MasukCOACH & CAPTAIN 1
“Nathan, my office. Now.”
Coach’s voice sliced through the empty locker room, deep and commanding. My heart slammed hard against my ribs as I grabbed my bag and walked toward his door. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago.
And most of the guys had already cleared out, laughing and joking as they headed home. I was supposed to be doing the same, but the second he called my name, my whole body reacted like it always did — completely under his control.
Bella appeared at my side, still wearing her tight leggings and team hoodie. “Nathan, should I come with you?” She smiled up at me, hopeful as always.
“Nope. You can go ahead. See you tomorrow.” I kept my tone light and forced a quick peck on her lips when she leaned in. The moment she turned and walked away, I wiped the spot with the back of my hand, disgusted. Using her as cover was getting harder every single day. I didn’t feel a damn thing for her. Not one beat.
She was just a shield — nothing more.
I slowly pushed open the door to Coach’s office.
He wasn’t at his desk. The sound of running water came from the private bathroom attached to the room. My mind immediately drifted back to that day — the day I accidentally walked in on him fresh out of the shower. Water cascading down his broad, muscled chest, over his defined abs, and down to that thick, heavy cock hanging between his powerful thighs. I had wanted to drop to my knees right there and take him deep into my throat. I had imagined how perfectly he would stretch my tight hole and ruin me for anyone else.
“Nathan.”
I jolted hard as Coach snapped his fingers right in front of my face. He was standing there in nothing but a white towel wrapped low around his hips, water still glistening on his skin. His dark eyes narrowed at me.
“What the hell were you thinking about? I’ve been calling your name.”
“Nothing, sir,” I lied, my voice coming out rough. My cock twitched in my sweats. I couldn’t stop my eyes from dropping to the deep V of his hips and the obvious outline of his dick under the towel.
Coach sighed and walked over to his desk, grabbing a dry shirt. “Sit down. Since you’re here, let’s talk about today’s practice. You were hesitating on the ice again. You’re our captain — you can’t afford to be soft out there.”
I sat down, trying to focus as he pulled the shirt over his head, muscles flexing. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, looking every bit the authoritative coach I couldn’t stop thinking about.
“The ice is unpredictable, Nathan. You have to respect it. Don’t fight it — read it. When you’re skating into the corners, keep your knees bent, weight forward. Feel the edges of your blades bite in. If the ice is soft or choppy, shorten your strides, stay low. Trust your edges instead of muscling through every turn. You hesitate because you’re thinking too much. Stop thinking. React.”
His voice was steady and instructional, but the way he looked at me while talking made heat crawl under my skin. I nodded like I was absorbing every word, but all I could picture was him pinning me against the boards, teaching me how to handle something much harder than ice.
“You’re fast. You’re strong. But you’re holding back,” he continued, stepping closer. “On the ice and off it. What’s going on with you lately, Captain?”
This was it. My pulse thundered in my ears. I stood up slowly and closed the distance between us until I could smell his clean, masculine scent mixed with the faint trace of shower gel.
“I’m not holding back anymore, Coach,” I said, my voice low and shaky with everything I’d been hiding for months. My hand came up, trembling but bold, and pressed flat against his chest. His muscles tensed under my palm.
His eyes widened slightly. “Nathan… what the fuck are you doing?”
I swallowed hard, heart racing so fast I thought it might explode. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Coach, I said, I don’t want Bella. I don’t want any of them. I want you. I want you to bend me over this desk and show me how to really take it. Teach me how to handle every inch the same way you teach me to read the ice.”
The silence stretched between us, thick and dangerous. His breathing grew heavier. His jaw clenched tight. He stood up fast like a flash, then his big hand shot out and gripped the back of my neck hard — the same commanding grip he used on the ice when he was pissed.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for, boy,” he growled, voice dropping into something dark and hungry. His towel twitched noticeably at his hips.
I didn’t back down. Instead, I leaned in closer, pressing my growing bulge against his thigh. “Then show me, Coach. Please.”
His grip tightened on my neck. His eyes burned into mine. The tension in the room was electric, thick enough to cut with a skate blade. For a second, I thought he might push me away. But he didn’t.
This was no longer just a crush, I was all in for it.
