Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Bash

As dawn breaks over Sin City, the cold, crisp air inside the rink is a stark contrast to the slowly warming day outside. The sound of blades cutting into the ice echoes through the empty stands, a lonely but comforting noise. I'm already suited up, stick in hand, when Briggs slides up next to me, his face set in that familiar, determined scowl.

"We're taking the speed drills to another level today, Leclerc," Briggs announces, slapping a puck back and forth between his skates. His breath comes out in visible puffs, the intensity in his eyes mirroring the sharp chill of the rink.

"Bring it on," I reply, tightening my grip on my stick. We both know that speed can make or break a game, and neither of us is here to screw around—even in practice.

Despite my best efforts to make this a practice that counts, last night was torture. Pure, unadulterated torture. Sage sleeping just down the hall from me, her presence a constant echo in the otherwise silent house, had my mind racing and my body tense. I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, feeling this inexplicable pull toward her that I couldn't ignore. Even though I told myself I shouldn't, I let my hand drift to my dick and stroke its hard length to thoughts of her.

It's crazy—we just met, but the connection, the magnetic force between us, is almost palpable, like an electric current zapping through the air. Every time I close my eyes, I see her smile and hear her laugh, a sound that seems to vibrate directly into my soul. Even after coming so hard I saw stars, I still tossed and turned the rest of the night, the sheets becoming a tangled mess of my frustration. The thought of her so close yet so far, separated by mere walls and my own hesitation, is almost more than I can bear. No telling how long she's going to be with me either. I'm drawn to her in a way I've never experienced before, an attraction that doesn't just simmer; it burns. She's seeped into my veins, and now I can't get her out of my system, no matter how hard I try.

But I just grip my stick tighter, taking that as a challenge.

And hope I will survive.

Noah's in the net, his stance wide, gloves poised. He gives us a nod, the silent signal that he's as ready as we are. The quiet of the morning is pierced by Coach Brenig's sharp whistle from the sidelines, kicking off the drills.

We start with basic passing, the puck flying back and forth between Briggs and me. I push off with a powerful stride, feeling the burn in my legs as I reach top speed, my focus entirely on the black disk sliding over the white ice. Briggs meets my passes with precision, and each return is a challenge to be faster, more accurate.

"Faster! Make me work for it!" Briggs shouts over the sound of our skates. His pass comes quickly, a hard slap that demands precision and control. I snap it up and send it back with equal force, our rhythm fast and unforgiving.

The drill shifts as Coach throws in obstacles—cones to weave through, simulating a crowded game day. Briggs and I move like connected parts of the same machine, weaving through the makeshift defense. Our sticks are extensions of our arms, and the puck is a shared heartbeat between us.

"Tighter turns, Leclerc!" Coach calls out, and I dig my blades into the ice harder, cutting around the cones with less space than seems possible. My lungs burn with the exertion, cold air sharp in my chest.

Next, we focus on shooting. I catch the puck from Briggs, carry it through a line of cones, and take my shot. Noah, ever the brick wall, blocks it effortlessly, the puck thudding against his pads and falling harmlessly to his side.

"Again!" Coach demands. Briggs sends another puck my way, and this time, I vary my approach, feinting left before pulling right, firing off a shot that slips under Noah's blocker. The satisfying clang of the puck hitting the back of the net is the sweet sound of success.

"Nice shot!" Noah calls, a grin visible behind his mask. He's not one to give out free compliments, so it counts.

We move to one-on-one drills next. Briggs comes at me hard, with no holding back. He's a bull, and his large frame is surprisingly agile as he tries to outmaneuver me. I counter with speed, dodging and weaving, but he matches every move. When I finally get past him, it's with a combination of a fake and a burst of speed that leaves him a step behind.

"Work on that first step, Sawyer!" Coach yells, though there's a note of approval in his tone. Briggs just grunts, readying for another go.

