Breaking the Ice
by @mysticravenA reckless new recruit and his dominant, discipline-obsessed captain clash so violently that the locker room feels the heat before they do. Marcus starts privately punishing Jason after practice, turning correction into a twisted mix of pain, praise, and growing intimacy. On away-game hotel trips, Jason realizes the real danger isn't the strict physical control—it's how desperately he craves Marcus's approval, a need that explodes into a physical affair after a championship win neither can contain.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Marcus Reed
The 34-year-old captain of the team, built like a wall of scarred muscle from years of NHL fights. Salt-and-pepper stubble shadows a jaw that could cut glass, and his pale blue eyes hold the cold patience of a man who's never lost control—until Jason. He moves like he owns the ice, the locker room, and every breath Jason takes, his broad hands always finding work to do when Jason's nearby.
Jason Kovač
A reckless 22-year-old rookie with dirty-blond hair that falls into green eyes always looking for a fight. Lean and wired with the kind of explosive energy that makes him dangerous on the ice and impossible to ignore off it. He's all sharp cheekbones, a cocky grin that hides how desperately he wants to prove himself, and a body that's started responding to Marcus's punishments in ways that shame and thrill him equally.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
The Silence Before
Jason's voice bounces off the concrete walls, too bright for this space of men and silence. He's still talking when he feels it—a weight. He turns. Marcus Reed is watching him from across the room, arms crossed, those pale blue eyes cutting through the fluorescent hum like a blade. Jason's chest tightens. His skin knows something his mouth won't admit. The other players have gone quiet. Waiting. Watching him watch Marcus. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Fuck. Why'd he do that?
Beneath the Water
Jason steps under the spray, the water hot enough to sting, and Marcus's hands find his hips—not rough, not yet, but deliberate, turning him like he's positioning something precious. Jason's back hits the tile, cold shock against the steam, and Marcus presses into him, body to body, the wet slide of skin against skin making Jason's breath catch. The captain's hand comes up to his throat again, but softer this time, thumb tracing his jawline like he's memorizing the shape of him. Jason's hands find Marcus's waist, uncertain, and the older man's eyes go darker, hungrier, as he takes Jason's wrists and pins them above his head against the tile. "If you're going to come apart," Marcus says, mouth close enough that Jason feels the words more than hears them, "you're going to do it against me."
Claimed Against the Tile
His cock presses against me, not inside yet, just there, the head nudging at my hole, and I can't breathe. My palms are flat against the cold tile, my forehead pressed to it, and I'm shaking so hard the water beads off my skin in waves. He pushes—just the tip, just enough to make me feel the stretch, the burn, the impossible heat of him—and my mouth falls open against the tile, a sound coming out of me I've never heard before. Marcus's hand slides up my stomach to my chest, finds my nipple, pinches hard, and I buck back against him without meaning to, taking him deeper. His laugh is a breath against my ear. 'That's it. That's my boy.'
The Answer He Needs
The word lands like a hit, and Jason's whole body goes still under it—not submission, recognition. His cock throbs against Marcus's stomach, and the shame he expected doesn't come. Instead, relief floods through him, warm as the water. His hands uncurl against the tile, and he lets his head fall back, baring his throat the way Marcus taught him. 'Then give it to me,' he says, and his voice doesn't crack this time. 'Give me what I'm good for.' Marcus's eyes go dark, and the grip on his hip tightens hard enough to bruise.
The Long Wait
Jason stays in the shower until the water runs cold, his body shaking not from temperature but from the absence of Marcus's hands. He dries off mechanically, every towel stroke a reminder of where Marcus's palm had been. When he finally walks into the hotel room, Marcus is sitting on the edge of the bed—still shirtless, still holding that cold patience—and Jason's cock stirs again despite the hour of emptiness. He stops in the middle of the room, dripping onto the carpet, and waits. Marcus's eyes travel over him like he's reading a report. 'You figured it out yet?' Jason's throat tightens. His voice comes out wrecked: 'I don't want to be nothing to you. I want to be yours.' Marcus's expression doesn't change, but his hand opens on his thigh—an invitation, not a command. Jason crosses the room on legs that barely hold him.