Page 33 of Full Body Hit, Part 1 (Alpha Omega Hockey #5)

He couldn’t fucking move, still speared on the cock. The silicone rubbed against his walls and made him whimper with overstimulation.

“Come on,” a voice said. “One more time, lift yourself up and get it out.”

He knew that tone. It was Daddy, and Daddy was always right, always did things to make Chase feel good.

He mewled as he raised up onto his knees, every inch of him shaking, and then the cock was out of him.

“O-oh,” he gasped. It’d been too much before, but now he was so, so empty. “Daddy?”

“I know, baby. Remember I told you to leave a plug nearby? It’s right there on the bed. Use that.”

Relief washed over Chase. He forced his sore arms to reach for the plug, catching it in slippery fingers. “I can put it in?” he checked.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Chase trembled as the toy slid into his loose hole. It wasn’t too big, especially with how stretched out he was, but it was enough to clench around, enough not to feel so hollow.

“Well done, baby. One more thing, okay? Grab your phone. That’s it. And now get on the bed.”

Chase crawled onto the mattress, getting under the sheets when Aunix told him to, grabbing Joey and cuddling him close. That had definitely been more than one thing, but he’d forgive Aunix for the misrepresentation.

“How’re you feeling?” Aunix asked, voice low and soft.

“So good. Tired. Sore. Wish you were here, Daddy.”

“Me too. So much. That was so amazing. Can’t believe you took it all like that.”

“Yeah? Did good?”

“So fucking good. The fucking best .”

Chase blinked his eyes open. “Wait. Did you come? I didn’t—”

A laugh cut him off. “Baby, I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard, and you weren’t even here . You don’t need to worry about that. Just rest up now, okay? I’ll be here after your nap.”

Chase relaxed. “M’kay. G’night, Daddy. You’re so good to me. No one has ever been this good to me…”

There was a pause. Chase had no idea how long it lasted as he slipped into sleep. From the other side of wakefulness, he heard one last thing.

“You deserve every single thing in this world…and I’m going to make sure you get it.”

***

By the first week of December, time was folding in on itself—Chase felt like he’d been in the NHL forever and like everything was still frighteningly new.

He’d managed to suture the bleeding disaster that had been the first month. In the twenty-five games he’d played since the beginning of the season, he’d scored six goals, which was pretty fucking good for a rookie.

The problem was that he had a miserable three assists, which was just fucking weird. Nobody in the history of hockey had ever scored more goals than assists.

“Um…I don’t think that’s right,” Noah piped up as Chase whined to Sammy. They were walking into the arena together for a game, a happy coincidence that they’d reached the parking lot at the same time.

Chase huffed. “Ok, I’m not talking about the, like, twenty players in history that have managed more goals than assists. The normal thing to do is to get more assists.”

“Yeah, but no one ever complained of scoring too many goals,” Noah pointed out, insistent in being logical and not just letting Chase vent.

“I’m not complaining about having too many goals, I’m complaining about not having enough assists. Big difference. It’s selfish.”

Sammy ruffled his hair. “Dude, you’re not selfish. You’re learning a new system and a new team. I’m gonna make a wild suggestion, though.”

Chase blinked at him with big eyes.

“Chill the fuck out.”

Chase rolled his eyes as Noah snorted. “Wow, thanks a lot.”

“You’ve been playing for three months. No one is looking at your stats that closely. You are not the main character of the NHL. Just do your thing. No one is judging you.”

They rounded a corner leading to their changing room, and as if called by the devil himself, there was Auston, talking to one of the equipment managers.

The trio fell silent as they passed, Auston not sparing them a glance, the icy fucker.

Chase threw Sammy a meaningful look when they were out of sight.

“He doesn’t count,” Sammy protested.

If only Sammy knew how wrong that statement was. Chase was eternally grateful Sammy didn’t know how much of a fanboy he used to be.

Chase didn’t really have the energy to spend on Auston, though. He wanted to figure out why he was contributing so little to his teammates’ goals. There was a lack of chemistry between him and his line…he just didn’t know why .

If he voiced that particular concern to Noah and Sammy, they’d probably tell him to talk it out with his linemates Jimmy and Grigory, but Chase was too afraid to.

Was scared the answer was going to be his weird scent.

There were times when he considered forgoing the synthetic smell and telling the team about his condition. How he was taking medication to shut down his pheromones in order to protect both them and himself.

