🔥 Champions’ Reward 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Scene from Hard Composite

Thank You for Reading! 💙

You made it to the bonus content—which means you’ve experienced Holt and Ezra’s journey from that first midnight meeting in The Cage to their hard-won happily ever after. Thank you for giving their story a chance. This exclusive scene is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

It’s set the night the Vanguards win the Stanley Cup Finals—after the trophy presentation, after the champagne showers, after the entire world watched Ezra Kaine kiss his boyfriend on national television. The arena has finally emptied. The Cage is dark. And Holt has one more victory celebration planned…

Champions’ Reward

Three hours after winning the Stanley Cup…

The Cage was dark except for the emergency lights.

Ezra’s back hit the chain-link the moment Holt closed the door behind them, the metal rattling like thunder in the empty corridor. His suit jacket was already gone—lost somewhere between the champagne celebration and the elevator—and Holt’s hands were working the buttons of his dress shirt with the same methodical precision he applied to everything.

“We shouldn’t be down here,” Ezra breathed, even as he arched into the touch. “Security—”

“Security saw us come in. They know not to disturb The Cage.” Holt’s voice was a low rumble against Ezra’s throat. “I’ve been waiting four hours to get you alone. Everyone else got their celebration. Now it’s my turn.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent heat pooling low in Ezra’s stomach. “Your turn to what?”

Holt pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. In the dim light, his expression was pure hunger—controlled, focused, absolutely devastating.

“To take you apart. Piece by piece. Until the only word you remember is my name.” His hand came up to grip Ezra’s jaw, tilting his head back. “You played so well tonight, sweetheart. Watched you out there, leading the team, taking that final shot. You have no idea what it did to me.”

“Tell me.”

“Made me want to drag you off the ice and fuck you right there in front of everyone.” Holt’s thumb traced along Ezra’s lower lip. “Show them exactly who you belong to.”

Ezra’s cock was already straining against his zipper. “So show me now.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Holt stepped back, releasing him. “Strip.”

One word. One command. That’s all it took for Ezra’s brain to go blissfully quiet.

He peeled off his shirt, his undershirt, his belt. Let his pants pool at his feet along with his designer briefs until he was standing naked in the middle of The Cage, goosebumps rising on his skin from the chill of the underground room.

Holt circled him like a predator, still fully dressed, his gaze cataloging every inch. “Look at you. Most valuable player of the Stanley Cup Finals, standing naked in my equipment room, hard as a rock, waiting for me to tell him what to do.”

“Holt—”

“Did I say you could speak?”

Ezra’s mouth snapped shut. His cock twitched.

“Better.” Holt stopped behind him, close enough that Ezra could feel the heat of his body through his clothes. “Hands on the workbench. Don’t move them until I say.”

Ezra obeyed, crossing to the familiar wooden surface where he’d watched Holt work hundreds of times. His palms pressed flat against the grain, arms braced, ass on display. Vulnerable. Exposed. Exactly where he wanted to be.

“That’s my good boy.”

The praise hit him like a drug, sending warmth flooding through his veins. He heard Holt moving behind him—the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt—and then felt the first press of lips against the base of his spine.

“Do you know what I thought about, watching you hold that trophy?” Holt’s mouth traced a slow path upward, vertebra by vertebra. “I thought about how you looked the first night you came to The Cage. Wild-eyed and desperate, picking fights you wanted to lose.”

Ezra shivered as teeth grazed his shoulder blade.

“I thought about the gym. Counting your breaths while you fell apart. How you looked at me like I was the only solid thing in your entire world.”

A kiss to the back of his neck. Tender, reverent, at odds with the possessive grip now on his hips.

“I thought about the first time I fucked you. Right here on this bench. You were so desperate for it, so perfect. And now—” Holt’s voice dropped to a growl. “Now you’re a Stanley Cup champion. And you’re still mine.”

“Yours,” Ezra agreed, the word wrenched from somewhere deep. “Always yours.”

“Spread your legs.”

Ezra widened his stance, feeling the cool air hit sensitive skin. He heard Holt sink to his knees behind him, felt those broad hands grip his ass and spread him open—

And then Holt’s tongue was on him, and Ezra forgot how to think.

Holt ate him out like a man starving.

Long, wet strokes alternating with pointed thrusts. Circling, teasing, pressing inside. Ezra was shaking within minutes, his thighs trembling, his cock leaking steadily onto the floor.

“Please,” he gasped, forgetting the no-speaking rule. “Holt, please, I need—”

Holt pulled back just long enough to deliver a sharp slap to his ass. The sting rocketed through Ezra’s system, making him cry out.

“Did I give you permission to beg?”

“No—no, sir—”

“Then stay quiet and take what I give you.”

His mouth returned, hotter and wetter than before, and Ezra bit down on his forearm to keep from screaming. The pleasure was building like a tidal wave—too much, too intense—and he was right on the edge of coming untouched when Holt suddenly pulled away.

“Not yet.”

Ezra sobbed. Actually sobbed. “Please—”

“I said not yet.” Holt stood, running a soothing hand down Ezra’s trembling back. “You’ll come when I say you can come. Not before.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. Because I told you to. Because you’re my good boy, and you want to make me proud.”

