Equipment cubbies run along both sides, with padded leather benches in front and stainless-steel name plaques marking each player’s spot. To the right is a wall listing of alumni who went played professionally after attending Boyd. I run my fingertips across the embossed metal plaques, scanning their names, some familiar and some not.
“You’ll be up here soon,” I tell him.
He winks at me. “That’s the plan.” Striding to the opposite end of the room, he opens a red locker and emerges with his phone. A moment later, he comes to stand in front of me, an indecipherable look across his face. “Do you need to get home?”
Excitement crackles beneath my skin. “No, why?”
“I want to show you something.”
Taking me by the wrist, he leads me to the door, and we step back into the hall. I’m equal parts confused and disappointed. Our sneaky locker room breakin had my mind going in a dramatically different, far dirtier direction, and I thought “showing me” was code for something else.
A heavy, muscular arm slides around my waist as he wordlessly steers me down the corridor, his grip casual like it’s the most natural thing in the world for the two of us to be this close. I’ve been so desperate for him to make a move, I’m on the verge of hyperventilating now that he is.
Two flights of stairs later, we come to stand before another locked door. Tyler punches in a code and pushes it open to reveal a small room filled with audiovisual equipment. Wide panes of glass along one wall look out onto the arena, a faint, blue-tinted glow from the emergency lighting system filtering through. He closes the door behind us, but he doesn’t flip on the lights.
“The announcer’s box?” I guess, scanning the array of dormant electronics.
“My dad brought me up here when I decided to attend Boyd. He gave me this long inspirational speech about how proud he was of me. I always looked up to the athletes he worked with when I was kid, and this was the moment when I felt like I’d finally made it to the next level.”
“You and your dad are close, huh?” My throat tightens at the reminder of everything I’ve missed with mine. Losing him in that helicopter crash when I was nine changed everything. It changed me.
“Yeah,” he says. “We talk all the time. I think we’re a lot alike.”
“What’s the rest of your family like?”
“My younger brother Jonah plays hockey too. He’s good, though maybe quite not as good as he thinks.” Tyler smirks. “Then my mom’s a doctor, and my sister Elise is into competitive gymnastics. It’s like a whole family tree of overachievers.”
This doesn’t come as a huge surprise, and it’s starting to shed some light on why he pushes himself so much.
“Were you close to your dad?” he asks softly.
A familiar pang of longing sets in. “I was a total daddy’s girl.”
His eyes hold mine. “I’m sorry, Ser.”
I can tell he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Dead parents make even the most well-intentioned people uncomfortable. I don’t hold it against anyone. If they haven’t experienced it themselves, it’s impossible for them to relate.
“It’s okay.” I step closer to the bank of windows, taking in everything from our elevated vantage point. Down below, the spectator stands are completely empty, the playing surface vacant aside from the painted lines and massive Boyd U Falcons symbol beneath the ice. This perspective from above drives home the massive scale of the seventeen-thousand-person arena, which is bigger than some professional hockey venues.
“Nice view,” I murmur. “Everything looks so small from up here.”
“Feels a lot bigger when you’re standing down there in front of the net.” He comes to stand beside me, the heat of his body warming mine. Our fingers brush, and my heart skips a beat as he threads them together. I have no idea how something so small can have such a big effect on me.
“Did you always want to play goal?”
He nods, his gaze focused on the other side of the glass. “The first time I stood in that crease, I knew.”
“Makes sense. Goalies are built different. Some people say they’re a little cr—"
“Watch it, Tink.” Tyler pokes me in the ribs, and I yelp, trying to scoot out of his reach. He pulls me toward him instead, easily overpowering me. Pivoting, he walks me backward a few steps until I’m trapped between a table and his broad, solid body. My skin thrums in response to his proximity, the throb in my core growing stronger by the second. I’m wound so tightly I can hardly breathe.
Cupping my chin, he tilts my face up to his. “Care to finish what you were going to say?” Slate eyes peer down at me, gleaming with a mixture of desire and amusement.
“Goalies are crazily talented?”
He tsks, fighting a smile. “You’re a brat, you know that?”
“I try.”
For a few tense breaths, neither of us moves. His calloused thumb runs across my cheek, caressing, and his gaze falls to my mouth, darkening to a smolder that lights a fire low in my belly. My heart skips a beat as he lowers his lips to mine until they’re almost touching. I circle my arms around his neck to pull him closer, and he draws in a jagged breath, covering my mouth with his.
Finally.
Exhilaration floods my veins, and I let out a sigh, twining my fingers in the soft hair at his nape. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently, then licks where he just nipped me. This is different than last time; more deliberate and controlled, like he’s savoring every second.
Strong hands cup my ass and set me on the table behind us. He nudges my legs apart, then pulls me to the edge until there’s no space between our bodies. Our centers aligned perfectly, my hips move into his, and I feel him harden against me. The empty ache in my core is nearly unbearable.
My palms smooth up his chest to his shoulders, impatiently urging off his jacket. Without breaking our kiss, he shrugs it off, then removes mine. The room fills with breathy moans and the rustling of clothes, murmurs and the clanging of his buckle. We’re on a mission to see this through to completion, neither wasting time on foreplay after we got left hanging last time.
Fumbling, I unfasten his jeans while he yanks up the hem of my skirt. His fingertips hook onto the sides of my panties, yanking them off in one decisive swoop. Rough palms smooth up my bare legs until he reaches the apex of my thighs. Cupping where I’m heated and aching for him, he strokes my clit, and a feral growl rumbles in his chest.
“Such a perfect pussy.” His finger dips inside my entrance and strokes my inner wall, curling to apply perfect pressure.
“Ty.” I groan, writhing as he teases me again. Pleasure sparks in my core, flickering in and out while he deliberately keeps me hanging on the edge.
My hand slips beneath the band of his boxer briefs, skimming past his smooth, taut abs to grasp his cock. He’s even bigger than I remembered, thick and heavy in my palm. His breaths grow shallow as my fingertips skim down his shaft, tracing the three piercings at the bottom.
When my fist wraps around the base, his hips jerk, and he groans into my neck. “Fuck, Ser. I can’t control myself with you.”
“Condom,” I manage, panting and desperate and soaked. “In my purse over there.”