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Victory Lap

Dean

Hockey banquets are a special kind of hell.

Mandatory attendance. Luke-warm buffet food. Speeches that run fifteen minutes longer than necessary. And every player forced into a suit that feels one size too small around the neck.

But this year is different.

This year, Nora is sitting beside me, her knee occasionally brushing mine under the white tablecloth. She’s wearing a simple black dress, nothing elaborate, but the way the material drapes across her collarbones makes it difficult to focus on Coach’s opening remarks.

“You’re staring,” she whispers, eyes forward, a small smile playing at her lips.

“Hard not to,” I murmur back.

She’s different tonight—more confident, more relaxed. The Nora from three months ago would have been analyzing the room, calculating social dynamics, anxious about being my official date at such a public team function. This Nora rests her hand on my thigh under the table, casual, claiming.

I like this version even more than I thought possible.

Gavin sits across from us, smirking whenever he catches my eye. He’s accepted my relationship with Nora with surprising enthusiasm, though his constant knowing looks are getting old.

“Is Adams giving a speech?” Nora asks, nodding toward our defenseman who’s fidgeting nervously at the head table.

“All the graduating seniors do,” I explain. “Short ones, thankfully.”

“Including you?”

I nod, unexpectedly aware of the folded paper in my pocket. The speech I’ve rehearsed a dozen times but still doesn’t feel right.

“You’ll be great,” she says, reading my thoughts with that uncanny perception that never fails to surprise me.

My response is cut short as the banquet hall doors open, admitting a latecomer. Henry Walsh—our star goalie, brilliant and erratic in equal measure—slides into the room with practiced nonchalance that doesn’t quite hide his dishevelment.

“Walsh is cutting it close,” Gavin mutters, checking his watch. “Coach is going to have his ass.”

Henry spots our table and makes his way over, his suit expensive but rumpled, as if he slept in it. Knowing Henry, he probably did.

“Carter. Matthews.” He nods to us, then turns his attention to Nora. “The tutor, right?”

“Nora,” she reminds him, taking his hand briefly. “I’ve seen you play. Impressive reflexes.”

“All natural talent,” Henry says with a wink. “These guys have to work at it. I just show up.”

It’s a familiar line, part of the carefree persona he’s cultivated. But I’ve roomed with him on road trips. I’ve seen him study game film, the obsessive study of opposing teams’ shooting patterns, the 5 AM solo practices he thinks no one knows about.

“If by ‘show up’ you mean ‘barely make it to the banquet,’ then sure,” Gavin says, though there’s no real heat in it. Everyone has a soft spot for Henry, despite his chaos.

“Had a situation to handle,” Henry explains vaguely, dropping into the empty chair beside Gavin.

“What kind of situation requires a flask in your jacket pocket?” I ask, noticing the telltale bulge.

Henry grins, unrepentant. “The Dean of Students kind.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Apparently, the administration frowns upon using the biochemistry lab to calculate the optimal alcohol content for maximum intoxication while minimizing hangover effects.”

“You didn’t,” Nora says, eyes widening.

“Purely theoretical research,” Henry assures her, though his smirk suggests otherwise. “Unfortunately, someone from the journalism department got wind of it. Been dealing with her questions all afternoon.”

Then, with a sudden intensity that seems out of character, he turns to Nora. “You’re in neuroscience, right? Tell me something—why would someone who supposedly hates everything I stand for keep finding reasons to be wherever I am?”

The question catches Nora off guard. “I’m not sure that’s a neuroscience question.”

“Sure it is. It’s about contradictory behavior. Cognitive dissonance.” Henry leans forward, suddenly serious.

“Becca?” I ask.

Henry nods. “She follows me around campus telling me I’m everything wrong with college athletics, privilege, and male entitlement. But then she shows up at every game, every party, standing in the corner watching me with this look like…”

He trails off, seeming to realize he’s said more than intended. The vulnerability vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual easy smile.

Nora’s eyes meet mine, a silent question passing between us. I give a slight shrug. That’s Henry—charming, frustrating, and occasionally showing depths that make you wonder what’s really going on behind the carefully crafted facade.

The moment is interrupted by Coach Stevens tapping his microphone at the podium. “If I could have everyone’s attention, we’ll begin the senior recognition portion of our evening.”

