14. Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
~DOMINIC~
The coffee machine is too loud in the morning. Or maybe it’s just my head that won’t shut the fuck up.
I stand in my kitchen barefoot, sweatpants low on my hips, hands braced on the counter. Dawn barely exists outside. Pale light bleeds through the windows, touching the floor.
It took two melatonin pills to force me to sleep last night. Jessica passed out soon after, her body exhausted from what I put her through. I was far from tired. I had to talk myself out of going in for round two.
The machine finishes and I pour coffee into two mugs. I keep mine black but add milk and two teaspoons of sugar to the other one. That’s how she drinks it.
I drag a hand down my face with a slow exhale.
I fought so hard to convince myself this was strategy. PR. A transaction with good optics and a clean exit. I don’t mix want with responsibility because that’s how men get sloppy.
Turns out I’m not immune. I’m just arrogant enough to think I was.
She was so responsive last night. Her body responded to mine instead of bracing. She stopped trying to be clever and just let herself react.
Fuck.
My grip tightens around the mug.
I’ve been with women who knew exactly how to perform—walked in already half naked, gave me what they thought I wanted, took what they could get.
Jessica didn’t perform. She trusted I wouldn’t drop her once she stepped into it. She chose me to be the first to fuck her.
My ego eats that shit alive.
She chose my hands, my mouth, my cock. Trusted me with something most men don’t deserve. My cock stirs at the thought, remembering. I swallow a mouthful of bitter coffee. I can still taste her if I let myself.
So much for discipline. So much for distance.
I lean back against the counter, my eyes drifting to the stairs. She’s still sleeping and the house feels different. My space feels occupied in a way that doesn’t irritate me, and that alone should set off alarms.
But here I am, already wanting more of her. Wanting to see if she still looks at me the same way now that the line’s been crossed. I don’t want to come back from it, but does she?
I take another sip and my mind drifts, uninvited, to the last three meetings with Tinnie and the board: long tables, clean suits, PowerPoint slides.
Men who like numbers more than people and optics more than truth.
Every single one smiling at me like a dog that finally learned how to sit, because the numbers don’t lie.
Attendance is up, engagement is through the roof, our social reach tripled in a month. Merchandise sales spike in demographics we’ve never touched before. Women, younger fans, people who didn’t give a shit about hockey suddenly arguing about lines and penalties in comments.
Because of her.
Jessica posting selfies of us, clips from the house, locker-room-adjacent but never crossing the line. Enough access to feel intimate.
She makes it look effortless.
But she doesn’t sit in those meetings. She doesn’t hear the bullshit. She doesn’t argue budgets or fight sponsors or bleed over spreadsheets at midnight like I do for the academy.
She doesn’t have a finger in it. And yet somehow… she’s making a difference.
I wanted to resent that the thing I’ve been grinding toward for years—my legacy, the academy—is being fast-tracked because a girl with a phone and a smile stands next to me.
I tried to be pissed. I paced my office after the first meeting where Tinnie pulled up the analytics and said, “She’s a goldmine, Dom. You don’t even understand what she’s doing for you.”
For me.
For us .
People are paying attention now: parents, sponsors, schools, cities.
They’re listening because she made them look.
I can’t find it in me to hate her for it.
She didn’t ask for credit or insert herself into the narrative.
She showed up, supported, and smiled—proud to stand beside me instead of trying to stand in front of me. I want to do the same for her.
Thankful. That’s the stupid word I don’t want to admit.
I’m fucking thankful.
Thankful that when I walk into those meetings now, the room leans in instead of bracing. Thankful the academy isn’t treated like a risk anymore but an inevitability. Thankful she’s making my fight easier without ever making it about herself.
I don’t say it out loud. I wouldn’t know how.
She’s changing the game for me without stepping on the ice. I don’t know how to take something that good without wanting to keep it.
The TV murmurs behind me—some early sports recap I’m not actually watching. Above it, bare feet on wood and the faintest rustle of fabric: she’s coming down the stairs .
My body reacts, spine straightening, shoulders squaring, like I’m about to step onto the ice instead of turning in my kitchen.
I shouldn’t be thinking this hard. We fucked. That happened. I don’t do morning-after spirals. I don’t stand around wondering what a woman thinks of me. Yet my mind starts sprinting.
