CHAPTER 24
GROOVER
SOME ASSHOLE HAS his hand on my bicep.
Not just any asshole. Julian Martinez, former third-line center for Seattle, current fitness model, and my ex of over a year ago, has his perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around my arm like he's checking if I've been maintaining my training regimen.
"You're definitely bigger than last season," Julian observes, giving my arm a squeeze that lingers about five seconds past acceptable. "New strength coach?"
"Same coach, new protein shake," I answer, casually extracting myself from his grip. I scan the crowded ballroom for Mateo, who disappeared to the bar two minutes ago and has yet to return. "What brings you to Chicago, Jules? Last I heard, you were settling into Los Angeles."
Julian leans against the high-top table we've been assigned, designer suit molded to his body like he was poured into it. His smile is the same as I remember—calculated to reveal exactly the right number of teeth.
"Promotional tour for my new fitness app," he explains, producing a business card from seemingly nowhere. "I'm the face of LevelUp Fitness. We're partnering with several NHL teams on player nutrition tracking."
"Including the Wolves?" I ask, dread coiling in my stomach. Just what I need—my ex lingering around like a foul smell.
"Negotiations are ongoing," he says with a wink that makes my skin crawl. "But I'm optimistic."
Before I can formulate a response that isn't "please go away forever," Mateo reappears with two glasses of champagne, his smile faltering slightly when he spots Julian.
"Hey," he says, handing me a glass. "Line was ridiculous."
"Worth the wait," I reply, gratefully accepting both the drink and the interruption. "Mateo, this is Julian Martinez. Julian, this is Mateo Rossi, my boyfriend."
Julian's eyes sweep over Mateo with the clinical assessment of someone appraising furniture. "Pleasure," he says, extending his hand. "How long have you two been together?"
Mateo accepts the handshake, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "A few months."
Julian's eyebrow arches slightly. "Interesting timing."
The comment lands like an ice bath. I feel Mateo stiffen beside me.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, voice dropping dangerously low.
Julian raises his hands in mock surrender. "Nothing, nothing. Just noting the coincidence. Sponsors love stability, after all." He turns to Mateo. "So what do you do, Mateo?"
"I'm finishing my anthropology degree," Mateo replies, subtly shifting closer to me, his shoulder pressing against mine. "Specializing in urban spatial semiotics and community identities."
Julian blinks. "That's... specific."
"It is," Mateo agrees pleasantly, though I can feel the tension radiating from him. "What about you? Besides touching other people's boyfriends, I mean."
I choke on my champagne. Julian's eyes narrow, his perfect smile freezing in place.
"Mateo's joking," I interject, setting my glass down before I spill it. "He has a unique sense of humor."
"Hilarious," Julian says flatly. "I develop fitness applications and do some modeling. Ansel and I were quite serious before my trade to Seattle complicated things."
"Were you?" Mateo asks with exaggerated interest. "He's never mentioned you."
Before Julian can respond, Becker materializes at my side like a foul-mouthed guardian angel.
"Grooves! There you are. Coach is looking for you. Team photo in five." He glances at Julian, recognition flashing across his face. "Martinez. Didn't know you were in town."
"Just passing through," Julian replies smoothly. "Reconnecting with old friends."
"Uh-huh." Becker's tone could freeze vodka. "Well, sorry to interrupt the reunion, but we need to borrow Groover and Mateo."
"Of course," Julian says, producing another business card which he presses into my hand. "Call me while I'm in town, Ansel. Catch up properly."
He saunters away, leaving a cloud of expensive cologne and awkwardness in his wake.
"Jesus Christ," Becker mutters. "That guy still has the personality of a designer toaster. Looks good, does one thing, costs way too much."
Mateo snorts, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Is Coach really looking for us?"
"Nah," Becker admits. "But you two looked like you needed an escape rope, and I'm a charitable man." He claps me on the shoulder. "The phrase you're looking for is 'thank you, Riley.'"
