between us.
I nodded once and headed back to the locker room. The guys were starting to filter toward the tunnel, energy building, and I fell into line beside Rook.
“You good?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Yeah. I'm good.”
“You sure? Because you look—”
“I said I'm good.” But I was smiling slightly, and Rook caught it.
“Jesus Christ, Hart. Right before the biggest game of the season?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed quietly and shook his head.
We lined up in the tunnel, and I felt the arena's energy hit me like a physical force. The crowd was deafening, the lights too bright, and I could feel eyes on me from every direction. Cameras. Fans. Media. Everyone waiting to see if I'd crack.
I stepped onto the ice with pain under my skin and love in my chest—both equally dangerous.
And I'd never felt more ready.
The game started like a war.
The Calgary Titans came out heavy, throwing hits from the first faceoff, trying to establish dominance early. Their captain, Chris Brennan, was leading the charge—big, mean, the kind of player who made a career out of making skill guys like me uncomfortable.
I took a check into the boards on my second shift from one of their D-men that sent lightning up my bad leg.
The impact rattled my teeth, and for a second I saw stars blooming behind my eyes.
But my face didn't change. I pushed off the boards, chased the puck down, and finished my shift before limping back to the bench.
Tess was waiting, eyes narrowed, tablet already in hand. “Pain level?”
“Five.” It was closer to seven, but she didn't need to know that yet.
“Jace—”
“I'm fine. Next shift.”
She didn't believe me. But she let it go because there was nothing else to do. I was playing, and we both knew it.
The first period was a grind. Both teams trading chances, neither willing to give an inch. The Titans were fast, disciplined, and their goalie looked locked in—tracking every puck, making saves look easy.
I got an early look halfway through the period—clean shot from the slot, right in my wheelhouse. The old me would've buried it. But my legs didn't have the same pop, and the shot came off my stick a fraction slow. Their goalie read it, made the save, and I swallowed my frustration.
“Nice try, Hartley!” One of their forwards skated past, grinning. “Heard you were injured. Looks like it's true.”
I ignored him. Skated back to the bench.
Grant was watching, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But I saw his eyes track my stride, cataloguing every hitch, every compensation.
Elias kept us alive with a huge save midway through the period—a point-blank chance from Brennan that should've been a goal. He robbed him with a glove save that had the bench erupting, guys banging sticks against the boards.
“Let's fucking go, Sato!” Mace was screaming.
Then we took a penalty. Borderline call—Hallowell's stick barely touched their forward's hands, but the ref's arm went up anyway. The building booed. I saw June in the tunnel, phone pressed to her ear, looking ready to fight the entire league office.
The penalty kill was brutal. Two minutes of chaos—blocked shots, desperate clears, bodies throwing themselves in front of pucks.
Rook took one off the shin that had to hurt like hell but he didn't even flinch.
Finn chirped one of the Titans mid-clear, something about his mother, and I almost laughed despite the exhaustion burning in my legs.
We killed it. Barely.
Then, with two minutes left in the period, they scored.
Ugly deflection off Volkov's stick, scramble in front of the net, puck bouncing through traffic like a pinball before somehow finding the back of the net. The Titans' bench erupted. Their fans screamed. The horn sounded and I felt the old spiral flare.
I swallowed it down and skated to the bench, focusing on breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
End of first: nothing to one.
I limped to the locker room only when I was sure nobody could see. My leg was screaming, but I'd learned to compartmentalize pain. To file it away in a box labeled “deal with later” and focus on what I could control.
Grant stood in the middle of the room during intermission, calm and controlled despite the deficit. He didn't yell. Didn't panic. Just looked at each of us in turn.
“Next period,” he said simply. “We don't panic. We don't force it. We play our game and we answer.”
His eyes found mine for half a second. Trust yourself.
I nodded, jaw tight, and focused on breathing through the pain radiating from my leg.
The second period opened with speed.
We tightened our forecheck, started winning battles in the corners, and the momentum shifted. The crowd woke up, sensing blood in the water. The Titans started playing chippy, trying to bait us into penalties.
Brennan crosschecked me after a whistle, leaning in close. “Heard your coach is fucking you. That true?”
I didn't take the bait. Just smiled. “Scoreboard, Captain.”
His face darkened, but the ref was already separating us.
I created the equalizer ten minutes in.
I saw Mercer cutting to the net before anyone else did, saw the lane open up for exactly two seconds. I threaded a pass through two defenders, tape-to-tape, and watched him bury it top shelf.
The building erupted. Guys mobbed Mercer, and I skated in for a quick fist bump before heading back to the bench.
Tie game.
I pivoted wrong coming off the bench for my next shift, and the leg screamed. Pain whited out my vision for a second, and I grabbed the boards to keep from going down.
“Jace—” Tess was already moving toward me.
“I'm okay.” I wasn't. But I couldn't stop. Not now. Not with everything on the line.
A scrum broke out near the boards a few shifts later. One of the Titans tried to bait me, crosschecking me after the whistle, shoving me into the glass. But Rook stepped in immediately. Pushed the guy back, took the heat, put himself between me and trouble without a word.
The Titans' player backed off, muttering something about favoritism. Rook just stared at him until he skated away.
Then they scored again on a bad bounce. Shot from the point, deflection off Volkov's skate, puck changing direction at the last second. Elias had no chance.
The Titans celebrated like they'd won the Cup. Brennan skated past our bench, chirping something I didn't catch.
End of second shift.
My leg was a fire. My shoulder throbbed with every breath. I could barely feel my fingers from gripping the stick so hard.
Grant gathered us in the locker room, and I saw the tension in his shoulders. The worry he was trying to hide.
“Twenty minutes,” he said. “Twenty minutes between us and the next round. Twenty minutes to prove what we're made of.”
The third period was heartbreak and hope bleeding together.