Chapter 1: Elevator Confessions
The elevator doors sighed shut, sealing out the echoing chaos of the hotel lobby—the cheers, the intrusive flash of a phone camera, the bellow of a coach’s voice. Silence, thick and sudden, pressed in. It was just the hum of machinery and the smell of them: sweat, arena ice, and the faint, sharp tang of adrenaline.
Liam’s shoulder blades hit the mirrored wall with a soft thud. Dimitri was already there, crowding him, a solid wall of muscle and intent. The Russian’s chest heaved against Liam’s, their sweat-damp jerseys sticking together. The cold of the mirrors seeped through the fabric, a shock against overheated skin.
“You followed,” Dimitri said, his voice a low rasp. It wasn’t a question.
“You knew I would,” Liam breathed back. His own heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
Dimitri’s hand came up, rough and unyielding, shoving something hard into Liam’s palm. Liam didn’t need to look. The jagged edges of a plastic hotel key card bit into his skin. Room 1120. Dimitri’s other hand gripped Liam’s jaw, fingers pressing into the hinge, tilting his face up. The blue eyes boring into his were not the eyes of the stoic athlete from the post-game press conference. This was something wilder, hungrier, stripped bare.
“You want this, suka?” Dimitri growled, the Russian curse a hot puff of air against Liam’s mouth.
In answer, Liam surged forward and caught Dimitri’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down just shy of breaking skin. A noise ripped from Dimitri’s throat—half-growl, half-sigh—and then he was claiming Liam’s mouth completely. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a conquest. All teeth and desperation and the salty taste of sweat. Liam grabbed fistfuls of Dimitri’s jersey, pulling him closer, arching into the hard line of his body. His cock, already hard and aching, pressed against the constriction of his gear.
Dimitri broke the kiss to drag his mouth down Liam’s throat, licking over the frantic pulse. Then he bit, sharp and possessive. Liam cried out, the sound swallowed by the elevator’s hum. As Dimitri sucked a dark mark into his skin, his hand—the one still holding the key card—was slammed back against the mirror, pinning it there. The number 1120 was imprinted in red, angry lines on Liam’s palm from the force of Dimitri’s grip.
The elevator chimed, a soft, stupid sound. The eleventh floor.
Dimitri pulled back, his breath ragged. For a second, they just stared at each other in the mirrored walls, reflections of desire and violence stretching into infinity. Liam’s lips were swollen, his throat marked. Dimitri’s hair was a mess, his eyes dark.
“Now,” Dimitri ordered, his voice gravel.
They stumbled into the hallway, a tangle of limbs and urgency. Liam fumbled with the key card, his hands shaking. The green light flashed. The door swung open and they fell inside, into darkness.
Dimitri kicked the door shut and pushed Liam back against it. The thud echoed in the quiet room. Hands were everywhere, pulling, tearing. The Velcro of their equipment ripped open with a sound like tearing fabric. Shoulder pads hit the floor with a heavy thump. Jerseys were wrestled over heads and discarded, leaving them in their damp undershirts and athletic pants.
Dimitri spun Liam around, pressing his front against the cool wood of the door. His body covered Liam’s completely, his mouth hot on the back of Liam’s neck. One hand snaked around to palm Liam through his pants, a rough, demanding touch that made Liam buck back against him.
“Fuck, Dimitri…”
“Quiet,” Dimitri muttered into his skin, but his own breathing was wrecked. He yanked Liam’s pants and briefs down to his thighs in one brutal motion. The air was cold on his exposed skin. Liam heard the tear of a foil packet, the slick sound of Dimitri preparing himself.
There was no more patience. Dimitri’s hand gripped Liam’s hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He pushed in, one relentless, burning thrust. Liam gasped, his forehead dropping against the door. It was a stretch, a brilliant, shocking friction that stole the air from his lungs.
“Bozhe moy,” Dimitri choked out, stilling, buried to the hilt. His body trembled against Liam’s back.