The words settled over Ezra like a weighted blanket, steadying the chaos in his head. He pulled in a shaky breath. Nodded.

“Color?”

“Green. So fucking green.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Holt reached past him, grabbing something from the shelf above the workbench. Ezra heard a familiar sound—tape being ripped from a roll.

“Hands behind your back.”

Ezra obeyed without hesitation. The hockey tape wound around his wrists—the same tape that had been wrapped around hundreds of stick handles, now binding him in place. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to remind him that he was exactly where Holt wanted him.

“Look at you,” Holt murmured, turning Ezra to face him. “Stanley Cup champion, wrists taped behind your back, desperate to be fucked in my Cage.” His thumb traced along Ezra’s cheekbone. “The things I want to do to you.”

“Do them.”

“So demanding.” But Holt was smiling—that rare, soft smile that was only ever for Ezra. “Get on your knees.”

Ezra sank down, ignoring the cold concrete against his shins. From this angle, Holt towered over him—still fully dressed, only his cock freed from his slacks, hard and flushed and so fucking perfect that Ezra’s mouth watered.

“Open.”

Ezra opened his mouth. Let Holt guide himself inside. Let his eyes flutter closed as the familiar weight pressed against his tongue.

“That’s it. Take it. Just like that—fuck, sweetheart, your mouth—”

Holt’s hands fisted in his hair as Ezra worked him—swallowing deep, hollowing his cheeks, using every trick he’d learned over the past year of their relationship. He could feel Holt’s thighs trembling, hear the ragged edge in his breathing.

“Enough.” Holt pulled back before he could finish. “On the bench. Chest down.”

Ezra scrambled to obey, draping himself over the workbench with his bound hands resting at the small of his back. The wood was cool against his overheated chest. His cock hung heavy between his legs, aching for attention.

He heard the slick sound of lube, felt fingers pressing against him—one, then two, working him open with practiced efficiency. Holt knew his body better than anyone, knew exactly how to stretch him without wasting time.

“Ready?”

“Been ready for hours,” Ezra groaned.

Holt laughed—low and rough—and then he was pushing inside, and Ezra’s world narrowed to a single point of white-hot connection.

They’d fucked a hundred times. A thousand times. In beds and showers and hotel rooms and once, memorably, in Holt’s office with the door unlocked.

But this was different.

This was victory and relief and a year of hiding finally over. This was Holt pinning Ezra to the workbench with his bound hands trapped between them, driving into him with deep, relentless strokes that punched moans from Ezra’s throat. This was possession and love and the kind of desperate need that only came from almost losing everything.

“You feel so fucking good,” Holt growled against his ear. “So tight. So perfect. Mine.”

“Yours,” Ezra agreed, the word broken. “Only yours—fuck—right there—”

Holt shifted his angle, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind Ezra’s eyes. He was close again—so close—his whole body wound tight as a spring.

“Please,” he begged, too far gone to care about rules. “Please, can I—need to—”

“Not yet.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” Holt’s hand wrapped around his throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of who was in control. “You can because I believe in you. Because you’re the strongest person I know. Because you’ve never disappointed me once, sweetheart, and you’re not going to start now.”

The praise washed over him like warm water, and somehow—impossibly—Ezra held on.

Holt’s rhythm increased, his thrusts becoming erratic. “So proud of you,” he panted. “So fucking proud. My perfect boy. My champion. Going to come inside you—fill you up—remind you who you belong to—”

“Yes—”

“Come for me. Now.”

The permission hit him like a lightning strike. Ezra came with a scream he couldn’t contain—untouched, his cock pulsing against the workbench, his whole body convulsing around Holt as the orgasm crashed through him in waves.

He felt Holt follow a moment later—the hot rush inside him, the groan of his name, the way those hands gripped his hips hard enough to bruise.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just breathed together in the dark of The Cage, surrounded by hockey equipment and the ghost of the season that had changed everything.

Then Holt’s hands were gentle on the tape, unwinding it carefully from Ezra’s wrists. He turned Ezra in his arms, pulling him close, pressing kisses to his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.

“So good for me,” he murmured. “So perfect. I love you so much.”

“Love you too.” Ezra’s voice was wrecked, barely a whisper. “Best championship celebration ever.”

Holt laughed, soft and fond. “We should go upstairs. Shower. Get some food.”

“Five more minutes.” Ezra buried his face in Holt’s neck, breathing him in. “Just want to stay here.”

“In The Cage?”

“In you.” Ezra smiled against his skin. “Where I belong.”

Holt’s arms tightened around him. “Always. For as long as you want me.”

“Forever, then.”

“Forever works.”

They stood there for longer than five minutes—tangled together, breathing in sync, champions in every way that mattered.

And when they finally made their way upstairs, the Stanley Cup gleaming in its case and the city celebrating outside, Ezra knew with absolute certainty that this was just the beginning.

They’d won more than a trophy tonight.

They’d won everything.

~ The End ~

Coming Next in the Chicago Vanguards Series

Book 2: Heavy Gauge
Marcus Webb has been Ezra’s best friend and protector since their rookie year. But the team’s head athletic trainer makes him feel things he’s never felt before—and forces him to confront everything he’s been hiding behind his easygoing smile.

Best Friend’s Teammate • Grumpy/Sunshine • Hurt/Comfort • Bi Awakening