"Thank you, Riley," I echo, genuinely grateful. "We owe you one."
"I expect payment in the form of embarrassing stories about Martinez later," he says before disappearing back into the crowd.
When he's gone, I turn to Mateo, who's staring after Julian with an expression I can't quite read. "Sorry about that. I had no idea he'd be here."
"No kidding," Mateo says, downing the rest of his champagne in one go. "Quite serious, huh?"
I wince at the edge in his voice. "That was Julian's version of events. We dated for a few months. It wasn't that deep."
"Could have fooled me, with the way he was marking his territory." Mateo's jaw tightens. "Does he always touch you like that?"
"Are you jealous?" I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"Should I not be?" he counters, eyes finally meeting mine. "When your ridiculously attractive ex-boyfriend shows up and starts feeling up your arms while implying our relationship is conveniently timed PR?"
The hurt beneath his bristling anger is so transparent it makes my chest ache. I glance around the crowded ballroom before taking his elbow and guiding him toward a quieter corner.
"Julian is an ass," I say when we're relatively private. "Always has been. We broke up because he cared more about his Instagram following than actual connection. And for the record, I don't want him touching me any more than you want to see it."
Mateo studies my face, searching for the truth. Whatever he sees there makes some of the tension drain from his body.
"I just didn't expect to feel so..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely.
"Murderous?" I suggest.
"I was going to say possessive, but murderous works too." A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "It caught me off guard."
Before I can respond, Washington appears at my shoulder. "Team photo time, lovebirds. Try to look charitable."
The moment breaks, and we're swept into the obligations of the evening. But throughout the photos and speeches, I catch Mateo watching me with an intensity that wasn't there before— something sharp and claiming that makes my skin heat despite the ballroom's aggressive air conditioning.
***
THREE HOURS LATER, we escape the event, dodging the gauntlet of photographers at the exit before ducking into the sanctuary of my Range Rover. The night air is unseasonably warm, and the valet has left the sunroof open, letting in the sounds of the city.
"Finally," I sigh, loosening my bow tie as I slide behind the wheel. "If I had to hear one more speech about the transformative power of hockey, I’d have to transform someone's face with my fist."
"Very charitable of you," Mateo notes dryly.
I pull out of the hotel driveway, the city sprawling before us, lights blurring like stars. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it's charged—Julian's appearance having triggered something neither of us quite knows how to address.
"Where to?" I ask, glancing at the clock. Just past 11PM. "Your place or mine?"
Mateo looks out the window, profile outlined in the glow of street lamps. "Yours," he decides after a moment. "Carlos has his study group over. It's like a library but with more energy drinks and existential dread."
We drive in silence for several minutes, the muted soundtrack of the city our only accompaniment—horns honking, distant sirens, the rhythmic thump of bass from a car stopped beside us at a light.
"You know I don't care about Julian, right?" I say finally, eyes on the road. "He's not even in the same galaxy as what matters to me."
Mateo turns to look at me, the city lights painting shadows across his face. "And what does matter to you?"
The question hangs in the air, thick and heavy.
"You," I say simply. Because it's true. Because the contract and the complications and the uncertainty all pale in comparison to the fact that when I look at him, everything else fades to background noise.
His sharp intake of breath is audible over the hum of the engine. I risk a glance at him, finding his eyes dark and intent on my face.
"Pull over," he says, voice tight.
"What?"
"I said, pull over." Each word deliberate, leaving no room for argument.
I scan the street, spotting a secluded pocket between streetlights, a corner where construction barriers block the sidewalk. I guide the car to the curb, shifting into park and turning to face him, confused and slightly concerned.
"Are you okay? If I said some—"
His mouth crashes into mine, cutting off whatever I was about to say. There's nothing tentative about this kiss—it's all teeth and tongue and barely contained want, his hands fisting in my dress shirt hard enough that I hear a button pop.
"Jesus," I gasp when he breaks away, both of us breathing hard. "What was that for?"