The intensity doesn't drop as we switch roles. Now I'm on defense, and Briggs is the attacker. I focus on his hips, the key to predicting his direction. He tries a slick move to get by me, but I've seen it before, and I'm not fooled. I steal the puck and send it up the ice, earning a few seconds of respite as he chases it down.

"Keep it up, you two! This is what wins games." Coach's voice is a constant, pushing us to our limits. "It's all about chemistry."

When Coach mentions the chemistry between Briggs and me, it's like a light switch flips in my head, casting a glaring spotlight on my chemistry with Sage. Ours is different, intense, unlike anything I've ever felt before. On the ice, it's about predictability and rhythm; with Sage, it's unpredictable and electrifying. Every glance, every accidental touch sends adrenaline pumping through my veins like a game-winning goal in overtime.

When the guys talk about women being on their minds and in their hearts, even when they are on the ice, I always poo-poo it and flick it away as inconsequential.

Now I know.

As the morning progresses, the drills become more complex, the passes faster, and the shots more challenging. Noah's saves are spectacular, a reminder of why he's one of the best in the league. Briggs and I are gasping for breath, soaked in sweat despite the cold, but there's nowhere else we'd rather be.

By the time Coach blows the final whistle, signaling the end of practice, we're exhausted but exhilarated. We've left everything we have out here, a testament to our dedication and relentless pursuit of excellence. As we skate off the ice, Briggs claps me on the shoulder, a wordless exchange that says everything about respect and camaraderie.

This is how champions are made , I think, already anticipating our next game. Every drop of sweat, every aching muscle, brings us closer to that ultimate goal—the Cup.

This is our year. I can feel it.

* * *

Briggs corners me as soon as we get to the locker room. "So? How's it going with the hottie and her giant—"

"If you say giant pussy, I swear to God…" Anders's threat loses some of its bite, given that he can't seem to think of an appropriate punishment.

Briggs lifts both hands and flutters his eyelashes. "Who, me? I would never. I was going to ask how her giant Savannah cat was doing in Bash's house. Not sure those things are meant to be kept indoors if I'm being honest."

"We already know how it's going," Latham calls. "He's fifty shades of distracted."

"What does that mean?" I ask. "But I'll have you know that I have already made the pussy purr."

After a flurry of high fives, Briggs lifts a finger into the air and adopts a professorial tone. "This is a cultural allusion in reference to the fact that you have a strange woman living in your house, and it's affecting your game. There are overt sexual implications to the phrasing as well, implying that you two might be engaging in deviant sexual acts. However, Latham's phrasing implies that you are fantasizing about tying Sage up in your Red Room but have not yet had the pleasure." He spins to Oliver and slaps him on the back. "See? You're not the only one who knows his way around some literary terms, Ollie."

Oliver lifts one eyebrow. "If you say so. I avoid anything written after 1616. Unless it was written by me."

Before Briggs and Oliver can start debating the merits of whatever the fuck they're talking about, I decide to put the matter to rest. "Her friend was worried about her staying with me. And then she seemed disappointed I was so… respectful."

The guys exchange mystified looks as they cluster up around me. "What were you doing while they were talking?" Noah asks.

"Making her a sandwich."

Anders rolls his eyes. "Well, now we know who wears the pants in the relationship."

Ranger frowns. "That's a bit sexist. I make Delilah food all the time."

Anders smirks. "Probably in exchange for sexual favors. We all know how the currency works in your house."

Ranger looks around at the rest of the guys. "Come on, someone back me up here."

Latham reaches over to squeeze our team captain's shoulder. "Anders, you know I have your back in all things… but if Scarlett heard you saying all that a woman's place is in the kitchen shit, she might literally murder you. And I would be legally obligated to help her hide the body."

Anders pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long sigh. "Fine, I'm sorry. So, Bash, you were making Sage a sandwich. What happened next?"

