23. Damon
Damon
I lean against the railing at the end of the rink, my hands shoved into the pockets of my hoodie as I watch Roman on the ice. The arena is colder than I expected, but the buzz in the air more than makes up for it.
Even though it’s just practice, there’s a low hum of energy—sticks scraping against the ice, the dull thud of pucks hitting the boards, and the sharp, barked orders from the coach.
And then there’s Roman.
I’ve never watched one of his games before, never cared enough to, but right now, I can’t take my fucking eyes off him. He’s fast. Like, crazy fast. He moves across the ice like it’s second nature, his skates cutting smooth, perfect lines as he weaves through his teammates with a confidence that borders on cocky.
It’s not just his speed, though. It’s everything—the way his body moves, the sheer force behind every swing of his stick, the way his shoulders tense and relax as he shifts his weight. He’s like a fucking machine out there, and I hate how hot it is.
I watch as he slams into another player, sending the poor bastard into the boards with enough force to make the glass rattle. He skates off like it’s nothing and like he didn’t just wreck someone’s whole day, his focus locked onto the puck.
And, of course, he looks good doing it.
Roman’s in his full gear—jersey clinging to his broad shoulders, pads emphasizing his size. Even from here, I can see the intensity in his eyes. Every move he makes is fluid, powerful, and so fucking hot I can’t look away.
Jesus Christ, Ward. Get it the fuck together.
My eyes follow him as he breaks away, his speed ridiculous as he races toward the goal. He fakes a shot, his shoulders dipping just enough to throw off the goalie, before slamming the puck into the back of the net.
The sound of the puck hitting the boards echoes through the rink, and I swear I feel it in my chest. His teammates are clapping him on the back, laughing and talking shit, but Roman barely reacts. His eyes are locked on the ice, focused, like nothing else exists.
The whistle blows, signaling the end of practice, and the team starts skating toward the bench. Roman pulls off his helmet, running a hand through his sweaty hair, and I’m struck stupid by how good he looks.
Sweat glistens on his skin, his jersey clinging to his chest, and his eyes scan the rink like he’s still in game mode. He’s breathing hard, his lips parted, and when his gaze finally lands on me, my stomach does a fucking flip.
He freezes for a second—clearly surprised to see me since I never mentioned I’d be watching his practice—before a slow grin spreads across his face. I smirk, leaning back in my seat, then blow him a kiss. Roman rolls his eyes, but the pink flush creeping up his neck is impossible to miss.
The guys around him notice, too, because I see Killian smack him on the back of the head, laughing as Roman shoves him away.
I stay put as they finish up, watching as they head off the ice and disappear into the locker room. It doesn’t take long for him to find me once he’s done, his hair damp from his shower and his bag slung over one shoulder as he strides toward me.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, huh?” he says, stopping in front of me with a raised eyebrow.
“What can I say?” I reply, shrugging. “I wanted to see if you’re as good as everyone says.”
“And?”
I grin, standing up and slinging my arm around his shoulders. “You’re not bad, Hotshot. Pretty fucking hot, too.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him.
“Take us to your place,” I say, nudging him. “I’m starving, and I’m sure your house of idiots has food somewhere.”
“House of idiots,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You’re gonna fit right in.”
The ride back to Roman’s place is quick on my bike. He brought along the spare helmet just in case, and it came in handy. Inside his house, it’s as loud as ever. Someone’s yelling at someone else about laundry, Thorn is complaining about his gear, and I hear the faint sound of music coming from upstairs. Roman barely makes it to the kitchen before I grab him, spinning him around and pressing him against the counter.
“Damon,” he says, his voice full of warning, but the way his hands clutch at my hoodie tells a different story.
“What?” I ask, smirking as I lean in close. “Your roommates don’t mind a show, do they?”
“Don’t push it,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in his words.
I grin, leaning down to kiss him, and he doesn’t pull away. His hands slide up to my shoulders, pulling me closer as he kisses me back, slow and dirty. The noise from the rest of the house fades into the background, and for a moment, it’s just us.
I pull back and hum low in my throat as I grind into him. “Fuck, you have no idea how hard it made me just watching you,” I whisper into his ear. “You’re a fucking beast on the ice, Hotshot.”
Roman groans softly, his hands tightening on my shoulders as his head falls back against the cabinet. “Damon, we can’t do this here,” he mutters, but his voice is strained, his body betraying him as he presses against me.
“Why not?” I murmur, my lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “You’re mine, baby. Let me show everyone.”
“You’re insane,” he breathes, but the way his hips jerk against mine tells me he’s not entirely against the idea.
I barely have time to pull back before Killian’s voice cuts through the tension. “Hey, Bishop, Liam’s—” He stops mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene.
Roman shoves me back, his cheeks flushed as he glares at Killian. “What the fuck do you want, Kill?”
Killian smirks, leaning against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world. “Go on, don’t let me interrupt.”
I chuckle, stepping away from Roman, but not before brushing my fingers along his hip. “Sorry, Hotshot. Looks like the audience has arrived.”
Roman mutters something under his breath, grabbing a water bottle from the counter and glaring at Killian. “What do you want?”
Killian shrugs, his smirk firmly in place. “Liam’s looking for you. Something about schedules Adrian spoke to you about.”
Roman groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can’t you deal with it?”
“Not my circus,” Killian says, clearly enjoying this. His gaze flicks to me and his smirk widens. “So, Damon. Staying for dinner?”
I glance at Roman, who’s avoiding my gaze, and grin. “Guess that depends on whether Roman here wants to feed me.”
Killian laughs, pushing off the doorframe. “You two are fucking weird. I’m out,” and the kitchen falls quiet again when he leaves.
Roman sighs, leaning back against the counter and taking a long drink from his water bottle. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.
“Worth it,” I say, stepping closer again and pressing a hand to his chest. “Now, about that dinner?”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Fine. But don’t expect anything fancy. It’s probably frozen pizza or leftover takeout.”
“Perfect,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the fridge.
As we rummage through the chaotic mess that is their fridge, I can’t help but glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His hair is still messy from practice, his cheeks still flushed, and even though he looks exhausted, he’s never looked better to me.
Roman catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, smirking as I grab a carton of leftover Chinese food. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
He rolls his eyes, but the small smile on his lips gives him away. This could actually work between us, right?