"Because you said I matter," he says against my lips. "Because you looked at me like that while saying it."
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like I'm everything," he whispers, the vulnerability in those three words hitting me harder than his kiss. Then, as if embarrassed by the admission, he bites my lower lip. "And because I've been wanting to mess up your perfect hair since we left your apartment."
I laugh, my hands finding his waist, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle over the center console. "My hair is all yours to mess up."
He takes the invitation literally, fingers threading through my carefully styled hair, gripping and tugging just this side of painful. The sensation shoots straight to my dick, which is already painfully hard beneath my dress pants.
"I hated seeing him touch you," Mateo says against my throat, teeth scraping over my pulse point. "Hated that he knows parts of you I don't yet."
I slide my hand to the nape of his neck, pulling him back to meet my eyes, the center console between us like the world's most inconvenient chastity belt. "He doesn't. Julian never knew me. Not really."
Mateo studies my face, searching for truth. Whatever he finds there must satisfy him because he kisses me again, softer this time but no less hungry.
"Come here," I say, reclining my seat and patting my lap.
He doesn't need a second invitation. With surprising grace, he maneuvers over the console, straddling me. The steering wheel presses into his back, forcing him closer to my chest. My hands find his hips automatically, steadying him in the cramped space.
"Better," he says, rolling his hips in a deliberate grind.
The weight of him in my lap, the heat of him through our clothes—it's almost too much. My cock throbs against the confines of my pants, desperate for more friction. Mateo seems to sense this, adjusting his position to increase the pressure right where I need it.
The city continues around us, muted behind tinted windows. A couple walks past, oblivious to what's happening just feet away.
I slide my hands up his thighs to his waist, untucking his shirt to find skin, warm and alive under my touch.
"There’s so much I want to show you," I say against his throat, feeling his pulse jump under my lips. "Things you haven’t experienced before."
His body tenses momentarily, but curiosity wins out over apprehension. "Here? Now?"
I glance around at our surroundings—the secluded parking spot, the privacy of tinted windows, the late hour. "Not ideal, but perfect for an introduction."
He shifts in my lap, rolling his hips again in a way that makes my vision blur at the edges. "What kind of introduction?"
Instead of answering, I reach between us, undoing his belt with practiced ease. The button of his pants follows, then the zipper, each metallic sound amplified in the quiet car. His eyes widen when I reach for the glove compartment, producing a small bottle of lube.
"You just happen to have that in your car?" The disbelief in his voice is undercut by the naked want in his eyes.
"Boy scout," I say, uncapping the bottle. "Always prepared."
He narrows his eyes, but can't maintain the expression when my hand slides into his open pants, wrapping around his hard length. His head falls back, exposing the long line of his throat as I stroke him slowly, the weight and feel of him already so familiar.
"Lift up," I say, and he complies immediately, rising on his knees as much as the space allows.
I tug his pants and boxers down just enough to expose him, his cock springing free in the dim light filtering through the windows. The position is awkward, requiring him to brace himself against the roof of the car, but the vulnerability of it—pants around his thighs, exposed and open—sends another surge of blood to my aching dick.
"You're fucking gorgeous."
He flushes, the color visible even in the low light.
I stroke him with my slicked hand, watching his face as pleasure overtakes embarrassment. When he's fully hard and leaking, I let my fingers drift lower, past his balls to the sensitive skin behind them. His whole body jerks at the contact.
"Cold," he says with a breathless laugh when I pause.
"It'll warm up."
My fingers find his hole, circling the tight ring of muscle without pushing in. Just the contact has him tensing, thighs trembling with the effort to maintain his position. I watch his face carefully, gauging his reaction as I increase the pressure slightly.
"Weird," he breaths out, shifting his weight. "But... good weird."
I continue the circular motion, adding more lube, letting him adjust to the sensation. His cock remains hard against his stomach, a bead of precome gathering at the tip. I lean forward, keeping my fingers in place, and lick it away. The taste of him, salty and intimate, makes my own cock throb in sympathy.
