The Morning After

Noah woke to a pounding in his skull and sunlight cutting through the curtains like a blade.

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. The hotel room was still and quiet, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound. His shirt was slung across the back of a chair. One of his shoes had ended up under the bed. His phone blinked from the nightstand, lit up with group texts, memes, blurry photos from the club, and at least one message from Jessica asking if he made it home alive.

He sat up slowly.

His body ached, not in a bad way. The ache was good. It reminded him he was still alive, still proving himself. His head throbbed a little, but it was worth it. Last night had been a blur of laughter, loud music, drinks that never seemed to empty, and a stage he hadn’t expected to end up on.

The pole. The lap dance. The cheers. The teasing.

And the strange gaze that followed him.

Noah exhaled, rubbing his thumb across the stubble at his jaw.

That image was burned into him now. Sterling Belmont, seated like royalty at the edge of everything, collar open, tie askew, a drink in one hand, eyes fixed on him with that unreadable intensity. Like he was watching a performance he hadn't expected to enjoy.

Noah hadn’t dreamt it. He knew that. It was real.

And still, he couldn’t figure out what the hell it meant.

He stood and made his way into the shower, letting the hot water pound the tension from his shoulders. As the steam filled the room, his mind replayed the night—Lukas trying to climb the pole and nearly spraining something. Mac ordering flaming shots that set off the club alarm. Jessica sitting close, her fingers gripping his tee, her expression somewhere between amused and mortified.

And then Sterling. Watching. Always watching.

By the time he dressed and grabbed coffee from the hotel lobby, his phone buzzed again.

Mac: Bruh I think I broke my dignity last night.

Lukas: U killed that pole. Tell me you’re secretly an acrobat.

Ash: Team meeting at 10. Don’t be late. Belmont’s orders.

Noah took a long sip of his coffee.

Right.

Back to reality.

***

The meeting was held in the conference room at the arena, all sleek glass and polished steel. The team filed in slowly, quieter than yesterday, a little hungover but not dead. Jessica was already there with her tablet, her hair pinned up in a no-nonsense twist and dark sunglasses hiding what Noah assumed was her own version of regret.

Sterling Belmont was already seated at the head of the table.

Pressed shirt. Tie back in place. Hair perfect. Composure flawless.

You'd never guess he'd been at a strip club watching one of his rookies spin upside down on a pole less than twelve hours ago.

"Gentlemen," he said, as they all sat, his voice as smooth and calm as ever. "I trust you all enjoyed yourselves."

Muffled laughter. A few nods. One exaggerated cough from Lukas.

"Good," Belmont continued. "Because the real work starts now."

He tapped the table and a screen flickered on behind him, showing team stats, goals, dates. The shift was immediate. Party time was over.

Noah leaned back in his chair and let it all wash over him. Training schedules, media obligations, performance goals.

But every now and then, he looked across the table.

And Belmont’s gaze was waiting for him.

***

The ice felt like home.

Skates laced, pads snug, stick in hand. Noah stepped onto the rink with a clean focus, shrugging off the remnants of whiskey and adrenaline from the night before. The arena was cooler than usual, mist clinging to the boards as players filtered onto the surface.

Practice opened with basic drills. Sprints, passes, stickhandling, it ramped up fast. Noah was placed in his position: left wing. Speed, agility, and accuracy were his strengths. He’d always had an instinct for movement, for finding space where no one else could.

Coach Jensen barked out directions from the bench, and Noah moved like he was born for it. Fast, fluid, unpredictable. He weaved through defenders during scrimmages, fired shots on goal that left the net rattling, and closed gaps with relentless energy.

By the halfway point, players were already muttering about him.

"Kid’s had a few lucky breaks."

"Did you see that cut back? Jesus."

Even Mac nodded at him during a water break. "Not bad, college boy."

Noah returned the sentiment and skated back into position.

By the time Coach called for a break, sweat clung to every inch of his skin. He skated off the ice, pulling his helmet off, chest rising with steady breaths.

He didn't notice Belmont until he was already beside the bench.

The owner stood by the boards, sharp as ever, watching the team through the plexiglass. But when Noah stepped close to take a sip from his water bottle, Belmont turned.

“Your footwork in the corners,” he said, voice low. “You’re giving up your edge too soon. Here, let me show you.”

Before Noah could respond, Belmont was slipping past the open gate and took a step onto the ice. He didn’t have skates on, just sleek dress shoes, but he moved like the rink belonged to him. He came close, too close, and placed a hand on Noah’s lower back.

Thanks to the inch of blade under his feet, for once, their eyes were level.

Sterling smelled like something expensive and sharp. Smoke and leather and something darker, more subtle, like spice on winter air. The scent hit Noah like a wave, just as a hand settled on his lower back.

“Wider stance,” he murmured. “You’re powerful, but your momentum’s leaking.”

His hand glided from Noah’s back to his hip, fingers adjusting the angle with a firm, unhurried precision. Noah’s skin flared hot beneath the padding, his body responding before he could stop it.

“Lower your center,” Sterling said, voice now just behind his ear. “Like this.”

He stepped closer, chest brushing against Noah’s shoulder blades, both hands on his hips now. Guiding. Holding.

“You feel that difference?”

Noah did. God, he did. Every inch of him was locked in place, the world narrowing to Belmont’s voice, Belmont’s touch.

Sterling’s breath skimmed the side of his neck.

“Now pivot with control. Own the ice. Don’t just move, command it.”

His hands lingered a second too long before he stepped back.

The air felt colder where he had been.

Sterling met his gaze once, eyes unreadable, then turned and walked off the ice without a word.

Noah stood frozen in place.

Everything in him hummed. Aroused. Confused. Alert.

The ache wasn’t just in his muscles anymore.

And whatever Belmont had just done—it hadn’t been just about skating.