Denial

He stood in the center of the hotel room, chest still tight with the memory of Sterling’s touch. The curtains were drawn tight against the world outside, shutting out the city and the team and everything that had happened in the last thirty-six hours.

His laptop glowed on the small desk, a momentary escape. Something normal. Something easy. He clicked through to one of his usual sites, selecting a video that promised to deliver exactly what he wanted: a pretty brunette caught in an affair with her impossibly handsome boss. She was just his type, and like always, Noah focused on her, the way she moved, the way she moaned.

He pushed his sweatpants past his hips and settled back against a pile of pillows, one hand sliding purposefully down his abdomen.

The guy playing her boss was tall, dark-haired, and intense.

Noah tried to ignore him.

But every time the angle shifted back to those chiseled features and burning eyes, a sick pulse of recognition thudded through him.

His fingers tightened around his cock.

His mind spun away from the p**n actress's breathy cries to something sharper. More dangerous.

Normally, when he watched these videos, Noah imagined himself in the man’s position. But this time he wasn’t watching himself fuck her.

He was watching Sterling Belmont do it instead. Hard. Relentless. Powerful.

Then Noah was really feeling it. More than he'd ever felt it before.

His breath came shallow, quick and ragged. His hand moved faster and his mind lost clarity, the image of Sterling consuming everything else. And just like that, a shocking white heat crashed over him. A deep, low groan tore from his chest as he came in a blinding rush that left him dizzy and stunned.

He stayed there for a long moment, breath slowing, eyes still unfocused. His heart ticked erratically against his ribs. 

What the hell was that? 

He felt the last of the shudders work their way through his body before he pulled himself together enough to sit up.

His laptop screen had gone dark. He closed it.

***

Noah told himself it wasn’t a big deal.

Sterling Belmont had helped him with a skating correction. That was all. Sure, the man’s hands had lingered. Sure, his voice had sunk low, intimate. Sure, the look in his eyes had made something in Noah’s stomach twist. But that didn’t mean anything.

He respected the guy. Admired him, even. If you ignored him firing his assistant like an asshole on Noah’s first day.

That was all.

Noah had never been into men. He’d never thought about it. Not seriously. Not like this. So whatever that moment was, it wasn’t attraction.

Just adrenaline. Just proximity.

Just—

He shook the thought away, burying it beneath the rhythm of his blades on the ice and the thump of his heart as he crushed another sprint. Practice had become his salvation. He was excelling in scrimmages, fast becoming one of the most promising players on the team. Even Coach Jensen had said it: "You’ve got the kind of edge we need. Keep this up, and you'll be indispensable."

He was bonding with the others too. Lukas and Mac had started calling him "Wonder Rookie" like it was a compliment. Ash kept offering advice in his gruff, silent way. Jessica had even relaxed a little around him. Everything was falling into place.

Except the past.

Crestwick was full of ghosts.

Every street had something tied to his mother. The coffee shop she used to drag him to after school. The park where he first learned to skate. The rink where she cheered the loudest, even when his team lost by double digits.

She’d been light in motion. Fiercely proud. Endlessly encouraging.

And then, one rainy November afternoon, she’d been gone.

The accident had been fast, brutal, senseless.

His dad hadn’t known what to do with the grief, so he did what seemed right. He packed them up and left the city. Moved them inland to where there were fewer memories, fewer reminders, and no frozen lakes. Noah stopped skating for a while. Stopped smiling too.

Until college. Until the fire came back.

Now, back in Crestwick, that fire flickered between triumph and grief.

After another killer practice, the guys were heading out for drinks.

"You in, Wonder Rookie?" Mac called, already halfway out the locker room, towel slung over his shoulder.

"Not tonight," Noah said, forcing a smile. "Gonna hit the gym."

Lukas raised an eyebrow. "Man, you’re gonna burn out."

"Not yet."

They waved him off, and the locker room emptied.

The gym was quiet when Noah stepped in, the hum of machines and the clank of iron his only company. He stripped down to a pair of loose shorts and started his routine, focusing on free weights, chest presses, core reps. Sweat rolled down his spine in clean lines. His breath came heavy, even.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror. Shirtless, flushed, arms flexed. The kind of body built from discipline, not ego.

He wiped his face with a towel, grabbing a bottle of water—

And then he wasn’t alone.

The door swung open.

Sterling Belmont entered like sin in motion.

The air shifted. Noah felt it in his bones.

The quiet confidence of someone who never asked permission. Belmont wore a deep charcoal tracksuit that fit him like it had been tailored to every sharp, powerful line of his body. The zipper on his jacket was half-undone, revealing a sculpted neck and the faint outline of a powerful chest. His sleeves were pushed up, forearms tensed just enough to show the thick, roped muscle beneath tanned skin.

His hair was perfect. Always. Dark, swept back, like a villain in a noir film. The kind you couldn’t stop watching. His jaw looked sharp enough to cut glass. And his eyes, cold steel and fire all at once, landed on Noah.

For one heartbeat, they just looked at each other.

Then Belmont moved.

Not a word. Just calm, deliberate steps toward the weights. He moved like he owned gravity.

Noah froze mid-sip. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath.

Belmont loaded a bar with a quiet efficiency, his biceps flexing beneath the sleek fabric. He stepped under it with practiced ease and lowered into a squat. Slow, deliberate, muscles shifting beneath his clothes. Something predatory in motion.

Noah watched longer than he meant to.

Sterling wasn’t just fit, he was a damn statue come to life. Built. Controlled. Every motion carved from intention. There was something infuriatingly graceful about it too, like power wrapped in silk.

Noah forced himself to look away and dropped onto a bench, finishing his reps in silence.

He thought, briefly, about offering to spot.

But what would that look like?

The boss clearly didn’t need help.

And Noah didn’t need to stay.

He stood, grabbed his towel, and turned toward the showers.

As he walked away, he didn’t look back.

But he felt it. Heat along his skin.

Sterling Belmont was watching him.

Again.