Chapter 12
Connor
Captain’s practice is fucking killing me today. The freshmen look like they’ve done shit over the summer to prepare for the season. Big mistake. We’re defending champions with a reputation for having the best, most brutal players.
Zach plasters another new winger into the boards. The kid better learn or get the fuck off this team.
Unless he’s as stubborn as Henneman.
I sink my teeth deeper into my mouthguard. Spent the past two days in Zach’s dorm. My friend didn’t question when I showed up at two in the morning. Viktor had gone to Beckett's, so I crashed in his bed.
Not that I slept.
I had borrowed Zach’s laptop and spent the night watching the video feed of my room. Henneman was on the phone for hours, body shaking the same way it had when I touched him and he shattered.
Fuck.
Can't stop seeing it.
Ryan did most of the same yesterday. Should've gotten a camera model with audio because I have no fucking clue who was on the other end.
But giving him space wasn’t the only reason I stayed away.
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I jerked off thinking about him. Or that we ended up kissing and grinding on one another. Or how when he’d flicked on the lights, his eyes on my dick, my orgasm hit hard.
And fuck, in that moment, I wanted him to watch. Wanted my husband to crave my dick.
I swallow hard and refocus on practice. “Let’s get a scrimmage going. Black and white jerseys, you’re team one! Green and gold, team two!”
Henneman glides toward the bench, shoulders hunched like he wants to disappear. Our eyes meet for a split second and he stiffens, then looks away.
Goddammit.
Zach glides in beside me. “He’s worse today.”
“Don’t fuck with him.”
His stick taps mine once. “What happened?”
I turn back to the team without answering my friend. “Line up. And you all better play like your fucking lives depend on it!”
I skate to the face-off circle. Better to play than to go further into my head. I win possession and send the puck back to one of our new defensemen. He passes cross ice to the winger, who feeds back to me. I take a slapshot, but Viktor saves it.
The opposing team moves like they're half-asleep. “You're playing like it's fucking Sunday skate. Move your asses.”
We reset for another face-off. Winning the puck again, I send it into the offensive zone. Beating out the defense, I wrap around the net, and Viktor doesn’t even try to stop me.
He flings his water bottle at the nearest defenseman’s skates. “You useless shitheads planning to cover anyone today, or should I send out a fucking invitation?”
I smirk as I pull up beside him. “Thought you would enjoy an opportunity to show off.”
“Well, yeah.” He looks over to the bench. “Why’s your husband staring off into space?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Lie.
My fingers tighten on the shaft of my stick. I skate toward the bench, then hop over the boards just as Henneman gets onto the ice. But instead of watching the whole team, my attention is on him. He’s physically playing hard, but his head isn’t in it.
Fifteen minutes in, and my team is up by three. Everyone starts getting chippy. Some freshmen are refusing to get on the ice—time for them to enter the transfer portal.
Zach jerks his chin toward the defensive zone. “He better pick his head up.”
Henneman’s tangled up with a sophomore winger. Jenkins is solid, physical, and the kind of player who thinks hitting hard makes up for average skill.
The puck comes loose along the boards. Henneman skates toward it, head down for just a second too long. Jenkins drives him headfirst into the boards.
I’m on the ice, skating full speed at the laughing sophomore. Just as he turns his head, my fist connects with the cage of his helmet. Then I swing again.
And again.
“You dumb motherfucker!”
He recovers and throws a haymaker. But I duck it, then grab him, and using my hip as leverage, drop him.
“Get the fuck off my ice.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” He gets up and skates away, giving me the finger as he hops off the ice.
Everyone stares, including Henneman.
My eyes narrow at the group. “Line up. One more round.”
I make the mistake of looking at Viktor, that annoying lopsided smirk spreading across his face.
With a huff, I skate to the bench, shaking my hand.
There was absolutely no fucking need for Jenkins to be boarding teammates during practice.
Especially those who have helped us win championships and those who scored winning goals.
The dumb shit sophomore needs his face rearranged more than what I managed to do.
Fuck.
Why do I even care?
The remainder of practice is clean. Focused. No one else feels like testing my patience. When we head into the locker room, I toss my gloves and helmet onto my bag, then drop onto the bench and let out a long exhale.
Zach eyes me as he removes his gear. “You good?”
“Just need a good night’s sleep.” My phone dings, and I reach into my bag and pull it out.
My fingers curl around my phone hard enough to crack the screen as I read the alerts.
