Chapter Twenty

Rowan

It's been a week since Bex kissed me in my apartment and tonight the Hawkeyes are playing another home game. I make my way to my seat watching the crowd light up with anticipation for the game. My breath catches when I see it—a large Hawkeyes jacket draped over the back of my chair. The bold, embroidered name Coach Bex on the front chest pocket leaves no doubt as to who left it. On the seat itself is a heated blanket powered by a small battery pack and a Stanley thermos, still steaming with what smells like hot apple cider.

I sink into the chair, pulling the blanket over my lap and immediately slipping into the oversized jacket. The warmth surrounds me, and so does his presence, as if he's here with me despite being on the other side of the rink. I cradle the thermos between my hands, sipping the cider, letting its heat soothe me. This is the warmest I’ve ever been at a game. I’m usually concerned with my professionalism, but tonight, just this once, I can’t deny my heart beating a little more rapidly for the premeditated thought that Bex put into making sure I’m comfortable.

This wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. This took planning—it was intentional and meaningful, and also, one hundred percent practical.

He didn’t leave flowers and chocolates.

He left a blanket with batteries he probably brought from home. The jacket isn’t one I’ve ever seen him wear which means he probably brought that from home too. And the cider? Well, the stadium doesn’t sell it, and this has a spice and caramel added like the spiced cider down the street at Serendipity's.

"Don’t look now," the woman next to me whispers conspiratorially, leaning closer. "But Coach Bex hasn’t stopped staring at you since you walked into the aisle."

I glance up instinctively, and there he is. His hazel eyes lock onto mine even as Ezra leans toward him, pointing at something on the clipboard he’s holding. Bex doesn’t even glance at what Ezra’s saying. He’s staring right at me, his gaze steady and unmistakable.

My breath hitches. I mouth, Thank you , hoping he understands. The corner of his mouth twitches, the smallest acknowledgment before he shifts his attention back to the clipboard, but I can feel the weight of his gaze linger even as I look away.

The game starts strong. The Hawkeyes dominate the first period, scoring twice. The crowd erupts with every goal, a wave of cheers and chants rolling through the stadium. I lose myself in the rhythm of the game, texting Hans during the break to let him know I won’t be around to help with Sherlock next week since I’ll be traveling with the team.

As the second period approaches, I notice a movement beside me. Someone slides into the previously empty seat, but I’m too focused on the rink to pay much attention. The coaches file back into their box in front of me, and my eyes naturally drift to Bex.

Except Bex isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on whoever is now sitting beside me, and the sharpness in his expression sends a chill down my spine. He looks... furious.

“Bex doesn’t seem happy to see me,” a familiar voice says, pulling my attention to my left.

I snap my head around to find Drew sitting next to me, a smug grin on his face.

“I suppose he doesn’t,” I reply flatly, the warm glow I’d been feeling moments ago now dimmed. “You haven’t exactly been on his good side lately.”

Drew shrugs, unbothered. “That might be true, but he seems to like you just fine. You’ve written enough digs at him to deserve the same hostility, but maybe your defense of him at the gala changed his tune.” He eyes the oversized jacket I’m wrapped in, his smirk widening. “His jacket looks warm. Makes me wonder if he’s warming you up for a biased article—or if you’re just making it personal to attack a fellow journalist and friend.”

The jacket suddenly feels heavier, as if it’s a spotlight shining directly on me. I shift uncomfortably, the soft comfort of it now tangled with Drew’s implications.

“Drew,” I snap, lowering my voice to keep the conversation between us. “Whose jacket I wear has nothing to do with you, and Charles and the readers of The Seattle Sunrise are the only ones who matter when it comes to my writing.”

For a moment, Drew is silent, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. Then, to my dismay, he leans closer. “I didn’t know Clare was going to mention the baby. We agreed to wait until she was further along—”

“Stop.” I cut him off sharply. “I don’t care, Drew. I hope you and Clare have a healthy pregnancy, but you need to get this through your head. I don’t think about you, or your future. Not anymore.”

He follows my gaze, which has shifted back to Bex. Drew sighs, leaning forward in his seat. “I see. I wish you luck with that. You’re going to need it.”

Without another word, he stands and walks away, leaving me to process the awkward exchange.

The game is well underway, but there’s a new tension in Bex’s tight shoulders and locked jaw. He’s trading players, barking instructions, shouting at the refs with the intensity of someone fighting a losing battle but the Hawkeyes are ahead. It doesn’t make sense.

