Grayson pulled into the Wichita Hawks facility lot just before eight, the truck’s engine ticking as he killed it. His hands wouldn’t stop gripping the wheel. Mia’s goodbye hug still sat warm on his chest, her “Love you” echoing in his head like it was trying to anchor him. One mistake. That’s all it was. Camp starts now. Lock the fuck in.
He grabbed his gear bag and headed inside. The place smelled like every rink he’d ever been in, there was ice, rubber flooring and yesterday’s sweat baked into the walls. Metal doors slammed. Sticks clattered. Rookies milled around looking twitchy, veterans already owning the space with loud voices and easy swagger.
In the locker room Grayson found a stall and started stripping down. The air was thick with the sound of ripping tape, and the pungent scent of raw masculine musk. He kept his eyes mostly on his bag, but it was impossible not to notice the bodies around him. All broad shoulders, thick thighs, the cut of abs and obliques on guys who lived in the gym. A rookie two stalls over peeled off his shirt, revealing a lean, defined torso still glistening from an earlier workout. Another vet stood in nothing but compression shorts, the fabric hugging powerful legs and the heavy outline of his dick as he joked with the guy next to him. A couple of fresh-faced looking rookies nearby were trying to get in each other’s head.
“Yo, new guy, you look like you’re about to piss yourself,” one said, grinning.
“Fuck off, at least I didn’t show up with last year’s haircut,” the other shot back.
Grayson kept his head down, lacing his skates tight. Focus on hockey. Mia. The routine. He wasn’t here to make friends today or get distracted by half-naked teammates. He was here to survive. He definitely wasn’t here to remember that hand at the back of his neck.
A veteran with a faded beard clapped a big hand on his shoulder as he walked by, towel slung low around his hips, and forcing Grayson back to the present. “You’re Sullivan, right? Sully?”
“Yeah.” Grayson replied with a half-smile.
“Welcome to the shitshow, Sully. Try not to cry when Hayes makes us bag skate on day one.”
Grayson forced a grin. “I’ll keep up.”
The guy laughed, deep and rough, and moved on. Banter bounced around the room. Guys roasting each other’s summer bodies, their new contracts, who got fat over the break, whose new ink looked like shit. One rookie got roasted for showing up with a farmer’s tan that left his ass pale against the rest of his tanned muscular frame. Normal locker room noise. It should’ve settled him. Grayson kept his head down, but the energy crackled through him, mixing with the low hum of nerves already twisting in his gut.
A staffer stuck his head in. “Meeting room. Now.”
They filed out in a loose herd. Grayson dropped into a chair near the back of the main room. The place filled fast. Rookies sitting stiff, vets sprawled out, legs kicked wide, still trading jabs.
“Ramirez is gonna talk for an hour about ‘culture,’ watch,” someone muttered.
“Bet Hayes tells us to stop being soft first,” another answered.
Grayson’s knee bounced under the table. He pressed his palm on it hard. He glanced up at the nearby clock on the wall and for a second thought about the gym. It’s over. One mistake. Doesn’t matter.
The coaching staff came in first. Coach Ramirez ran through the usual grind—schedule, medicals, expectations. Grayson half-listened, eyes on the table. Then the side door opened.
Keaton walked in.
Grayson’s stomach dropped so fast he thought he might lose it right there on the floor. Same broad shoulders filling out a Hawks polo. Same powerful build. Same cocky walk. Same dark eyes that had looked down at him while Grayson was on his knees. Keaton Hayes. The fucking captain.
Keaton’s gaze swept the room like he owned it. Then it locked on Grayson.
Everything froze.
Keaton’s step faltered for half a second. His eyes widened just enough. Pure shock. The same gut-punch Grayson felt slamming through his own chest. Neither of them had known. Not a single fucking clue.
Keaton recovered fast. The crack disappeared like it never happened. He stepped up to the front, clapping Coach Ramirez on the back with an easy grin. “Morning, ladies.”
The room loosened up. A veteran yelled, “Captain finally decided to show up, huh?”
“Had to make sure you idiots didn’t burn the place down without me,” Keaton fired back, smooth as hell. He leaned on the podium, relaxed, fully in command. Only Grayson saw the tiny tightness along his jaw.
Grayson’s hands clenched into fists under the table. Sweat slid down his back. Holy shit. That’s him. The guy who had me choking on his cock. The power imbalance hit all at once. This wasn’t some random hookup anymore. This was his captain. The guy who could bench him, bury him in the press box, or make his rookie year hell with one quiet word.
Keaton started talking, voice low and steady, the same rumble that had wrecked Grayson completely.
“Alright, listen up. Camp got bumped, deal with it. We don’t cry about the schedule here.” He scanned the room, nodding at a few vets. “New guys, welcome. You’re here because you can play. But playing ain’t enough. We buy in. We compete. We hold each other’s balls when it gets ugly. That’s the standard.”