Father: Family dinner tonight. 6 PM sharp.
Father: Don't even think about being late.
Dammit.
Only one hour. Barely enough time to shower. Definitely can’t go back to the dorm. So, we’re going in sweats.
Shit.
Across the locker room, Henneman’s just starting to remove his gear. This is going to be a problem. “Hey, we need to leave in fifteen minutes.”
He freezes midway through pulling off his helmet. “W-why?”
“Family dinner.” I take a measured breath, straightening my spine. Fuck my father for this last-minute bullshit. But there's no other option. “You need to shower here.”
All the color drains from his face, eyes are wide the whites show from across the room as he drops onto the bench. “I can't—I need to—I can go back to—”
“No time.”
Both hands drag down my face. If I force him, he breaks. If I don’t, we’re late.
“Everyone out!” Zach's voice booms through the locker room as he grabs players and shoves them toward the door. “Now!”
Viktor joins him, even yanking Jenkins by the hair. “Out you go, pissant.”
Once they’re gone, Zach locks the door and then faces us. Henneman has his skates and upper gear off. His gaze bounces between me, Viktor, and Zach.
Viktor dips at the waist, one hand extended toward the showers. “All yours.”
Henneman slowly removes the rest of his gear, eyes on us. When he’s down to his base layers, he looks over at me, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“Move it. We have to go. You don't have a choice right now.”
He takes a shaky breath and removes the shirt.
Fuck.
I fumble through my bag, searching for nothing. But it keeps me from looking at the way his skin shines from sweat, at how much muscle he has, like he should be playing football instead of hockey. He’s so goddamn big. And his nipples—
“Connor?”
“What?”
When Henneman doesn’t say anything, I look up. He’s just standing there, unblinking. So, I get up, grab his arm and then lead him to the showers. “Knight is by the door. No one’s getting in.”
I grab a clean towel from the stack, then hold it out to him. “They won't look. And no one touches you. You have my word.”
He takes tentative steps as he heads to the farthest shower stall. I turn and face forward but remain standing on the transition strip between the two areas. Viktor walks back to his cubby and finishes undressing, just as the sound of running water fills the room.
No panic attack.
Good.
Zach stares at me, still standing in front of the door, arms crossed. “You do something to him?”
“No.”
Viktor snorts. “Only held a gun to his head.”
I’m going to punch him.
“Speaking of which, did you see Henneman’s face when you were dancing with that girl Friday night?” Viktor kisses his fingers, then fans them wide. “Ten out of ten. Pure art. If looks could kill, you’d be a chalk outline.”
“Shut up.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You know he probably can hear you, right?”
He presses a hand to his heart. “My God, it’s happening. You’re actually catching feelings.”
“Not happening.”
“Then why’d you go full Killian Blackwell on Jenkins?” He grins widely, waggling his brows.
I exhale sharply, cracking my neck. “We don’t need to lose a player before the beginning of the season.”
“Right. Had nothing to do with Jenkins touching your man.”
Swear I’m going to throat punch him if he doesn’t shut up. “He’s not . . . I’m not . . .”
“There's more than one fucking label.” Zach's voice is low, dangerous.
I growl but say nothing.
Because what the fuck am I supposed to say, especially after Wednesday night? I like women. Always have. Yet between Raiyne and Henneman, there might be more to it. But there’s too much shit going on, too much at stake, to figure it all out right now.
Zach closes the distance between us, getting right up in my face. “You came to my place in the middle of the night, crashed there for two days. Now your husband's panicking worse than ever. You better not be pulling some Buckland shit.”
My entire body goes rigid, every muscle locking tight. Blood roars in my ears. “I am nothing like that homophobic fuck.”
Zach's jaw clenches, tendons standing out. “Figure your shit out, because you sound exactly like our former assistant coach.”
Viktor grabs his blocker off the bench, hurling it at me, and I barely dodge it. “You crashed at our place? For two days? And no one told me? Do you know how betrayed I feel? Like, soul-level betrayal.”
Zach huffs. “He needed space. Not you prying.”
Viktor sprawls on the bench like he owns it, legs splayed, inspecting his nails. “Knight’s right, though. You’re acting like a total bitch. Almost as bad as my cousin. What’s the big deal if you’re into your husband? Bend him over and get some.”
The big deal is that Henneman’s name tore out of me when I came. And that him breaking down over my touch made me want to kill someone.
But now’s not the time to get into all that shit because dinner’s waiting. And with my father, it’s never just a meal.