Did last night change anything, or did it complicate everything? Will she put walls back up now that I’ve been inside them? Is she quiet again, guarded, sharp-tongued like nothing happened? Did she wake up and regret trusting me, decide she shouldn’t have let me be the first and now hates me more?
The thought lands ugly and unexpected in my chest.
I grab the second mug and force my face neutral, ready for impact.
She walks in wearing shorts and a tank top, hair loose and sleep-soft around her shoulders. She’s walking a little slow—I know why—but it’s the look on her face that gets me.
She doesn’t look pissed.
She’s smiling .
She walks a path straight to me, and my heart kicks.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice adorably sleepy.
I hand her the coffee without a word, and our fingers brush. She murmurs thanks, steps closer, looks up with clear eyes—no regret. Then she goes on tiptoes and kisses me softly. I lean down automatically, meeting her halfway.
When she pulls back I can only stare, trying to get used to this version of her. She doesn’t hate me. She’s okay. The relief is embarrassing.
She catches me staring and her mouth curves. “Used to women leaving before dawn, Captain?”
There they are: the claws. Light, but present.
I huff, about to answer, when she shifts onto the barstool and winces. Heat rolls low in my stomach, dark and immediate. She can still feel me inside that swollen place. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from doing something about it.
She plays it off, straightening, defensive. I’m already moving, mug forgotten as I step into her space.
“Something wrong?” I murmur, amused.
“I’m fine. ”
“Mm.” I lift a finger, hook it gently under her chin, tilting her face up. Her lips part and I study the softness beneath the sass. “Guess all it took was one night to get you to retract the claws,” I say quietly, a corner of my mouth lifting.
“I can start giving you hell again if you miss it,”
I let go with a chuckle. I don’t step back. I like her right here—caught between bold and flustered.
“Go ahead,” I tell her. “Try it.”
“Oh yeah?” Her brows lift.
“Yeah.” I tilt my head, eyes never leaving hers. “Now that I know the cure.”
Her cheeks flush, soft pink blooming fast. Her lips part like she wants to say something clever, then it derails.
“Maybe I like my claws out,” she challenges with a smile.
Yeah, the tiger didn’t turn into a kitten overnight. But she’s learned exactly who she likes to bare her throat to.
And I fucking love that she chose me.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “Finish your coffee,” I tell her. “Then go pack. ”
“Wow. You sleep with me once and you’re already kicking me out?”
I crack a grin. “Minnesota,” I say. “Away game, remember?”
She groans dramatically, tipping her head back. “I can’t. I’ve got designs to finish. A life.”
“You promised me something,” I remind her calmly.
“I promised to show up to games.” She straightens. “Not follow you around the Midwest like a groupie.”
I step closer. “I’m not asking.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can call me and text—”
“I’m not negotiating.” I stop in front of her. “You’re coming with me.”
“You can’t just decide that,” she scoffs.
“No flights back to Miami after the game. Next morning only.” I say evenly.
She stares a long second, then laughs, shaking her head. “So what, you can’t stay away from me for one day?”
I almost say yes. “Sometimes,” I admit, “a few hours is too much.”
Her smile lingers, teasing and victorious .
“Besides, I don’t want to come back and find you grinding on someone at a club.”
Her smile falters; her eyes drop, remorseful. “You won’t,” she says, looking up. “I promise.”
“Either way,” I say, stepping back, “you’re coming with me.”
This isn’t about PR anymore. It’s about not wanting to step onto the ice without knowing she’s close. I don’t intend to pretend otherwise.
The arena noise tears through the tunnel the moment the team steps onto the ice. It’s not cheers—it's boos threaded with screams, heckling bouncing off concrete and steel like shrapnel. Minnesota knows who we are and they don’t like us.
Good. They can suck my dick.
I’m in full gear, helmet tucked under my arm, gloves loose in my hand. The boys file past, focused and locked in. I’m supposed to keep moving, but Jessica’s familiar face slows me down .
She’s escorted into the tunnel by team staff—just far enough for the sidelines to see, just close enough I can smell her perfume cutting through sweat, ice, rubber.
My feet stop. My body moves before my brain votes.
The noise swells when people realize who she is. Phones lift, cameras snap. Someone boos her just because she’s standing next to me.
Hostile territory.
