Page 72 of Cold Comeback
He flattened his palm against my chest, pinning me in place. My cock twitched in his grip, and he laughed, a deliciously horny sound. "Go on," he rasped.
My eyes squeezed shut. I shoved my face into his shoulder and bit down, just to muffle the groan when I came. He jerked once more, and then he was right there with me, shouting out a curse, "Fucking hell!" as his cock pulsed against my hip.
He didn't move. Neither did I. My thighs trembled and my knuckles stung where I'd gripped the tile.
Thatcher started to laugh again—quiet, at first, then harder, wild and giddy, how he did after goals that shouldn't have gone in. It was contagious. I grinned, and he caught me around the neck and half-hugged me, both of us shaking with aftershocks.
The water continued to flow over us. My heartbeat slowed, and my brain caught up with my body.
Thatcher finally leaned back and looked at the silvery streaks on both our chests. "I'm not cleaning that up."
I smacked his shoulder. "Don't start. We'll do it together."
Getting dressed afterward was like pulling on a suit of armor.
"Tomorrow," I said, "We meet early. Before the cameras arrive."
"Just us?"
"Just us. I want to remember what our hockey is like without an audience."
Thatcher nodded, then paused by the door. "Gideon?"
"Yeah?"
"Everyone always wants to fix my shit or tell me why I shouldn't feel it. You just touched my face like it was okay to be scared."
As he left the locker room, I sat on the bench and pulled out my phone, scrolling to the team group chat where someone had already posted a video of our disastrous scrimmage. Comments rolled in from guys making jokes about the documentary and Coach Hollywood with his lighting requirements.
Knox sent a private message:
Knox:Don't let them get in your head, Cap. We know who you are
My teammates hadn't lost faith in me because of one bad day or a manufactured speech. They were protecting something, too—the authentic leader they'd been following for three years, not the version Blake wanted to package for streaming audiences.
I replied with a message to the entire group:
Gideon:Early practice tomorrow. 7 AM. Just us
The responses came quickly:
Linc:Thank fuck. Need to remember how to play hockey
Pluto:Will there be coffee? Important question
Knox:Only if Hollywood brings his ring light
They took the sting out of the nickname, making it belong to us instead of the cameras.
I turned off the lights and headed for my truck. Tomorrow, we'd start with no cameras, narrative, or self-conscious performance. Only twenty guys and the game we'd fallen in love with before anyone told us how to package it for consumption.
In the parking lot, I spotted Thatcher's car still running. He was waiting, making sure I didn't leave alone.
When I pulled up beside him, he rolled down his window.
"You good?" he asked.
"Getting there."