"Fuck," he gasps, hips jerking forward at the contact.
Taking advantage of his distraction, I press the pad of my finger against his entrance more firmly, breaching him just to the first knuckle. His whole body goes rigid, muscles clamping down around the intrusion.
"Breathe," I remind him, holding perfectly still. "Relax into it."
He nods jerkily, focusing on his breathing. I can pin point the exact moment his body begins to yield, muscles loosening around my finger. Slowly, giving him time to adjust, I press deeper, watching his face transform from discomfort to curiosity to something approaching pleasure.
"How does it feel?"
"Full," he says, brows furrowed. "Burns a little, but not bad. Just... strange."
I begin to move my finger, careful, shallow thrusts that have him biting his lip. The position is challenging—my wrist bent at an awkward angle, his body precariously balanced above me—but the look on his face makes any discomfort worth it.
"The burn will fade," I say, twisting my finger slightly on the next thrust. "And then it gets really good."
As if on cue, his expression changes, eyes widening as I find his prostate and press deliberately against it. His cock jerks, a fresh bead of pre-cum sliding down the shaft.
"Holy—what the—" His words dissolve into a moan as I repeat the motion. "Do that again."
I comply, rubbing my fingertip in circles against that sensitive bundle of nerves. His reaction is immediate and intense—back arching, thighs trembling, a strangled sound escaping his throat. The sight of him coming undone above me, because of me , has my own arousal ratcheting higher, my cock straining painfully against my zipper.
"God, you should see yourself," I mutter, eyes fixed on his face as I increase the pressure. "So fucking hot like this."
His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Without looking away, he reaches for my belt, fumbling with the buckle.
"Want to touch you too," he says, voice rough with need.
I help him, lifting my hips as much as the seat allows so he can tug my pants open. When his hand wraps around me, hot and tight, I nearly lose my mind. The dual sensations of his fingers on my cock and my finger inside him create a feedback loop of pleasure so intense I have to grit my teeth against the urge to come.
Somehow, against all odds, we find a common rhythm. My finger thrusting into him in time with his strokes along my length. Each time I press against his prostate, his hand tightens reflexively around me, adding another layer of pleasure.
"I'm close," he says, voice shaking. "So close already."
My perfect little thing.
I struggle to keep my own voice steady as I say, "Let go," increasing the pressure inside him, curling my finger to hit that spot more directly. "Let go for me."
His free hand grips my shoulder with punishing strength, his body drawing taut as a bowstring. When he comes, it's with a shout that probably carries further than is wise, his body clenching rhythmically around my finger, his cum spilling hot over my hand and shirt.
The sight of him—head thrown back, throat exposed, face slack with pleasure—combined with the relentless grip of his hand pushes me over the edge. I follow him seconds later, pleasure crashing through me in waves as I spill over his fist, my hips jerking upward with enough force to lift us both.
For several moments, the only sound is our ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic. Mateo collapses against me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us sticky and disheveled and utterly wrecked.
"Holy fuck," he says finally, voice raw. "Is it always like that?"
I laugh, careful as I withdraw my finger, earning one more full-body shudder from him. "It gets better, actually."
"If it gets better than that, I'll actually die."
"What a way to go," I tease, reaching for the pack of tissues I keep in the console.
As I clean us both up as best I can, Mateo watches me with an expression I can't quite read—something warm and wondering, tinged with vulnerability.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious under his steady gaze.
"Nothing," he says, shaking his head slightly. "Just... thank you."
I laugh, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "For fingering you in my car? Pretty sure the pleasure was mutual."
"No," he says, catching my face between his hands. "For making me want to try new things. For being patient. For..." he trails off, searching for words. "For caring."
The simple sincerity in his voice hits me harder than any passionate declaration could. I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm, hoping he can't feel the rapid beat of my heart.
"Always," I say, the word carrying more weight than I intended.