Chapter 21 Eli
TWENTY-ONE
ELI
The mask slips into place, muffling the edges of the world, but it doesn’t stop my focus from straying.
It never does. I’m supposed to be tracking pucks, scanning shooters, barking at the guys to keep their heads up.
Instead, my gaze keeps snagging on the bench where Max is bent over his clipboard, pen scratching notes, brows drawn in concentration.
God, he looks unfair like that—focused, steady, completely unaware that every time he chews the end of that pen, I want to cross the ice and pull it from his mouth and kiss him senseless. My stomach does this stupid flip, and I force my eyes away before I do something impulsive. Again.
“You’re staring,” a voice sing-songs beside me.
I jerk, mask half turning, and find Daniel leaning on his stick, eyes too sharp for his own good.
“I’m not,” I mutter, way too fast. I should have just brushed him off and agreed. He knows I want Max. It’s not a secret between us.
Daniel smirks, the kind of smirk that says he’s been waiting for this. “Sure you’re not. Just happens to be the most fascinating injury log you’ve ever seen, huh? Nothing to do with the hot as fuck man holding it.”
Heat creeps up my neck under the padding, and thank god the mask hides most of my face. “Shut up and take your shot.”
He laughs, low and knowing, before skating off toward the blue line.
I shift in the crease, trying to shake it off, but my pulse is still racing. Because he’s right. I can’t stop watching Max. Can’t stop wanting. And the worst part? After this weekend, it’s so much harder to pretend I don’t already know what it feels like to have him looking back at me.
Daniel skates off, still chuckling, but I’m left rooted in place. I tell myself to focus, to watch the shooters lining up, but my head betrays me.
Because the second I try not to think about Max, I see him anyway.
The memory sneaks in—yesterday morning, sunlight spilling over tangled sheets. I’d blinked awake to find him already watching me, propped up on his elbow, hair mussed, eyes heavy but steady on me.
Max, who’s always grumbling, always scowling, had this small, unguarded smile curving his mouth. Not sharp, not sarcastic—just soft. And for a second, I forgot how to breathe, because it was all for me.
My chest had clenched tight, but not in a bad way. It was warmth sinking bone-deep, spreading until I didn’t know what to do with it. Until I couldn’t help but grin back at him, even half-asleep, because it felt like the safest thing I’d ever woken up to.
Pure happiness. Pure wanting.
And right there, I knew—I’m in it. Fully, one hundred percent in love with a guy who swears he wants to keep us a secret but still looks at me like that when no one else is watching.
The sharp whistle of a puck hitting the glass jolts me back, and I shake out my shoulders. Focus, I tell myself. Play the part. No one can know.
But underneath it all, I’m still back in my bed staring back at him.
The puck ricochets off the boards, and I ignore it, prepping for the next shot. That memory of Max lingers, tucked under my ribs, steady as a heartbeat. It makes me feel lighter, clearer, like I could take anything they throw at me.
So I do what I do best. I belt out “All I Want for Christmas Is You” at the top of my lungs as I snag the next shot clean out of the air.
“Jesus, Eli,” one of the guys groans, stick clattering against the ice.
“You’re welcome!” I shout, spinning the puck on my glove like it’s part of the performance. Mariah Carey would be proud.
Laughter and groans ripple across the ice, but I’m grinning inside my mask, warmth bubbling up every time I catch sight of Max on the bench.
He pretends to be buried in his notes, pen moving steadily across the clipboard, but I catch it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the fight not to laugh at me. With me.
And it’s enough. Enough to make my voice ring louder as I dive for the next save, segueing straight into “Last Christmas.” Off-key, dramatic, absolutely insufferable, all of it on purpose.
“Shut the hell up!” Daniel yells, but he’s laughing too.
I slam the puck to the ice and point my stick at him like a mic. “Can’t silence holiday cheer, buddy!”
The guys boo and cheer in equal measure, and practice keeps rolling, shots flying, drills grinding on. But for me, it’s different. Every block, every ridiculous lyric I belt, is buoyed by that one look I can’t shake—Max smiling at me like I’m something worth waking up to.
And even if he’ll never say it out loud, I know. I know he has feelings for me somewhere inside that chest of his.
The final whistle blows, and the guys file toward the locker room in a swarm of sweat, sticks, and steam-clouded breath. I trail after them, tugging off my mask, hair damp and curling at my temples.
“Starling!”
Max’s bark cuts clean through the noise. His trainer voice—sharp, commanding, no room for questions. Every head swivels, and I straighten automatically.
“Yeah?” I call back.
He fixes me with that look, all business, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Injury room. Need to check your shoulder after the long weekend.”
A couple of guys snicker, tossing me exaggerated winces and oohs. I roll my eyes, but my pulse is already kicking. Because I know that tone. I know that look.
I shrug off my pads and peel off my sweat-soaked shirt, slinging both over the bench. The locker room chatter rises again, swallowing me as I slip past, following Max’s retreating figure into his small room.
The second the door to the tiny injury room clicks shut behind us, Max is on me.
His hands fist in my damp undershirt, yanking me flush against him as his mouth crashes into mine. I slam back against the door with a muffled thud, his clipboard clattering to the floor, and suddenly he’s everywhere—hot, fierce, kissing me like he’s been starving for this all damn practice.