His mom had always insisted on the scent, though. Had said he needed to fit in. Having no scent would just make him stand out in the worst way.

The shame that bubbled up at the concept of telling anyone was difficult to handle. He didn’t know exactly what the feeling was tied to, which bottomless well it rose from, thick and murky and staining everything it touched, but it was impossible to control.

He didn’t want people to know he was defective. That there was another reason not to love him.

Maybe revealing he didn’t have a scent would be the thing that tipped people into realising they didn’t want to be close to him. Which was so dumb—he knew it was dumb. It wasn’t like Sammy had suddenly been disgusted with him.

But that didn’t stop the shame, the bubbling, the staining. Was it so bad that Chase wanted to protect those deep, soft parts inside?

So he didn’t say anything about his scent, and he didn’t talk to his linemates about if he was doing something wrong, focusing on proving himself in a league that had turned out to be a lot colder and unwelcoming than he had imagined.

Chase hated losing games, obviously, but he especially hated it when they were at home.

Despite the New Orleans Spirits not being in a particularly hockey-crazy part of North America, as well as the fact that the team had been pretty shit for like twenty years now, there were a good amount of generational fans that were passionate and vocal.

The arena wasn’t full , but the attendance thrummed with energy, feeding the urgency, the desire to win.

Being down by one against the Saskatoon Comets in their own barn was not a position Chase wanted to be in, especially when there were two minutes left on the clock and their own goalie was pulled so they could have an extra skater out.

Chase wasn’t sure why the fuck the coach had put him on the ice at such a critical time, but the confidence in him made his blood sing. He was going to fucking do it. He was going to tie this game and send them to overtime and then win it there, too.

He’d been trying to get to the dirty places lately, battling hard against the boards, managing not to be knocked off, faster than the bigger guys he was surrounded with.

He snapped the puck up behind the opposition’s goal as Grigory rimmed it on the boards. None of the Comets went to get him—with the Spirits having an extra skater, they had too many passing lanes to cover, and Chase had too many angles to shoot from to go after him.

Jimmy was in front of the goalie. Chase could see that he was battling for position, swallowing crosschecks to the spine from a Comets’ defender.

The goalie was splayed out in the middle of the goal, pads spread out so he could stop the puck if Chase tried to go around one of the goal posts and slide it in.

It was a split-second decision. He didn’t think about it. It was just two impulses—try to get the puck through the sticks and the legs of the Comet and to Jimmy, or…

He whipped the puck back and forth on his stick, picking up momentum so he could pick it up. He lifted the blade, puck stuck to it, and tried the infamous Michigan goal—trying to ram it to one of the top corners from behind.

It would be amazing if it worked. A highlight-reel goal.

It didn’t fucking work.

The goalie stuffed himself against the corner of the goal as he spotted what Chase was doing. The puck bounced off his shoulder, off his blocker, and bobbled away, right to the skates of one of the Comets.

The player was off before Chase could even think, out of the Spirits’ zone. He shot it from centre-ice and straight into the fucking goal.

And just like that, the Spirits were down two with barely a minute remaining.

Chase skated to the bench, stomach so tight he thought the bile would be squeezed right out of his gullet.

“What the fuck was that?” Auston said, voice monotone but eyes two black pits as he stared at Chase.

Something in Chase snapped , giving in to the weight that had been pressing on it for months. “Why don’t you score a fucking goal then instead of picking on the person with the least experience on the team? Huh? Mr. Veteran?” he hissed back.

Auston blinked, remaining blessedly silent as Chase sat as far away from him as he could.

The thick liquid was swelling up again, covering him in something dark.

Why the fuck couldn’t he do anything right? He should have passed the fucking puck. Been a team player instead of trying to show off.

No one except Auston said anything—not the coaches or the guys in the changing room, but Chase still felt the pressure of what they must be thinking.

“Wanna hang at mine? I’ll make you a shake with that special peanut butter,” Sammy offered.

“Nah, I’m good. Just want to grab some sleep.”

Sammy’s mouth twitched to the side, but he didn’t try to talk Chase out of it.

Chase changed as soon as he got home. Aunix had gotten him an oversized sweater and some new soft, thin yoga pants, and he put those on before climbing into his nest.

He curled up with Joey the duck under the weighted blanket, heating pad on low below him, warm lights glowing mutely.