32. Mackie
MACKIE
He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, which is fair, because my godfather just showed him what to do with those laces.
I understand how that sounds. I understand that a rational person would put her clothes back on, walk to her car, and revisit this plan on a night when the building is actually empty.
I hold my wrists out and I don’t move them.
He stares at my hands, then my face. I see the exact moment he realizes I’m serious and willing to go through with this no matter the cost.
“Jesus Christ, Mackie, this is crazy,” he breathes, pulling me to my feet. He cups my face with both hands, the laces fuzzy against my cheek, and kisses me. His mouth moves against mine like he has all the time in the world. The patience in it undoes me more than the urgency did.
“Turn around,” he says against my mouth.
My back is to him. I can feel him behind me, the heat of his chest close but not touching, and my heart is beating so hard I can feel it pulsing in my fingertips.
I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, and the fantasy was always bold Mackie, confident Mackie—the version of me who suggests sex in restricted areas of hockey facilities and doesn’t blink.
That’s the version who brought this up on my birthday, who mentioned it during every conversation where I could work it in, and who texted ‘meet me at the facility’ with zero hesitation.
That version of me is gone.
He starts by running his hands down my arms, stopping at my wrists.
The touch is so gentle that I almost start to cry, which is insane, because nothing sad is happening.
The exact thing I asked for is happening.
But there’s a difference between wanting something from a safe distance and being inside the reality of it.
The reality is that I’m about to give him what I’ve never given anyone else: the part of me that isn’t performing.
“I’m going to show you the release first,” he says, his voice low and steady and close to my ear. “Before I tie it. So you know how it works.”
His arms come around me and he loops the lace loosely around one wrist in front of me, with his chin on my shoulder. “Feel this? One pull, here—” He guides my finger to the tail of the knot. “And it comes apart. Try it.”
I tug and the lace falls open.
“See? Any time. No matter what.”
“Okay.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Do it for real.”
He gathers my wrists behind my back. The lace wraps around once, twice, and he ties the knot.
I pull gently and realize that I can’t move my arms. I thought this would feel exciting.
My hands are behind my back, and I can’t reach for him.
I can’t steer. I can’t run the show. The absence of all those options is actually terrifying.
I suck in a breath that catches like the beginning of a sob, and I almost open my mouth to tell him to untie me.
“I’ve got you,” he says against the back of my neck, and my whole body lets go.
The feeling of his palms on my breasts makes me gasp and arch into him.
He rolls my nipples between his fingers, and the sensation goes straight through me like a current.
I let my head drop back against his shoulder, and he turns my face and kisses me upside down.
I’m squirming against him because I can’t grab him.
I can’t pull him where I want him. I can’t do anything but feel what he’s doing, and it’s making me insane.
He pushes my skirt down as he goes, and I kick if off to the side. Then his fingers find me. I’m so wet that the sound they make slipping against me is audible in the quiet room. I would be mortified if I had any capacity left for that emotion.
“Jesus, Mack, you’re soaked,” he breathes against my ear. His voice is so low it’s almost a growl, and I feel my entire body flush and go even hotter.
Two fingers are inside me while his thumb finds my clit. My knees almost buckle, but he catches me. His left arm locks across my stomach, holding me flush against him while his right hand works me with a slow, deliberate rhythm that’s exactly, maddeningly right.
I can’t grab his hair. I can’t dig my nails into his shoulders. I can’t do any of the things I normally do when he’s making me feel like this. The absence of those outlets means everything concentrates inward, every sensation magnified because it has nowhere to go except through me.
“Zach—oh fuck—”
“I’ve got you. Let go.”
I don’t let go. I never let go. I’m the girl who drives the car, picks the restaurant, leads the conversation, and initiates the kiss.
I don’t let go—that’s not what I do. Except his fingers are inside me, his thumb is pressing, and his mouth is on my neck.
My hands are tied behind my back and I can’t hold on to anything, so letting go isn’t a choice. It’s just what happens.
I come so hard I think I black out for a moment.
It starts low and deep and then spreads through my entire body. My knees give out completely and he holds me, his hand still between my legs gentling me through it. I’m shaking and gasping. I turn my face into his arm and bite down so hard he jerks back with a grunt.
He pulls his hand out slowly and I whimper at the loss and then his lips are at my ear.
“I’m not done,” he says.
I make a sound that’s meant to be a word but isn’t.
He guides me forward to one of the chairs in the front row and I understand what he wants before he says it. His hand presses flat between my shoulder blades and eases me down.
I lean forward over the chair, my cheek on the cool leather, my bound hands at the small of my back.
I can hear him behind me—the rustle of clothing, the rasp of a zipper—but I can’t see him.
That’s the thing that gets me. I know what he looks like when he undresses because I’ve watched him do it dozens of times.
I know the way he reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, the way his stomach flexes.
Right now, I can’t see any of it. I can only hear and feel and wait, and the waiting is its own kind of exquisite torture.