Then he moved. It was nothing like the careful, practiced rhythm of the game. This was raw, uncalculated. Each drive of his hips slammed Liam against the door, the impact jolting through him. Dimitri’s grip on his hip was iron, his other hand braced flat on the door beside Liam’s head. The only sounds were skin slapping against skin, their ragged breaths, and the low, punched-out curses falling from Dimitri’s lips in a mix of Russian and broken English.
“You feel it,” Dimitri grunted, his pace punishing. “You feel what you do to me. Every game. Every look.”
Liam could only nod, words shattered into helpless, pleasured noises. He reached a hand back, tangling it in Dimitri’s hair, pulling, needing him closer, deeper. The angle was perfect, devastating. Pleasure coiled tight and hot in his gut, spiraling with each brutal thrust.
Dimitri’s hand slid around from his hip, wrapping around Liam’s cock, stroking him in time with his own drives. The dual sensation was too much. Liam cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, as his orgasm tore through him, splattering the hotel room door. His body clenched around Dimitri, pulling a ragged groan from the man’s chest. Dimitri fucked him through it, his rhythm fragmenting, and then he was coming too, his release hot inside the condom, his teeth sinking into the muscle of Liam’s shoulder as he shuddered.
For a long moment, they didn’t move. Just stood, pressed together, breathing hard in the dark room. The smell of sex and sweat was overwhelming. Slowly, Dimitri pulled out. Liam winced at the sudden emptiness, his legs feeling like water.
They didn’t speak. Dimitri disposed of the condom in the bathroom, the light a sudden, blinding intrusion before it went dark again. He came back, his form a silhouette in the ambient light from the window. Wordlessly, he guided Liam away from the door, towards the bed. They collapsed onto it, on top of the scratchy comforter, still half-dressed.
Liam turned onto his side, facing Dimitri. In the faint glow from the city, he could see the sheen of sweat on Dimitri’s brow, the dark fan of his lashes against his cheek. The fierce mask was gone, replaced by something weary and open. Tentatively, Liam reached out and traced the prominent line of Dimitri’s cheekbone with his fingertips. Dimitri didn’t flinch. He caught Liam’s wrist, not to push it away, but to hold it there, turning his face to press a slow, surprisingly soft kiss into Liam’s palm.
This was the hidden man. The romantic. The one no one else saw.
“That was…,” Liam started, his voice hoarse.
“Necessary,” Dimitri finished quietly, his thumb stroking the inside of Liam’s wrist. His gaze was distant for a moment, then it sharpened, focusing on Liam’s face. “They will ask questions about the marks tomorrow.”
“Let them,” Liam said, a defiant grin tugging at his lips.
A ghost of a smile touched Dimitri’s mouth. He shifted, wincing slightly as he moved his left leg.
“What is it?” Liam asked, immediately propping himself up on an elbow.
“Nothing. The knee. From the hit in the third period.” He rubbed at the joint absently.
“Let me see.” Liam’s tone brooked no argument. He reached for the bedside lamp, flicking it on to its lowest setting.
In the soft light, he saw it. The knee was swollen, already purpling with a deep, angry bruise that spread from the cap down the side. It was worse than a standard game knock.
“Dimitri, this is fucked. You need ice. You need the trainer.”
“No trainers,” Dimitri said, his voice flat. “Not for this. Not tonight.”
“This isn’t just a bruise. You could have torn something.”
Dimitri’s hand cupped the back of Liam’s neck, pulling his forehead down to rest against his own. “Tomorrow. Tonight, it is just you and me. And this room.”
The vulnerability in the gesture, the quiet pain beneath the stoicism, hit Liam harder than any body check. He knew then, with a cold certainty that settled in his gut, that the injury was bad. And that Dimitri would rather play through the agony than show weakness, even to his own team.
Liam settled back, pulling Dimitri against him, careful of the knee. He felt the tension slowly leave the bigger man’s body. Outside, the city glittered, indifferent. Inside, the silence was no longer empty, but charged with a new, creeping fear. The passion of moments ago was now a warm, fading echo, replaced by the sharp, clear image of that bruise and the terrifying knowledge of what Dimitri would risk to keep his secret.