Strip Club

Dinner was loud, casual, and sprawling.

They’d taken over three tables at a high-end steakhouse not far from the rink. The smell of charred meat and bourbon clung to the air as plates and bottles kept coming, all paid for, of course, by the infamous Sterling Belmont.

Noah found himself wedged between Ash and Lukas, with Mac across the table and Jessica somewhere to his left. He kept pace with the jokes, the rounds, and the steady flow of food, slowly relaxing as the night wore on.

He learned Lukas had two sisters and a vintage truck he refused to part with. Mac played poker like his rent depended on it. Ash had a dry sense of humor and a low tolerance for whiskey, apparently, judging by the flush creeping up his neck.

And through it all, from the far end of the room, Sterling Belmont watched.

The owner sat with quiet elegance, dark suit still immaculate despite the relaxed setting. The kind of sharp confidence acquired through years of hard work but not a gray hair in sight. A glass of scotch rested in his hand, barely touched, his eyes—cool and unreadable—flicking occasionally to Noah. Not glaring, but not warm either. Just… watching.

Sophisticated. Still. Coiled, almost.

Noah couldn’t decide if the man looked like he was enduring the team’s chaos or measuring how far to let it go before pulling back the reins. Either way, the irritation beneath that polished exterior was starting to show.

They drank more.

Lukas ordered shots. Mac tried to talk the hostess into joining them. Someone somewhere mentioned a strip club, joking at first. Then serious.

"It's tradition," Lukas said, already swaying a little. "Belmont pays, we play. Just a thing."

And before he knew it, they were there.

The club was red-lit and pulsing. 

A private room had been reserved, plush velvet seats surrounding a platform in the center. Noah hadn’t even known places like this existed in Crestwick. But judging by the way the staff greeted Belmont, he realized he probably owned the place. Or might as well.

The guys made themselves at home quickly. Bottles were cracked open, some of them already halfway drunk. Jessica hovered close to Noah, out of place, clearly uncomfortable, though she tried to hide it.

"I’m staying near you," she said lightly, clutching her drink. "You’re the youngest. Consider yourself my anchor."

He smirked. "You sure I’m the safest choice in here?"

She gave him a look. "Absolutely not. But I’ll take my chances."

The dancers arrived not long after. Professional, stunning, fluid as silk on the pole. Some of the guys clapped and leaned forward, ordering lap dances with casual bravado. Others—like Lukas and Mac—got even louder, hollering at each other to try the pole.

Ash actually attempted it, managing to climb halfway before sliding back down and collapsing onto the couch with a wheeze. Everyone laughed.

Eventually, it was Noah’s turn.

"Rivers! Get up there!"

"C'mon, college boy. Show us something!"

"Let’s see those perfect gym stats in action!"

Caught between amused disbelief and the buzz of whiskey, Noah rolled his eyes and stood. He stepped up to the pole in the center of the room.

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed it and climbed. Fast and smooth. His legs wrapped naturally around the metal, cold seeping through his jeans, arms pulling with clean, practiced strength. At the top, he paused, clenching his thighs around the pole like he could bend it with sheer force, and let his torso hang upside down. His shirt slipped free from his waist, bunching around his chest and baring his sculpted abs—cut lines of definition catching the red light just right. The room erupted in cheers and raucous laughter.

Then he slid down, slow and controlled, landing in a crouch.

The dancers whooped.

The guys were losing it.

"What the hell, man!"

"Where did that come from?!"

Noah straightened and grinned. "Old coach used to make us climb for upper body strength. Got boring jumping down, so we started messing around."

"That was hot," one of the dancers purred, sliding up to him. "You just earned yourself a reward."

"Lap dance on stage!"

"He has to do it now!"

Jessica stood abruptly. "Alright, no! He doesn’t have to do anything."

Noah raised a hand. "It’s fine. I don’t mind."

He shrugged. He wasn’t shy.

The dancer practically dragged him to the stage, guiding him with relentless precision into the chair at the center. The lights slashed through the darkness. The music pounded like a living heartbeat. Her hands were scorching, expertly teasing, occasionally crossing the line and outright touching his cock. But he wasn’t about to let an obvious erection embarrass him in front of his new team.

The team erupted into wild whistles and hoots as the stripper’s ass grazed his semi once again and he tried to recall all the roadkill he’d seen on the drive here. Jessica let out a heavy sigh and slammed back another drink.

Noah reclined, surrendering to the moment. The physical touch. The electric atmosphere. The raucous laughter. The exhilarating realization that he was no longer an outsider in their eyes.

He was truly part of the team now.

And as his eyes swept across the dimly lit room, they locked onto Belmont.

Belmont remained seated, his tie hanging loose, top button of his shirt undone, exuding a careless yet commanding presence. A glass filled with something dark and potent sat untouched in his hand. Dancers hovered around him, casting flirtatious smiles, brushing his arm, replenishing his drink with eager hands.

But his gaze never wavered. He didn’t acknowledge them.

He fixated on Noah, a storm of unfathomable emotions swirling in his eyes.

And he refused to look away.