Then, chaos erupts on the ice. A late hit on Briggs Conley sends Lake Powers and Kaenan Altman into retaliation mode. The ref misses the initial hit and calls the penalties on the retaliation instead, sending Powers and Altman to the penalty box.

Bex loses it.

I’m on my feet before I realize it, the blanket tumbling to the sticky floor beneath me. Bex is yelling at the ref, his face red with frustration. When the ref refuses to acknowledge him, Bex jumps over the sideboards, landing on the ice with a determination that makes my heart race.

The crowd roars as Bex confronts the ref, his voice booming across the rink. Ezra rushes to pull him back while Seven steps between Bex and the ref. The second official charges into the altercation, and within moments, the call is made.

Bex is ejected from the game.

I watch helplessly as he storms through the tunnel, disappearing from sight. My heart pounds in my chest, and before I know it, I’m weaving through the crowd, muttering apologies as I push past fans with beers and hot dogs. I flash my badge to get past security and I don’t stop until I'm standing in front of his door.

I knock once before pushing the door open.

“Rowan?” His voice is rough, his eyes widening in surprise before narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here. And if you’re planning on writing this in your next article.”

Of course he’d jump to conclusions about my intentions. "I’m not writing about this and I’m not going anywhere,” I say firmly, closing the door behind me. “What happened out there? You almost got in a fistfight with the ref. What were you thinking?”

"Rowan," he says, his voice low, "I'm warning you. You should leave now before I do something I’ll regret."

I take a step forward. "You wouldn't hurt me. And I'm not leaving until you talk to me and tell me what happened out there," I say.

He turns around, taking heavy long strides towards me until he’s standing in front of me, and I do everything I can not to fidget or step away from him.

"Of course I'd never hurt you. That's not what I meant," he says

"Then why are you so mad? Hits like that happen out there. It's not unusual."

"You." he says.

"Me?"

"You think I can just stand there while he sits that close to you, a thick sheet of plexiglass keeping me for telling him to stay the fuck away from you. That you don't belong to him anymore? That he doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you?"

My eyes widen, where is this coming from?

"Bex…" I say.

"Leave, I'm too worked up for you to be this close to me." His voice is raw, and I feel the weight of his words settle between us.

“Drew means nothing to me.”

“Leave,” he says again, but this time his voice cracks.

“If you’re that worked up, then use me,” I say softly, stepping closer.

His breath hitches, and I know I’ve stepped over the line we’ve been playing with for months. “Use you?” he asks.

"All that build-up. It's burning in you, isn't it? You need a release. Release it on me," I tell him, my body already tingling at the idea of Bex unloading all his build-up inside of me.

His expression is almost pained at the idea of it.

"Seeing Drew that close to you... I don't just want to fuck you. I want to ruin that pussy for anyone else but me, do you understand? The way I want you should scare you--it scares me. And nothing more will happen after we leave my office. Even if I had it in me to choose anything over hockey, which I don’t, I’m retiring to England and your career and life is here."

I step forward, placing my hand on his chest. He might be right, he might only be capable of these stolen moments we've had together, and our lives might not be headed in the same direction but I'm too selfish not to take the little he has left to offer.

"Take me however you need it. I want to know what it feels like to be ruined by you. Even if it’s just once."

He sucks in his lower lip. I can see it in his eyes that he knows he should turn me away, but I'm too wet for him to hurt me. I'm too turned on not to come as soon as he enters me.

His eyes darken again and hood with arousal. We both need this, not just him and he sees it in my eyes too.

"Hands flat on my desk, Rowan. Nothing on but your panties. I want to take those off myself." He waits for me to signal that I understand his instructions and then sidesteps to let me pass.

He watches me walk to his desk, stripping off the jacket he left me on my seat, and beginning to quickly unbutton my blouse.

I turn back to watch him pull his polo up over his head as he walks to the door, twisting the lock until it engages, the sound building more anticipation, an agreement on both our parts that neither of us leave until we both get what we came for.

I stand there as he sheds off the last of his clothes, his hard cock bobbing in front of him with me bent over his desk in only a beige thong. He steps behind me, his hands caressing my ass until his fingers twist into the material of my panties, tugging up tight, causing delicious pain that makes more arousal seep into the material. He bends over me, his erection sliding between my bare thighs, his chest flat against my back, pulling my thong tighter.

I moan out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, my center squeezing at the need for more of him.

"Do you know how long I've thought about fucking you like this? Bent over my desk, all mine to claim, this perfect pussy waiting for me? Do you know how long I've wanted to make you scream loud enough that a packed stadium of fans hears you beg me to let you come?" he asks, his free hand sliding around the front of me, his fingers moving the thong out of his way as he works my clit, sliding to my entrance but not giving me the penetration I need. Instead, his fingers move away just as I think he's going to press into me.