Chapter 65One week felt longer than it should have.I spent most of it in my apartment with the blinds half-drawn, phone on Do Not Disturb, replaying every moment of that night until the edges blurred. Michael’s kiss. Michi’s confession. The way both of them had looked at me like they were starving. The anger had faded into something heavier…a tired, aching clarity that sat low in my gut and between my legs whenever I thought about them too long.I couldn’t choose.Choosing one meant losing the other. Losing either of them felt impossible. They had been the twin constants in my life since I was eleven. The idea of a future where one of them stepped back so the other could have me made my chest hurt in a way I couldn’t breathe around.So on the eighth day I texted them both the same message:Come over. Both of you. We need to talk.They arrived within twenty minutes of each other. Michi first, then Michael. They stood in my small living room looking almost mirror-like in their discomf
Michael's povThe door shut behind Michi with a soft, final click.I stood in the middle of my own living room with my hands braced on the kitchen counter and the silence pressing in from every side. Mirabel hadn’t moved. She was still standing near the couch, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the place where my brother had been like she could still see the shape of him in the air.My pulse was still slamming in my throat. The things I had said kept replaying in my head, sharper now that he was gone. *You’re my brother. She’s our Mirabel. You don’t get to just decide.* I had sounded righteous. Protective. Like the only thing I was angry about was the secret.It wasn’t.I was angry because the second I heard him say the words *I’m in love with you*, something ugly and panicked had opened in my chest. Because I had been carrying the same weight for years and I had never once let it out of my mouth. Because the thought of her choosing him — of her looking at the face that was almos
The television was still on when Michael finally went to bed.Mirabel stayed. She always stayed when it was the two of us. The lamp in the corner of the living room threw a soft amber circle across the couch, and she had tucked her legs under herself the way she had been doing since we were teenagers. My arm rested along the back of the cushions, close enough that her hair sometimes brushed my wrist when she moved. Tonight she wasn’t laughing.“You’re quiet,” she said.“Long day.”She turned her head and looked at me the way only she ever did — like she could see past the face I shared with my twin and straight into whatever I was trying to hide. Michael and I were identical to most people. Same height, same dark hair, same voice. Mirabel had never once mixed us up. She said it was the eyes. She said mine were softer.I stared at the dark television screen so I wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. The fear I had carried for eleven years pressed against the back of my teeth.“Mirabel.”“Yea
I learned early that being an Omega in this city meant keeping my head down.That night the lesson came with fists.They cornered me behind the old laundry on 9th. Three of them, all Betas, laughing like it was a game. I was nineteen, small for a werewolf, scent soft and sweet the way Omegas are, and I had never learned how to throw a punch that mattered. The first hit took the air out of my lungs. The second split my lip. I went down hard on the wet pavement and curled in on myself while they kicked whatever they could reach. Someone spat on me. Someone else called me a fragile little bitch who should have stayed in heat clinics where I belonged.When they finally got bored and left, I stayed on the ground until the shaking slowed. My ribs hurt. My left eye was already swelling. I dragged myself up and started the long walk home because the buses had stopped running and I had no one to call.I didn’t make it far.My legs gave out two blocks from the industrial docks. I stumbled into
His shoulder stayed warm against mine for a long time.The television kept throwing pale light across the floor. Neither of us reached for the remote. I could feel every small breath he took, the way his body had gone still in that careful way people get when they’re thinking too hard. My own pulse hadn’t slowed since the kiss. I kept waiting for him to pull away and tell me to leave. He didn’t.Instead Victor shifted just enough that his mouth was closer to my ear.“Do it again.”I turned my head. Our faces were inches apart. His eyes were dark and uncertain in the low light, but there was something stubborn underneath the uncertainty.“Vic—”“I need to check.” His voice was quiet, almost rough. “I keep waiting for it to feel wrong the way it’s supposed to. Kiss me again.”I should have said no. I should have protected both of us from whatever came next. Instead I leaned in and pressed my mouth to his, slower this time, giving him every chance to turn away.He didn’t turn away.The s
I had been careful for six years.Six years of laughing at the right moments, of pulling my hand back before it could linger, of making sure I never stared too long when Victor pulled his shirt off after practice or fell asleep on my couch with his mouth slightly open. Six years of treating the way my chest tightened around him like a problem I could outrun if I just stayed busy enough.Victor was the kind of straight that never had to think about it. He’d said it casually over the years—jokes about guys who “switched teams,” a visible flinch when two men kissed in a movie, the way he once changed the subject hard when a mutual friend came out. He never said anything cruel. He just made it clear, without ever needing to raise his voice, that it wasn’t for him. That it would never be for him.I knew. I had always known. And I still couldn’t stop.That night we were at his apartment because his girlfriend had just dumped him in the middle of a restaurant and he hadn’t wanted to be alone