I groan against his mouth, arms locking around his waist, dragging him closer, deeper. The scent of antiseptic and tape mixes with my sweat and fills the small space, but all I can taste is him. All I can feel is him—urgent, desperate, like he’s been waiting hours to get me alone.
His mouth drags over mine, rough and desperate, and I can’t stop the sound that tears out of me when he bites my lower lip. My hands slide down his back, gripping hard at his hips as he presses me tighter against the door.
“Max—” I pant against his mouth, but he cuts me off with another bruising kiss, swallowing his name like he needs it to breathe.
“Table,” he rasps against my mouth. “Now.”
I let him drag me across the room, half-stumbling until the backs of my legs hit the padded exam table.
He shoves me down, stepping between my knees, kissing down my jaw and throat like he’s still doing some kind of check-up.
Except his hands are rough, hungry, sliding across my chest and shoulders, squeezing hard enough to leave me buzzing.
“You always this hands-on with your patients?” I manage, breathless.
“Only the ones who won’t get out of my head,” he mutters, and then his mouth is on mine again, stealing every ounce of air I’ve got left.
When his hands drop lower, unlacing my pants with deliberate slowness, my heart stutters hard. He’s staring at me, eyes dark, daring me to stop him. I don’t. I can’t. My hands fist in his hair as he pushes me back, my pulse pounding so loud it’s all I can hear.
“You drove me insane out there,” Max growls, his hand slipping into my pants and tugging at my dick, testing me with the rough swipe of his thumb over the already swelling head. “Singing like that, acting like nothing happened—like we didn’t spend all weekend—”
I cut him off with a kiss, hips jerking helplessly, every nerve lit up. “Had to play it cool,” I breathe. “Can’t have them knowing I already—”
“Don’t.” His mouth crashes back over mine, stealing the words, swallowing the sound. “Don’t finish that.”
The next second, he’s dropping to his knees, hands firm on my thighs, shoving my pants down. His eyes flick up, wicked and determined, and my whole body goes tight, bracing.
“Max—”
“You didn’t have time to shower.” He smirks, leaning in, voice low and dangerous. “Guess I’ll just have to…take care of the sweat myself.”
The words shot straight through me. Heat surges in my belly, my head tipping back against the table as his mouth replaces his hand.
He hums along my length in pleasure. Every muscle locks, then melts, pleasure crashing through me so fast I can barely bite back the sound that claws its way up my throat.
“Fffuuck—someone could hear—”
He pulls back just long enough to smirk against my swollen head, voice muffled. “Then keep it down, Starling.”
I grip his hair tighter, every bit of restraint snapping, because there’s no way in hell I can. Not when he’s doing this. Not when he’s looking up at me like I’m the only thing he’ll ever want.
I let out a loud moan, and he snakes a hand up my chest, over my neck and jaw to my mouth, clamping it over my lips.
“Quiet,” he orders.
The sound dies in my throat, caught under his palm.
My eyes squeeze shut, every muscle straining as his mouth works me over, merciless, unrelenting.
His tongue weighs me on it before swiping over my slit.
Holy fucking shit. I’m going to come soon.
The pressure of his hand, the heat of it pressed over my lips, only makes everything hotter.
My body jerks against the table, desperate for release, desperate for more.
Another moan tries to escape and is muffled by his palm.
I can’t breathe right. My lungs burn, my pulse slamming so hard I think he can feel it under his hand. His eyes are on mine the whole time, dark and intent, watching every twitch, every tremor.
When he finally drags his hand away, I gasp in air, half-sob, half-curse, but he doesn’t give me a chance to speak. He grabs my jaw, tilting my head down, forcing me to look at him while he works me to the edge.
His cheeks hollow as he sucks me hard, deep throating me before pulling back with a wet pop.
“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare hide from me now.”
I choke out his name, broken, and my vision blurs at the edges. I’m so close I can barely think, every nerve on fire, every ounce of restraint shredded.
And he knows it. I see it in the pleased curve of his mouth, the satisfaction burning in his eyes.
“You might be mine only in secret,” he says, voice rough and certain, “but you’re mine, Princess.”
Holy fuck. Yes.I am.
The words tear something wide open inside me, make my whole body jerk against his hold. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything. My back arches against the table, a helpless sound breaking free before I can stop it.
He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give me space to think or breathe, just drives me harder, his grip on my hip bruising, his eyes locked on mine like he’s staking a claim. His mouth; God, his mouth…fuck.
“You hear me?” he growls between ragged breaths, dragging his mouth back just enough to make me suffer. “You’re mine, Eli.”
“Yes,” I choke out, voice cracked, wrecked. “Yours—God, Max—”
The heat crashes through me all at once, every nerve lit, every thought scattering. My world narrows to the sharp edge of his touch, his voice, his mouth, until I’m gone—shaking, gasping, unraveling right there under his hands.
Cum pulses out of me, straight down his eager throat. He swallows every drop, licking me clean. It is the best thing I’ve ever seen.
I collapse back against the table, chest heaving, the world spinning off its axis. Max rises slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, eyes dark and satisfied as though he just won the biggest game of his life.
He leans in close, brushing his lips against mine, soft this time, dangerous in a different way. “Shoulder looks fine. But you’re definitely coming back for follow-ups.”
I laugh, broken and breathless, and pull him into another kiss anyway, because he’s right—holy fuck, he’s right—I’m his, and if every practice ends this way, I’m in.