"How long?" I ask, knowing that up until a few weeks ago, he hasn’t wanted me anywhere near this stadium.

"Since the first day I saw you sitting in the front row of the press box two years ago. Those prim little trouser suits, that slicked back perfect hair. A good little journalist—too smart to get mixed up with the likes of me,” he says against my ear as he works me to a sopping wet mess for him. “I wanted to know what you'd look like, properly messy and feral, begging for every inch of my cock as I fed it into you," he says, my fingers digging into his desk, my body humming with need. "I was a good lad, did my best to keep my distance, and then you went and let him sit next to you, making me properly jealous enough that I picked a fight with a ref."

His words hit me harder than they should. Was he really thinking about me all this time? Watching me, wanting me? My mind flashes to every moment we’ve shared these last few months, every argument, every stolen glance, and now I understand—it was never just the tension between a coach and a reporter. It was this, always this, building and burning until it finally exploded. And now, I’m his fire, and he’s mine. His fingers slide out of my folds and hook on either side of my panties, pulling them slowly down my legs, until I step out of them and then he tosses them onto his desk. “Those are mine now. You don’t get those back. After you leave my office thoroughly fucked, I want to know that you’re out there in the stadium for the rest of the game and interviews tonight with no panties on because they’re in my desk.”

I should keep my smart mouth to myself, but I can’t—not with him. "If I had known that Drew would make you jealous, I would have had him sit next to me sooner,” I admit.

The sound of a slap and the sting of Bex's hand against my ass makes me jump and squirm, but my center clenches tighter and more heat pools low in my belly.

"You want this, don't you?" he asks, a soothing hand rubbing the spot he spanked.

I nod, and I hear the sound of a groan rumble through his chest.

"No condom. I want to coat every inch inside of you with me," he says, but I know it's a question. He's asking for permission.

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling with a mixture of anticipation and need, knowing full well that a baby can’t come from this, even if, somehow, we both wanted it. "No barriers between us."

A feral sound escapes his throat, his grip tightening on my hips, his control slipping, and then he’s there, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, his hand splaying across my lower back to hold me steady. "You’re not leaving this office without my mark on you," he mutters, and then he thrusts forward, filling me completely.

I cry out at the intensity of it, the sensation of him stretching me, claiming me and putting me back together, being wanted like this—by him. It's overwhelming in the most exquisite way. My nails dig into the desk, anchoring me as he pulls out just enough to drive back in, setting a pace that’s rough and relentless, just like him—just like he promised he would take me.

"Fuck," he groans, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, but I don’t care. Every thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, building with an intensity that borders on too much.

"More," I plead, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts with my own desperate need. "Don’t hold back."

"God, you’re perfect," he groans. He takes my hand and presses it to my belly, pushing into the low of my stomach. "You feel that? That's me, driving deep into you."

The sensation is almost too much, and I moan, my body tightening around him. His other hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so he can murmur against my ear, "No one else will ever fuck you like I do. And no one has ever or will ever feel as good wrapped around my cock as you do."

His words tip me over the edge, and my orgasm rips through me, my body clenching around him as I scream his name. He follows moments later, his grip tightening as he buries himself as deep as he can go, his release hot and claiming, filling me to the brim with his cum.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are our ragged breaths and the faint hum of the arena outside the office, and the smell of what we just did. He doesn’t pull away immediately, his hands sliding over my body, grounding me, as if he’s reluctant to let go. As if wanting one more touch.

Finally, he eases out of me, leaving me feeling both sated and empty. I straighten slowly, turning to face him. His eyes are dark, his expression unreadable as he reaches for his discarded shirt to clean us both up.

"This doesn’t change anything," he says quietly, his voice rough. "It can’t."

"I know," I say, though my heart twists at the finality in his tone.

He grabs my panties off his desk and balls them up in his hand, squeezing them as if he likes the feeling of their dampness in his hand and then he places them in his bottom drawer. I guess he’s serious about keeping them.

“You can use my bathroom to clean up.” He points to the door in the corner of his office. I guess I never noticed it before. “Take your time, there’s a shower in there if you want. The second period is over by now and I need to check on the team and the coaches in the locker room.”

I nod and then gather my things. I’m not ready to wash him away so quickly, but a shower is necessary since he stole my panties. As I gather my clothes and straighten my hair, I can’t help but think that no matter what he says, something between us has already shifted. And neither of us can undo it now.