Henry slips away toward the bar, probably for a soft drink he can dump the contents of that flask into. As the first senior takes the podium—Adams, awkward but sincere in his thanks to the team—Nora leans closer to me.

“What’s his story?” she whispers, nodding toward Henry’s retreating form.

“That’s the question everyone’s been asking for three years,” I respond quietly. “Most talented goalie in the conference. Could go pro if he wanted to. But he’s his own worst enemy.”

“And Becca?”

I consider what I know about Becca Monroe—serious, intense, with a reputation for uncompromising articles in the campus paper. The exact opposite of Henry in every way.

“Oil and water,” I say. “Or possibly matches and gasoline.”

The speeches continue, each graduating senior sharing brief reflections and thanks. I half-listen, most of my attention focused on Nora’s hand still resting on my thigh, her thumb occasionally tracing small circles that are just distracting enough to be deliberate.

Two can play that game.

I shift slightly, my hand dropping casually below the tablecloth to rest on her knee. I feel her slight intake of breath as my fingers begin a slow journey upward, tracing the hem of her dress.

“Dean,” she warns quietly, though she doesn’t move away.

“Problem?” I ask innocently, fingers continuing their path along her inner thigh.

“We’re in public,” she reminds me, her voice impressively steady despite the slight flush creeping up her neck.

“Very public,” I agree. “Which means you’ll have to stay very quiet.”

Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating even as she maintains her composed expression. This is what I love about Nora—the contrast between her carefully controlled exterior and the responsiveness I can feel beneath my fingertips.

“Matthews, Carter,” Coach calls from the podium. “Get up here.”

Saved by the speech. I withdraw my hand, catching Nora’s mix of relief and frustration with a small smile. “To be continued,” I promise quietly.

Gavin and I make our way to the podium for our joint recognition as team co-captains. Coach Stevens goes through the usual accolades—leadership, dedication, academic excellence—before surprising me with a specific mention of my Archer Initiative grant and prosthetics research.

“Carter here isn’t just a hell of a hockey player,” Coach says, genuine pride in his voice. “He’s going to change lives with that brain of his. Remember that when you’re watching him in the Olympics someday.”

The exaggeration makes me uncomfortable, but the sentiment behind it—the acknowledgment of the work that matters most to me—is unexpectedly meaningful.

When it’s my turn to speak, I pull the folded paper from my pocket, then change my mind. The rehearsed words suddenly seem inadequate.

“Hockey has given me a lot,” I begin, looking out at the team, the coaches, the support staff who’ve been part of my college experience. “Structure. Purpose. A brotherhood that pushed me to be better on and off the ice.”

My eyes find Nora in the crowd, her attention completely focused on me in that way that always makes me feel like the only person in her world.

“But the most important lesson came this year,” I continue. “When I learned that sometimes the best plays are the ones you don’t plan. The ones that happen when you let go of the structure and trust your instincts.”

Nora’s expression softens, understanding the subtext of my words.

“I want to thank everyone who’s been part of this journey—Coach Stevens for seeing potential I didn’t know I had. My teammates for having my back for four years. And Nora Shaw—” I pause, holding her gaze across the room, “—for teaching me that not everything in life can be controlled. Some things are just meant to happen, whether you’re ready or not.”

The personal acknowledgment draws a few knowing chuckles from the team and a surprised smile from Nora. It’s more public than either of us would have imagined months ago, but it feels right—a declaration not just to her, but to myself. This isn’t temporary. This isn’t casual. This is real.

After the speeches conclude and dinner is served, the formal portion of the evening gives way to a more relaxed atmosphere. The hockey team is nothing if not efficient at transitioning from ceremony to celebration.

Nora excuses herself to the restroom, and I watch her go, admiring the way the simple black dress skims her curves. I’m so distracted I almost miss Coach approaching to talk to me.

We discuss post-graduation plans and talk about the team’s captaincy spot for next year.

I check my watch, realizing Nora’s been gone longer than expected. A small kernel of concern forms in my chest—irrational, probably, but present nonetheless.

I make my way toward the restrooms, telling myself I’m just being overprotective. Nora is more than capable of handling herself in any situation.

