The text message burneda hole in my pocket for three days.
I look forward to seeing you focus on ice again.Until then.
It was a command.A promise.A threat.And I obeyed.The next practice, I'd been a demon.All sharp turns and harder shots, my focus laser-like, fueled by a cocktail of humiliation, need, and a desperate desire to prove him wrong or maybe right.My lungs screamed and my muscles turned Jelly.
Coach had granted his approval.Shay had clapped me on the helmet.“Welcome back, Holt.”
But the reprieve was temporary.This silence from the unknown number was its own form of torture.Every buzz on my phone was a jolt of adrenaline, followed by a crashing wave of disappointment when it was just Shay sending memes or Felix asking about video games.Henry had said his piece.He yanked my chain, witnessed the effect from afar via my shitty practice and my subsequent rebound, and now he was waiting.Patient.Sure.
I hated it.I craved it.
It was after another grueling practice, one where I had managed to keep my head in the game, that the other shoe dropped.I was one of the last in the locker room, taking my time.The post-practice adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the usual pleasant ache.Steam curled from the shower room, and the space was mostly empty, just the low hum of industrial dryer in the back and the distant clang of our janitors’s cart in the hall.
I was sitting on the bench in just my towel, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my gut.I heard the main door to the locker room swing open, assuming it was the janitor finally coming to mop up.
The footsteps that echoed on the tile were all wrong.Too measured.Too confident.Too clean.
My head snapped up.
Henry Emerson stood just inside the doorway, his hand still on the heavy door, pushing it shut behind him with the soft, definitive click.He was a stark, impossible vision in the heart of my world.A custom-fit navy suit, crisp white shirt, no tie.He looked like he’d just walked out of a board meeting and into a swamp.His gaze swept the room, the discarded tape wads, the sweaty gear piled in bins, the puddles of water on the floor, before landing on me.
On me, sitting in a towel, my hair wet, my skin flushed from the shower.
Every coherent thought in my head evaporated.The air vanished from my lungs.We were alone.Utterly, completely alone.
“Mr.Emerson,” I said, my voice a dry croak.I stood up, my fingers clutching the knot of the tower like a lifeline.“The team’s...everyone's pretty much gone.”
“I know,” he said, his voice calm, as if he regularly took strolls through locker rooms after hours.He took a few steps inside, his expensive dress shoes silent on the damp tile.His eyes didn’t leave me.“I had a meeting with the GM.Saw the light was still on down here.”
A lie.It had to be a lie.He'd known i was here.
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap or cologne, something citrus and sharp, cutting through the thick air of sweat and steam.His eyes did a slow, deliberate inventory of me: from my damp hair, down my bare chest, over the towel slung low on my hips, to my bare feet on the cool floor.It was the same assessing look he’d given me that first day, but now it was intimate.Personal devastating.
“I see you found your focus,” he remarked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.“ coach was pleased with your performance this week.”
The way he said ‘performance’ made it sound dirty.My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.I should say something.I should get dressed.I should get the hell out of here.
Instead, i just stood there, pinned by his gaze.
“Thanks to you,” I heard myself say.The words were out before i could stop them, raw and honest.
His eyebrows lifted a fraction.“Oh?”
“Your text.”I swallowed, my throat tight.“It was a pretty good motivator.”
“Was it?”He took another step closer.Th space between us crackled with tension.“And what, precisely, did it motivate you to do, Charlie?”
He knew.He knew exactly what it motivated me to do.The memory of it, the cold locker room, the frantic beat of my own heart, the blinding release, flooded back and a hot flush spread across my chest.I saw the moment he registered it in the slight darkening of his eyes.
He was close enough to touch now.I could see the fine weave of his suit jacket, the glint of a platinum watch under his cuff.The contrast was surreal.Him, in his thousand-dollar suit.Me, in a damp towel, smelling of cheap body wash.The power dynamic wasn’t just implied; it was a physical, tangible thing between us.
The silence stretched thick and heavy.The hum of the dryer seemed to grow louder.I was drowning in it, in him.All pent-up frustration, the confusion, the sheer, undiluted want of him last few days coalesced into a single, reckless impulse.
I didn’t think.If I thought, I'd stop.And I didn’t want to stop
My voice, when it came out, was low, rough, barely recognizable.“I want to suck you off.”
The words hung in the air, vulgar and shocking.A direct contrast to his polished restraint.
