Chapter 28
Jamie
Coach calls a meeting right after the next practice.
Me and Rhys. Both of us. Together. Alone.
Fuck.
I stare at the ceiling for about two seconds in the hallway before I walk in. Fitch is already laughing at something Rhys said, which tells me everything I need to know about how this meeting is going to go. I take my seat and fix my expression into something neutral before anyone can read into it.
“Alright, boys.” Fitch leans back, clasping his hands.
“I wanted to check in. Make sure things are moving in the right direction between you two. Rhys, you just say the word and more serious action can be taken. I know we all play around, but I want you to be comfortable here. I can vouch for Jamie, but ultimately it’s on you. ”
Rhys doesn’t even let me draw a single breath. “Coach.” He puts a hand to his chest with the most sincere face I have ever seen on him. “With complete honesty — Jamie has really touched me lately.”
I stare straight ahead.
“If anything I’d say we’re closer than ever.” He turns toward me with that smile — that smile that I am going to see in my nightmares — warm and wide and absolutely loaded. “He even came by my place the other night. Isn’t that right, Jamie?”
Every muscle in my body is rigid. “That’s right,” I say. Perfectly even. “Took your advice to heart, Coach. We’re working through it.”
“Working through it hard,” Rhys adds helpfully. I am going to actually kill him. I am going to end his life in this office and deal with the consequences later and it will be worth it.
Fitch laughs. Actually laughs, delighted, oblivious to the fact that I am currently dissolving from the inside out in the chair across from him. “That’s what I like to hear. Keep it up out on the ice and we’ll be in great shape.” He waves a hand. “Alright, get out of here.”
We stand. I don’t look at Rhys. I don't trust myself to look at Rhys.
I walk out of that office with every bit of composure I have left — which isn’t much — and keep walking until I hit the corridor. He thinks this is funny. My career. The team. Fitch’s trust. All of it — just material for him. Just another joke. I round the corner toward the locker room.
The worst part wasn’t even the meeting. The worst part is that when he said working it out hard—
I almost laughed.
I grab him the second we’re alone. “What the fuck was that?” I snap, shoving him back a step. “You think you’re so fucking funny, huh? Because it’s not a joke to me. And you wonder why I punched you.”
His eyes flash—but he doesn’t snap back. Just watches me like I’m the one losing it. I turn away first, ripping my shirt off like that ends it. Like I can just walk away from it.
It doesn’t.
“No one knows anything,” he says casually behind me. “Lighten up, dick. And yeah—” I can hear the amusement in his voice. “It was fucking hilarious.”
I ignore him.
Or I try to.
We change in silence, tension thick enough to choke on. I grab a towel and head for the showers, not even looking back at him. I pick the farthest stall.
Of course, he follows.
I catch it in my peripheral—the way he grabs his stuff, how he moves without hesitation, like he already decided where this is going. The stall right next to mine. I scoff under my breath. “Are you insane?”
He leans enough to look over, water already running, unbothered. “Yes.”
And then he just… starts showering.
Like this is normal.
“Relax,” he adds. “No one else is here.”
That doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse. I’m seething. Trying to hold onto it. Trying to stay pissed, because anger is easy. Anger is safe. But it’s getting harder.
Harder not to look at him.
Harder not to think about the fact that he’s right there—naked, close enough that I can hear the water hitting his skin. That I can hear every single part of his body he’s lathering up, slick with soap. I keep my eyes forward. I don’t look.
Don’t look.
Don’t engage.
I don’t—
“Wanna help me shower?” he calls, voice softer now, still teasing—but there’s something else under it. Something heavier.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Hilarious. Keep going.”
I glance over—just to glare.
That’s all it’s supposed to be.
But then—
I see him.
Hair slicked back, even darker when it’s wet. Water running down his face, catching on his lashes, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, down his throat, his chest—
Fuck.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. That drop of water—watching it slide lower, lower—my heart’s pounding, desperate. I hate it. But I can’t stop following it.
Lower.
Lower.
And he catches me.
Again.
Only this time—
He doesn’t tease me.
The air shifts. Electric. Dangerous. Like I crossed some line and there’s no way back.
He looks at me like he’s starving. Not amused.
Curiosity, heat—all focused on me, pinning me in place.
Slowly, he smiles, as if he’s figured something out.
Like maybe I’m not as untouched as I pretend to be. It’s not friendly. It’s a dare.
He starts stroking himself. Slow and deliberate, like he wants me to see it all.