“Please,” I say. “Zach, please—”
I can’t believe I’m begging. But my hands are tied and please is the only word I have left.
His hands run up the backs of my thighs slowly, all rough palms and gentle pressure. I arch into him and feel him hard against me and then he’s sliding inside me and I stop thinking.
The sound I make is muffled by the leather.
He fills me in one slow stroke and holds still.
I can feel him trembling through his hands on my hips.
His breath is ragged, his whole body fighting for control, and there’s something deeply satisfying about knowing that he’s barely holding it together. It makes me want to take him apart.
I push back against him and he makes a sound through his teeth and his grip tightens on my hips.
He starts moving with long, deep strokes that make my breath catch on every push, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in.
Every time he fills me, I feel it everywhere.
I can’t rush him. I can’t grab his hips and pull him faster.
I can’t do anything but take what he gives me, and the forced patience is killing me.
“Faster,” I say into the leather.
“No.”
“Please—”
“Not yet.”
I make a sound of frustration that’s closer to a sob than I’d like, and I clench around him, my body trying to pull him deeper. He groans. His hips stutter, and I realize I have more power than I thought. Even tied up. Even bent over. The effect I have on him is its own kind of control.
He leans over me, his chest almost flush against my back. His hand slides into my hair and he pulls me up to his chest.
“You feel incredible,” he groans. His other hand is gripping my hip hard enough that I’ll feel it tomorrow, and he drives into me.
It’s fast, deep, and relentless. I cry out, arching my back and gripping the laces between my fingers because it’s the only thing I can hold on to.
The sound of skin and breath and the creak of the chair fills the room.
My body is tightening toward something that’s going to destroy me.
“Zach—I’m—”
“I know. I can feel it.”
He can. He reaches around with one hand and presses, and that’s it. That’s all it takes. I come, crying out his name in a room where the acoustics are designed to carry sound. I feel him follow me maybe two seconds later, his hips slamming forward, his whole body going rigid against mine.
We stay like that, bent over the chair, catching our breath. His weight on me, his face in my hair, his hand still on my hip. I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my back.
I feel like I’ve been taken apart and put back together in a different order and I don’t want to move. I want to stay in this exact position in this exact room for the rest of my life.
“Untie me,” I whisper.
He pulls out slowly, and I feel him press his forehead between my shoulder blades.
Then he reaches between us and pulls the end of the laces.
They fall away, and my hands are free. I turn around, put both hands on his face, and kiss him.
He kisses me back so gently that my throat closes up.
His hands are on my waist holding me, his thumbs moving back and forth on my skin.
He takes my wrists and turns them over. We both look down at the faint pink lines where the lace sat.
He presses his mouth to the inside of one wrist, and then the other.
I’m crying, which I wasn’t expecting, and he doesn’t say anything about it.
He just keeps his lips on my wrist and breathes there.
“Hey,” he says quietly, still holding my hands. “Come back to me.”
“I’m here. I’m right here.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I’m good. I’m so far past good I need a new word.”
“We could ask Barrett. He seems knowledgeable.” He grins at me.
I choke out a laugh and shove his shoulder. I want to take a photo. I want to frame it. I want to show it to him when he’s sixty and say remember that time in the video room when you absolutely ruined me.
We slowly begin to put ourselves back together.
I find my underwear on the floor and shove them in his jacket pocket without asking, because at this point it’s tradition.
He pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me.
He puts his mouth against the top of my head and says, “you’re the bravest person I know,” so quietly I almost miss it.
I don’t say anything. I just hold on.
“Film sessions are going to be really hard now,” he says into my hair.
“Especially with Barrett at the clicker.”
He chokes back a laugh. “It’s too soon to joke about this.”
“What? He’ll be proud. His student, all grown up.”
He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together, and we walk through the facility like that. Barrett’s office is dark. The building is empty. Just us, the squeak of sneakers, and his thumb running over my knuckles all the way to the parking lot.
“Hey, Zach?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Barrett I said thank you.”
“Absolutely not.”
I’m laughing as I drive away.
My phone lights up at a red light. A screenshot from Zach.
Coach
Bowline held up okay?
Zach
Yes Coach.
Coach
Good. Tell Mackinnon she owes me a bottle of bourbon for the knot lesson. Top shelf. None of that White Elephant garbage.
Flight at 8 tomorrow. Don’t be late.
I’m still laughing when I pull into my parents’ driveway. I sit there with the engine off, my wrists still tingling and Zach’s text on my screen, and I think: I’m going to marry him. I’m going to follow him to every city he plays in, and I’m going to find a way to get into every video room.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Zach
I’ll see you when I get back.
I press my phone against my chest, close my eyes, and sit in the dark. I let myself have this. All of it. The laces and the knot and his mouth on my wrists and you’re the bravest person I know and the way he held my hand through the parking lot like the secret didn’t exist.
Tomorrow he gets on a plane. Tomorrow the series keeps going and my dad still doesn’t know and nothing is fixed.
But tonight. Tonight was ours.