"Sage's friend said that she was into… dark romance. I don't know about Sage, but she seemed kinda into it? Maybe? And her friend wondered if I was into dub-con, non-con, or CNC. I didn't even know. So, I had to look it up." I sigh. "I'm a con-con. One hundred percent. But what if she's not? What if she wants a man who can non her con?"

Silence falls over the locker room as the guys digest this.

Latham pipes up first, although his furrowed brow suggests that he's never heard any of these terms. "Are you saying that you're a con man? Are you trying to con Sage?"

"No. I have two sisters. I could never disrespect a woman like that." There are a few things that I'd like to do to Sage that some people would find disrespectful, but only if she was into it.

Briggs has his phone out. His eyes widen. "Holy shit. Look at this. Dub-con means… dubious consent."

"Dubious how?" Noah asks. "Like, when I smuggle a bag of Doritos into the house and hide it on the top shelf? Because what Molly doesn't know won't hurt her, and she'll never find it up there…"

"You are all genuinely idiots," Ranger sighs. "He's talking about sex."

I'm the only one whose jaw doesn't drop, and that's only because I spent way too much time last night Googling this shit while trying to keep my mouth from falling open and my hand off my dick. After all, I have a house guest now, so I can't just rub one out in the middle of my living room anymore.

"What kind of sex? Con sex?" Latham asks warily.

"Do you guys really not know anything about this?" Ranger lifts his hands in exasperation. "Dub-con is when there's plausible deniability. Usually, the woman wants whatever's happening to happen, but she hasn't actually said it. Non-con is like…" He squirms under the scrutiny of our teammates. "It's not… consensual. Consent is not involved."

"That's fucked up," Latham says. "Is this, like, a porn thing? Is this something you've done with Delilah?"

"No!" Ranger's face turns beet red. He looks to me for help. "It's in romance novels."

"Wait a minute." Briggs almost drops his phone. "There's sex in romance novels? And they describe it? "

"Yeah, dude." Coop cocks his head. "What did you think was happening in them?"

"I thought it was like the Hallmark channel!" Briggs sinks down onto the bench. "Are you telling me… those Harlequin novels…"

"They're like that Bridgerton show," Noah explains. "Lots of big emotions and heaving bosoms, and then, yeah, they fuck. For pages and pages in great detail."

"My mom reads Harlequin novels." Oliver looks like he might pass out.

"So, wait." Noah strokes his chin. " The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty is non-con, right? Didn't realize there was a whole word for that, but okay."

"What the hell is that?" Briggs demands.

"The book that Molly shared at the first book club I attended at The Last Chapter."

Briggs legitimately swoons.

Latham, too, looks troubled. "Sometimes, I barely make it in the door before Scarlett's all over me. I thought it was me. What if it's not me? What if I'm losing my mojo? What if some perfect book boyfriend is tripping her trigger, and she's just using my dick as a masturbation aide?"

Briggs taps his hand to his forehead. "I'm gonna have to check Layla's Kindle."

"Don't do it," Ranger urges. "It'll only lead to heartbreak. We haven't even talked about the monster smut everyone's reading these days." He lowers his voice. "Schlongs three feet long and ten inches in girth. Multiple schlongs so every hole can be penetrated at the same time. Tentacles. Knotting."

Oliver holds onto the door of his locker for support. " Everyone reads that? "

I gesture for a time-out. "You're missing the point. You already have wives. I'm worried I'm never going to get one. Could we talk about me for a minute?"

Oliver is yanking on clothes as fast as he can. "No. I have a lot to lose here."

"You?" Coop scoops up his bag. "We're supposed to be in our honeymoon phase. Maybe I've been doing it wrong."

"Doing what wrong?" I demand. "Whatever it is, I'm not doing it at all."

"Talk later." Coop pats my shoulder. "Good luck, Bash." He rushes out the door. The rest of our teammates follow him, leaving me with no more insight than I had before.

Maybe Sage has a Kindle I can check.

For research purposes only.