And I watch. I still can't look away. His cock is so fucking hard, flushed red at the tip, the shaft long and thick with veins standing out against the pale skin.
His hand moves with this practiced, lazy confidence, thumb rolling over the head, spreading precum down the length.
He palms the base, squeezes, strokes up again, all while his eyes burn into me, daring me to react.
I'm burning up. My mouth's gone dry, and I can barely breathe.
He doesn't say a word. Just keeps working his cock, each motion slower, filthier, like he's showing me exactly how he likes it. The muscles in his forearm flex with every twist of his wrist. Water beads on his skin, catching the light, slipping down to gather at his balls, his thighs.
He's fucking beautiful. A literal wet dream.
I want to hate him for it. I want to look away. But my own dick is stiff, leaking, so hard its almost painful. I wonder if he notices, if he can see how bad I want this—how bad I want him. I wonder if he knows I'm about to lose it, just from watching him.
And then he moves.
Steps out of his stall, water still streaming down his body.
It clings to him—muscle, skin. Every line of him too sharp, too real.
His eyes never leave mine. He walks straight toward me, dripping and shameless.
Everything in me goes molten—anger, want, confusion, all churning together until I can’t tell them apart.
The stall feels too tight, too hot. I still can’t breathe.
Even though we’re alone, it feels reckless. Stupid.
I hate how bad I want him, how much it clouds my judgment.
“What if someone sees?” The words slip out, soft, shaky.
He’s so close I can feel the heat rolling off of him. His voice drops, dark, vibrating through me. “No one’s here,” he repeats. “We can do whatever you want.” Promise and threat all at once.
Steam curls between us. My nerves are on fire. I feel every inch of him without touching—his chest, his mouth, the way his hand brushes water off my shoulder. Then his lips find my collarbone, warm and wet and biting. It sends a shock straight to my core.
Something snaps. I grab him by the throat and shove him under the spray. Water crashes over us. My mouth finds his, rough, taking, desperate—I drink down his gasp, biting his lip, tongues clashing, slick and hot.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I growl, voice ragged against his ear.
I fist my hand in his hair, yank his head back, sink my teeth into his neck just to feel him shudder.
My fingers map his body—hard muscle, soft skin, the places I’ve wanted to touch for too long.
He gives in. Opens up. Lets me take what I want, and fuck, I want it all.
His moan vibrates through the stall, makes my pulse spike.
“Fuck, Jamie.”
"Is this what you wanted, Rhys?" My lips brush the shell of his ear, and I feel his sharp intake of breath, the shiver that runs through him like a current. My hand slides down, wrapping around him, hot, heavy, pulsing with need against my palm.
I stroke him, achingly slow, squeezing enough to make him groan, my thumb circling his soft head, smearing the bead of precum gathering there.
I touch him just how he showed me.
His hips jerk helplessly, his body already betraying him, thighs tensing as he tries to stay still and fails.
“God, yes, Jamie,” he breathes, eyes dark, mouth open.
I work him more, learn the shape of him, the rhythm that makes his breath hitch and his body tremble.
I can feel the power in my hands, the intoxicating rush of making him fall apart.
I stroke him rougher, faster, watching as he loses control, his head falling back against the water, eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at me," I demand, my voice harsh. His eyes snap open, locking onto mine.
"Don't look away. I want to see you." He nods, panting, his chest heaving.
I tighten my grip, twist my wrist on the upstroke, and he cries out.
He's so hard for me, so completely at my mercy.
I lean down, bite his jaw, his throat, leaving marks while my hand works him faster, the sound filthy and obscene in the silence.
"You're so fucking needy," I growl against his neck, feeling his pulse hammering under my lips. "Look at you. Grinding into my hand like you can't help yourself."
"I can't," he gasps, and there's something broken in his voice that I want to break further. "Please-"
"Please what?"
"Don't stop, Jamie. God, just don't stop-"
I slow down again, just to watch him suffer, dragging my thumb over his slit, spreading the wetness, teasing.
His whole body quivers, muscles coiling tight, he’s so close I can feel it in the way his cock throbs in my grip.
I bring him right to the edge, feeling him shiver under my hand, his thighs shaking, his breath coming in ragged sobs.
"Jamie-" he chokes out, and I know he's there, right there, about to tip over.
I stop.
My hand goes still, then releases him completely.
“Finish yourself off and remember whose name you were moaning,” I whisper.
I let go. I grab my towel and step out into the cold air, leaving him behind—undone under the spray. He won the first couple of rounds. But now? I’ve got the upper hand. I’ve got him exactly where I want him.