“Probably not a bad idea.”
It wasn’t, and we clinked the bottles together before moving into the living room. Now the remaining pizza had been put way, we were each on our second beer, and I was more relaxed than I’d been in ages. Not just because of the food and alcohol. Just… this. Curling up on the couch with someone. Feeling the weight of another person against me, their body heat through our clothes as we touched with no expectations except closeness.
No, that wasn’t right either.
It wasn’t curling up on the couch with someone. It was curling up on the couch withhim. With Devon. With the man who inflicted so much delicious pain and maddening pleasure, it was a wonder I held on to my sanity when we were in bed. The intensity was off the charts. The trust was exhilarating.
That fact that it was soeasyto trust him—had been from our first semi-anonymous hookup—was mind-blowing.
I ran my fingers up and down his arm as I stared at the TV screen, not really paying attention to what was happening. It was just a talking head yammering into a microphone anyway, so whatever. I could zone out for a moment and marvel at how I’d landed here and with whom.
This didn’t feel wrong. Quite the opposite. Everything about us fit as perfectly as our bodies on this couch. I craved the kind of domination he apparently liked to give. The submission I offered seemed to be exactly what he needed to receive.
I’d always been repulsed by the idea of a professional dynamic like ours. As a player, I couldn’t imagine getting involved with a coach. As a coach, getting involved with a player seemed like it was asking for severely lopsided power dynamics. Especially when I was in my forties and the player was in his twenties. None of it should’ve worked.
Except… it did.
I might’ve ruled the ice, but the moment we were alone, I was—sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally—kneeling at Devon’s feet. He called the shots. He laid down the law. Yes, the submissive was the one in control through their needs and limits, but Devon held the reins. I trusted him not to steer me past my limits or to ignore my needs.Whatever he ordered, whatever he demanded… yes. Always yes.
And the age gap—was it really as big as it looked on a calendar? Yes, there was eighteen years between us. Yes, I’d been drafted into the League the same year Devon was born. But circumstances had forced him to mature beyond his years. My hyperfocus on hockey above all else had probably held me back in other areas.
Temporally, sure, nearly two decades separated us.
In terms of maturity and life experience? I had to wonder if the gap was actually much smaller.
When we returned to Abbotsford next week, we’d snap back to our coach-player dynamic. I’d be in charge again. He’d take a knee alongside his teammates and listen to my instructions.
And when we weren’t on skates…
My stomach knotted.
This easy dynamic we had now wouldn’t exist anymore. Not because we couldn’t keep the lines clear between us, but because the League would never tolerate a coach being involved with a player. Under the vast majority of circumstances, I agreed with that. It was difficult to imagine such a relationship not being incredibly problematic.
Except when it came to Devon and me.
Was I delusional? A hypocrite? Fuck. I had no idea. I just knew that this thing—itworked. It was incredible.
But when this week was over, I’d have to let it go because there was no way I was compromising Devon’s career. Absolutely not.
“Oh hey!” Devon’s voice jarred me into the present as he pointed at the screen. “Look at you!”
I focused on the screen and realized they were showinghighlights from past All-Star events. In particular, the year I won for backward skating.
There I was, twenty-six and full of myself, decked out in that year’s retina-searing bright-green All-Star jersey. The camera followed me around the rink as I skated backward for all I was worth. I even caught myself grimacing as I took one of the corners; I knew full well I made it without wiping out, but holy shit, it was close.
Devon whistled as I crossed the finish. The leaderboard updated with my time dramatically bumping all the other players down the list.
“Jack Showalter’s record still stands,” the present-day commentator said. “Maybe we’ll see it broken here today.”
Devon patted my chest. “Think you can still skate that fast?”
I snorted and reached for my beer. “I haven’t been able to skate that fast in years. I’d probably fall and break my hip or something.”
He laughed. “Oh, come on. You’re notthatold.”
I almost choked on my beer, and I rolled my eyes as I elbowed him. “Gee, thanks.”
He laughed harder, and it was all I could do not to just stare at him and drool. I loved it when he was like this—relaxed, smiling that brilliant smile, eyes sparkling with mischief.