Jessica steps closer, unfazed, reaches up, smooths imaginary lint off my jersey, and pats my chest. “Don’t lose out there, Captain,” she says softly. Her mouth curves. “I don’t date losers.”
I smile, taking her hand. She isn’t intimidated by the noise or the eyes or the crowd that’d love to see me drop dead on the ice. I lean down until my mouth hovers over hers. “Good,” I murmur. “I don’t plan on losing.”
I kiss her, savoring the softness of her lips. I pull back, straighten, slide my helmet on. The world narrows to breath, focus, fire .
I step toward the ice; the boos rain down harder. I welcome them. No way I’m losing with Jessica watching.
Winning on hostile ice never gets old.
The horn sounds and it’s chaos—gloves in the air, sticks slamming, Minnesota fans thinking noise will change the scoreboard. We earned it the hard way, and my body is still humming when the press finally lets us breathe.
I do the interviews with lights in my face, microphones shoved too close. Same answers: team effort, disciplined, on to the next one. The words come easy.
By the time we’re loaded onto buses, adrenaline hasn’t let up and the guys are ravenous for more. The hotel is swarmed when we pull up. Fans press against barricades with phones out, screaming our names. Even they can’t drown out the arena boos.
I step off the bus and put my hand on Jessica’s back. She moves with me, and cameras and fans eat it up. I stop a few times to sign jerseys. She stays by my side, smiling. Having her there starts to feel natural. That sneaks up on you .
Walking through crowds my whole career, women grabbing, flirting, offering—you take it when you want it and leave when you don’t. It never meant much. But to her, it did. If she waited that long, her first time was something special to her. It meant trust, and she gave that to me.
The team funnels inside, laughter and shouts echoing. Jessica lingers near me, talking to Melody. They get along perfectly. It makes me think harder about what I can give this girl once this is over.
I don’t want to be careless with her.
That’s new.
I’m aware what we did meant a lot to her. Whatever this is settling into place between us, I don’t want to fuck up.
We’re given one keycard. One room number. Most likely one bed.
I don’t comment, and neither does she, but I catch the flicker in her eyes—the quick inhale. Anticipation.
I take the bags upstairs alone while Jessica and Melody stay down, laughing about something I can’t catch .
My shoulder throbs from a late hit in the second. I unlock the door, scanning the room automatically.
One king-sized bed.
Good.
I shower quickly, spotting the bruise forming on my shoulder in the mirror when I reach for a towel. It’s darkening. I roll my shoulder once. It’ll be fine.
I get dressed fast and head back downstairs. The bar is alive. Jace is there, beer in hand, mouth running. Guys filter in, freshened up, riding the high.
I hand Jessica the keycard and head toward the guys. I stay for a drink, trying not to think about her naked under the shower. Then another. Long enough not to look like I’m hovering. But an hour passes.
I set my glass down and go upstairs with the second keycard. I open the door quietly and stop.
Jessica’s by the vanity—one hand braced, the other touching up makeup.
The dress is…too short. Her toned legs end in heels that could trample me and I’d gladly let them.
The fabric hugs her like it was made for her.
Heat curls low, sharp and instant. I’m tempted to ditch the club, lock the door, and rip that tear it off her .
I drag in a slow breath, trying to control myself, and she catches me in the mirror.
Her light eyes contrast with smoky makeup. I can’t stop the image of it running down her face with my cock shoved in her mouth.
My dick throbs, impatient and heavy. The urge to ditch the after party hits so hard it pisses me off.
I want that dress on the floor. I want to know if she put it on for me or just likes watching me lose my grip.
Her lips curve when she realizes I’ve been staring. I close the door slowly behind me, knowing she’s watching me in the mirror, waiting to see which version of me walked in.
“Aren’t you going to compliment my dress?”
“There’s not much dress here to compliment,” I say, stalking closer.
She lifts both brows, playing innocent.
I stop behind her. Two fingers brush the fabric at the hem, tracing the edge, knuckles skimming bare skin.
“You didn’t seem to mind while you were staring at me.”
“I mind plenty.” My thumb presses in slightly .
She swallows, shoulders pulling back as if regaining ground. “So what, you’re going to tell me to change?”
“No.” I lean in, voice low and dangerous. “You can wear whatever you want. It’s in your… conditions, after all. As long as you don’t leave my side.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And if someone tries something?”
“It’d be the last thing they do.”