The hallway leading to the restrooms is quieter, the sounds of the banquet fading behind me. The women’s restroom door opens just as I approach, and Nora steps out, startling slightly when she sees me.

“Dean? What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” I say, stepping closer. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as a sign of mild nervousness. “Just ran into Daphne. It was… not as awkward as I expected.”

“Good.” I study her face, noting the slight flush to her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes. “You look different.”

“Different how?”

Instead of answering, I take her hand, pulling her gently toward a small alcove off the main hallway—a service entrance, partially concealed from the main corridor. Once we’re hidden from immediate view, I back her against the wall, one hand coming to rest beside her head.

“What are you doing?” she asks, though her quickened breathing suggests she knows exactly what I’m doing.

“What I’ve been thinking about all night,” I murmur, lowering my mouth to her neck. “What I’ve been wanting to do since you walked into the banquet in this dress.”

Her hands come up to my chest, not pushing me away but not quite pulling me closer either. “Dean, we’re at your team banquet. Anyone could walk by.”

“Then you’ll have to be very quiet,” I say against her skin, echoing my earlier words. “Can you do that for me?”

The challenge in my tone makes her eyes darken with familiar desire. This is our dynamic—the control, the push-and-pull, the way she yields but never completely surrenders.

“What if I say no?” she asks, testing the boundaries as always.

I pull back slightly, giving her space. “Then we go back to the banquet and continue this later.”

Her expression softens, appreciating the choice. It’s always been about choice with us—the power exchange meaningful precisely because she gives her consent freely, knowing I’ll honor her limits without question.

“And if I say yes?” Her voice drops lower, the analytical scientist giving way to something more primal.

In answer, I reach for the hem of her dress, fingers sliding up the outside of her thigh. “Then I want you to do something for me.”

Her breath catches. “What?”

“Go back into the restroom,” I instruct quietly. “Take off your underwear. Bring it to me. Then return to the banquet like nothing happened.”

The boldness of the request sends a visible shiver through her. For a moment, I think she might refuse—the public setting, the risk of discovery, the sheer impropriety of it all running counter to her careful nature.

Then something shifts in her expression—a decision made, a boundary tested. “And then?”

“And then you’ll spend the rest of the evening knowing that I know,” I say, my thumb tracing her lower lip. “That every time our eyes meet across the table, I’ll be thinking about how easy it would be to touch you. How wet you’d be for me.”

Her pupils dilate, breath coming quicker. “Just thinking?”

“For now.” I step back, giving her space to decide.

Nora studies me for a long moment, that brilliant mind working through scenarios, weighing options, calculating risks. Then, without a word, she slips past me and back into the women’s restroom.

I wait in the alcove, heart beating faster than it has any right to. This game between us—the control, the surrender, the trust it represents—never fails to affect me more deeply than I expect.

The door opens again less than a minute later. Nora emerges, expression composed but cheeks flushed. She approaches me deliberately, holding my gaze as she reaches for my hand.

She presses something into my palm—small, delicate, still warm from her body. The black lace disappears into my pocket as I pull her in for a deep kiss, rewarding her boldness.

“You never cease to surprise me,” I murmur against her lips.

“That works both ways,” she counters, pulling back slightly. “Now, we should probably get back before people notice we’re gone.”

As she turns to leave, I catch her arm gently. “Nora.”

She pauses, looking back at me questioningly.

“I meant what I said in that speech,” I tell her, needing her to understand the depths behind the public words. “About things that are meant to happen. About you.”

Her expression softens, the brilliant scientist temporarily giving way to the woman who’s somehow managed to breach every defense I’ve built. “I know,” she says simply. “Me too.”

We’re about to return to the banquet when a sound from further down the hallway freezes us in place—voices getting closer. Nora’s eyes widen in panic, but before we can retreat, they turn the corner.

Henry Walsh comes around the corner. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve gotta go.” He pockets his phone when he sees us.

I bob my head in his direction. “All good?”

“Sure,” he says, not sounding sure at all.

As we walk back together, Henry maintaining a small distance between us, I catch Nora’s questioning glance. I give a slight shrug in response. Whatever is happening with Henry is not my business.

Besides, tonight is about Nora, about us, about the public acknowledgment of what we’ve become to each other. About the black lace in my pocket and the promise of what comes after the banquet.

Everything else can wait.