CHAPTER 18 — CLOSED LOCKER ROOM #3
He didn’t push forward like before. He let me lead, and that surrender cut through me deeper than any rush could have.
His mouth opened under mine, hot, tight with tension, but his body stayed still, as if waiting for my choices.
I held his face with both hands and kissed him again, harder, pouring all the day’s anger, all the worry and desire into that single point of contact.
Damon responded with a low sound that vibrated against my mouth, but he didn’t try to take control.
His hand stayed on my waist, firm, not pulling beyond what I allowed.
“Keep the shoulder still,” I said against his lips.
“Yes.”
That simple obedience almost undid me. I kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his throat, working down to the part of his chest the tape didn’t cover.
Damon tilted his head back, breathing deep, and his body—always so ready to act—stayed yielded in a way that gave me a terrifying kind of power.
Not power over him. The power of being trusted.
Of being chosen as someone who could touch without hurting, lead without humiliating, want without turning everything into a competition.
I pushed him gently back until his shoulders hit the lockers.
The position kept his injured shoulder supported and safe.
Damon noticed the care and looked at me with an intensity that almost made me stop.
I didn’t want to stop. Not yet. I wanted him to feel he could give up control without losing dignity.
I wanted my touch to say what my mouth couldn’t find the words for.
“Hands on the bench,” I ordered, voice low.
His eyes darkened. “Noah.”
“Trust me or I stop.”
The words hung between us for a second. Then Damon placed his good hand on the bench beside him. His left hand rested lightly on his thigh, relaxed. He did exactly what I asked. The air left my lungs slowly, as if that were more intimate than taking off any clothes.
“Good,” I said, and the word slipped out before I could gauge its effect.
Damon closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them, there was a hunger there that didn’t need to command to be intense.
I leaned down to kiss him again, my hand trailing down his chest, avoiding the injured shoulder, following the line of his stomach over warm skin.
He trembled under my touch. I didn’t hide that I noticed.
He didn’t pretend otherwise. The locker room felt bigger and smaller at the same time, full of the smell of ice, wood, clean sweat, and heated skin.
The intimacy grew in silence broken only by breaths, by my name in his mouth, by quiet commands he followed with a devotion neither of us expected.
There was no rush to tear everything off, no need to turn risk into total recklessness.
There was strength in restraint: Damon sitting, hands where I’d put them, body reacting to my every touch; me between his legs, controlling the rhythm, the distance, the pauses, discovering that his trust excited me as much as his body did.
When I touched lower, he held his breath and his good hand tightened on the bench, but didn’t leave its place.
“Look at me,” I said.
He looked.
From that moment, there was no pretending it was just desire.
The intensity swept us up completely, but what hit me hardest was Damon’s gaze locked on mine, the way he let me see pleasure, pain, anger, fear—everything mixed and exposed.
I kissed his mouth whenever he threatened to get too loud, ran my hand over the back of his neck, his waist, his stomach, guiding without letting him forget his body was safe with me.
Damon obeyed until he couldn’t stay completely still anymore, and then he asked with his eyes before moving his hand to my waist.
I let him.
He touched me carefully, and that broke me in a different way.
His hand didn't try to take control back; it just joined in, firm and warm, following what I allowed, reminding me that surrender didn't mean absence.
I braced one knee on the bench beside him, bringing my body closer, and Damon said my name in a way that almost became a confession.
Pleasure rose quickly after that, fueled by the risk, by the trust, by the way he kept looking at me as if I were the only thing capable of keeping him grounded.
“Noah,” he said, his voice rough, tense. “I'm going to...”
“I know,” I replied, kissing him. “Stay with me.”
He stayed. His body tensed under my hand, his breathing breaking against my mouth, his good hand gripping my waist with enough force to anchor me and enough care not to hurt me.
Seeing Damon lose control without trying to turn it into a victory hit me hard.
My own body followed soon after, pulled by his reaction, by the heat, by the way he said my name again against my skin.
I held the back of his neck and buried my face in his good shoulder as pleasure rolled through me in strong, silent waves, because we were still in a locked locker room, there was still a team on the other side of the arena, there was still a photo somewhere, but for a few seconds none of that could get in.
Afterward, I stayed leaning against him, struggling to catch my breath, while Damon kept his hand on my waist without demanding anything more.
The silence was heavy, but not empty. We were sweaty, disheveled, surrounded by lockers and towels, with his tape half loose and my mind trying to return to the world where this would have consequences.
Damon touched the back of my neck with his good hand, slowly.
“I don't want to hide you out of shame,” he said.
I closed my eyes, feeling the words against my skin before lifting my face. “Then why?”
“Because if I do it wrong, they'll use it against you. Against your father. Against the file. Against everything.”
The answer hit me because it was exactly the difference I'd been trying to teach. Damon wasn't speaking like someone who wanted to hide. He was speaking like someone trying to protect without turning protection into a prison. I touched his face, still breathing heavily.
“That's strategy,” I said. “Not cowardice.”
“I'm trying to learn.”
“I noticed.”
His mouth almost smiled, and I almost kissed him again, but three quick knocks on the locked door made us freeze.
“Noah?” Mason's voice came from the other side, low and urgent. “Is Damon in there with you?”
I pulled away from Damon at once, grabbing a towel and trying to organize clothes, skin, breathing, and sanity in the shortest time possible.
Damon stood up carefully, his face immediately returning to a more controlled version, though his reddened lips and messy hair told another story if anyone looked closely.
I replaced the shoulder tape with quick hands—not perfect, but enough so he wouldn't look like he'd just survived an intimate disaster.
“One minute,” I replied, my voice more normal than I felt.
“We don't have a minute,” Mason said. “Open up.”
Damon and I looked at each other. Fear returned, cold, cutting through skin still warm from moments before. I unlocked the door. Mason entered quickly, closed it behind him, and looked at both of us. For the first time, he didn't comment on the obvious. That scared me more than any joke would have.
He raised his phone.
On the screen, a message preview from Valerie Cross glowed at the top. Mason had received it forwarded from her—perhaps out of caution, perhaps because she knew he'd reach us faster.
“Story in progress: The captain, the physical therapist, and the scandal Northaven buried.”
Below, there was a line of text.
“I need to talk to you before this gets out of my control too.”