A couple guys chuckled. Someone chirped from the back, “You gonna hold mine, Cap?”
“Only if you wash first, Jenkins,” Keaton shot back instantly. The room erupted in rough laughter. He grinned wider, cocky but real, the kind of leader guys actually followed. “Last year we had talent and still missed the playoffs because we played soft in the middle. Not this season. Turn the neutral zone into turnovers and I’ll skate your ass until you’re seeing stars. Questions?”
Grayson could barely breathe. Every word landed like another weight on his chest. The same voice was now talking systems and accountability. The hands that had gripped his hair were gesturing casually, commanding the entire room. Players leaned in. They respected him. Trusted him. And Grayson sat there burning, face hot, thighs tight under the table, trying not to look like he was falling apart.
Keaton kept going, mixing leadership with locker room grit. “Rookies, ask stupid questions now so you don’t ask them in game one. Vets, stop being lazy on backchecks or I’ll make you regret it.” He paused, eyes sweeping again, landing on Grayson for just a second longer. “We’re one group. Act like it.”
The speech wrapped with a few more notes and a jab about the cafeteria food that got another round of laughs. The coach took over for logistics. Grayson barely heard any of it. He was sure it showed. The secret had just gotten a thousand times more dangerous.
They moved to the ice in a noisy pack. Gear on, helmets clicking, sticks tapping. Grayson pushed off hard during warm-ups, legs burning as he tried to outskate the panic. The cold air slapped his face. Rookies flew around trying to look fast. Vets took their time, trading more shit about who looked slowest after the summer.
“Looking slow, Sully!” one called out with a grin as he skated past.
Grayson fired back, “Catch me and we’ll talk about it,” forcing the energy even as his heart raced.
Keaton skated like the rink belonged to him, voice carrying easy. “Less yapping, more edges, ladies.”
Practice started. Grayson tried to stay locked in, but every time Keaton skated near, that familiar mix of clean sweat and hockey gear hit him hard. His stomach twisted. Heat crawled up his neck.
When Keaton came over to Grayson’s group, he kept it all business. “Sully. Show me your read on the forecheck.”
Grayson executed the drill. Legs heavy. Stick grip too tight. Keaton watched, eyes sharp. “Better angle. Again. Don’t cheat the gap.”
No extra look. No hidden message. Just hockey. It should’ve helped. Instead the calm authority, the same control from the truck, made Grayson’s skin prickle hotter. He hated how part of him still reacted to it, cock twitching in his jock from nothing but proximity and memory.
They moved into battle drills. Bodies crashing, shoulders and hips banging, sweat flying. Grayson took a solid hit from a vet and shook it off, the impact jarring through muscle and bone in a way that almost felt good. “That all you got?” Grayson shouted after him. The physical grind burned some of the panic, but every time Keaton’s voice cut across the ice - “Good battle, keep pushing” - his body remembered too much. The praise landed low, stirring shit he had no business feeling on the ice in front of the whole team.
Sweat poured down his face. He kept pushing, lungs screaming, trying to prove he belonged here. Trying to ignore that the captain watching him had seen him, desperate and obedient, just yesterday.
Practice stretched on through shooting and conditioning. The raw energy of twenty sweaty, powerful bodies moving hard under the lights kept everything charged. By the end his legs felt like rubber. Guys started filtering off toward the tunnel, slapping pads, talking about lunch and who was buying beers later.
Grayson hung back, wiping his face. Keaton skated over casual, stopping close enough for private words but still out in the open. Captain and rookie. Nothing suspicious.
“Sully. Meet me in the video room after you shower. We’ll go over some chalk talk on zone exits. Want to make sure you’re seeing it the same way the rest of us do.”
Grayson’s heart slammed against his ribs. He nodded, throat dry. “Yes, Cap.”
Keaton held his gaze a second longer, then clapped him on the shoulder. It was firm, normal, and skated off. “Hit the showers. Back in fifteen.”
Grayson watched him go. The touch lingered longer than it should have. The other guys didn’t even blink. Just another captain pulling aside a rookie on day one.
But Grayson knew better.
He headed to the locker room with the rest of them. The room was loud with post-practice noise. Guys were stripping down, towels snapping, steam already rolling from the showers. Muscular bodies everywhere: broad backs, powerful thighs, the heavy swing of cocks as guys walked naked to the showers. Grayson stripped fast, trying not to think about how exposed he felt. His own body was still buzzing, half-hard from the tension and the thick masculine energy in the air. He showered quickly under scalding water, soaping down sweat-slick skin while his mind spiraled. I had his cock down my throat. Now he’s my fucking captain.
He dried off and pulled on the team-assigned sweats. The material was soft gray that hung loose on his hips but still showed the outline of his strong thighs and a little snug around the ass. His hair was still damp, skin warm from the shower. He stood there for a long minute, heart hammering, before heading toward the video room.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.
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