Resurface
A Farm Team, Found Family Bonus Chapter
by Chase Power
This scene takes place between Chapter 24 and the Epilogue, approximately six months after Mason’s return to Millhaven. The rink is shut down for its first summer maintenance overhaul.
⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit sexual content including graphic MM sex, praise kink, body worship, edging, oral sex, penetrative sex, and detailed sexual descriptions. This is the uncut version — significantly more explicit than the published novel. For readers 18+ only.
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Part One: No Alarm
Mason
The alarm didn’t go off.
That was the first thing I registered — the absence. The missing sound. 5:15 AM, and the bedside table was silent, and Luke was sitting on the edge of the mattress in the grey pre-dawn light, fully dressed, staring at the wall.
Jeans. Flannel. Socks. Work boots placed neatly beside the bed, waiting for feet that had nowhere to go. He’d gotten up in the dark and dressed by muscle memory, the same way he’d dressed every morning for six years, because his body didn’t know the rink was empty. His body didn’t know the ice was gone. His body just knew: 5:15. Get up. Go.
“Hey.” I propped myself on one elbow. “What are you doing?”
“I’m—” He stopped. Looked at his hands. They were resting on his knees, palms down, the working hands that gripped Zamboni controls and tightened brackets and held my face in the dark. They were still. Idle. Hands with nothing to maintain. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Come back to bed.”
“The rink—”
“Is a concrete box with no ice in it. The compressor crew doesn’t start until nine. There is nothing in that building that needs you before nine o’clock.” I reached for his wrist. Circled it with my fingers. Tugged gently. “Come back to bed, Luke.”
He resisted. Not physically — psychologically. I could feel it in the tension of his arm, the set of his shoulders. The anxiety of emptiness. Six years of 5:15 alarms and the structured, purposeful, minute-by-minute schedule that gave his days their architecture, and now — June. Off-season. No ice. No team. No practice. Just days. Open, unscheduled, terrifying days.
“You don’t need armor today,” I said. I sat up. Put my hands on his flannel — the red-and-black Buffalo check, mine originally, his by conquest. Unbuttoned the top button. “There’s nothing to fix.”
“There’s always something to fix.”
“Not today.” Second button. Third. My fingers working down the placket, each button a small negotiation between fabric and the man inside it. “Today, the only thing on the schedule is this.”
I pushed the flannel off his shoulders. It fell behind him on the bed — pooled, warm from his body. I pulled his t-shirt over his head. His arms rose to let it pass, the same automatic cooperation he gave when I undressed him in the dark, but this was different. This was morning. This was light.
“You spend all day looking at surfaces,” I said. I put my hands on his chest. Spread my fingers. Felt his heartbeat — fast, accelerated by the intimacy and the vulnerability. “Let me look at yours.”
“You’re beautiful.” I traced his collarbone with my thumb. “These shoulders. This chest. The way you’re built — not for show. For use. Every muscle in your body exists because you’ve spent years doing real work, and the evidence of that work is the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.”
I kissed his shoulder. His neck. The spot below his ear that made his breath change. “Lie down,” I said.
He lay down. I straddled his hips. He was still wearing his jeans, and I could feel him through the denim — the heat, the hardness. I rolled my hips — slow, grinding, and the friction through the layers was maddening and insufficient and exactly right.
His hands flew to my hips. Gripped. The big, scarred, calloused hands that could hold me in place with a certainty that made my brain go quiet.
I took my time. No rush. The specific, revolutionary luxury of a morning with nowhere to be. I ground against him through his jeans, my hands on his chest, my mouth on his neck, until the sensation was too complete to direct.
“Let me,” I whispered. I unbuttoned his jeans. Unzipped. Reached inside and wrapped my hand around him. He was thick and hard and the weight of him in my palm still hit me the same way it had the first time.
I stroked — slow, from base to tip, my thumb circling the head. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, his face doing the thing it did when the composure dissolved — the jaw unclenching, the forehead smoothing, the whole geography shifting from guarded to open in real time.
“Come for me,” I said. Our words. The permission and the command. “There’s no schedule today. No alarm. No ice. Just this. Just me.”
He came with my name on his lips and my hand around him, his body arching off the bed, his fingers bruising my hips. I felt every pulse, every shudder. His hand found me after — still trembling from his own orgasm — and the imperfection of his grip was hotter than any textbook technique.
We lay in the wreckage of the morning. Sheets tangled. His hand on my stomach. My hand in his hair.
“What do people do all day when they’re not maintaining things?” Luke asked the ceiling.
“Each other, mostly.”
“That’s not a sustainable schedule.”
“Watch me.”
Part Two: The List
Luke
By noon, I’d made a maintenance list. I couldn’t help it. I sat at the kitchen table with a notepad and catalogued: the gutter on the south side needed resealing. The bathroom caulk was yellowing. The back porch had a loose board.
Mason appeared in the kitchen doorway. Freshly showered, hair damp, wearing nothing but my flannel — unbuttoned, hanging open — and a pair of grey boxers. He took the notepad from my hands and read it.
“My turn.” He flipped to a blank page. Pulled the pen from my fingers. He wrote for two full minutes, then turned the notepad around.
1. Full-body massage — every muscle group, no shortcuts. Est. time: 30 min. Priority: Critical.
2. Undress you and describe what I see out loud. Est. time: 15 min. Priority: Urgent.
3. Map every scar on your body with my mouth. Special attention to left knee. Est. time: 40 min. Priority: Non-negotiable.
4. Go down on you until you can’t remember your own name. Edge minimum 3x. Est. time: as long as it takes. Priority: Mission-critical.
5. Take a break. Hydrate. Look at you.
6. Find out what sounds you make when nobody else is in the house.
7. Your hands on me — your choice how. I trust your instincts.
8. Slow. Face to face. Eye contact the whole time.
9. Fast. Against a wall. Your choice which wall.
10. The thing you mentioned last week that you’ve never done. We try it tonight.
11. Hold you until you fall asleep. Stay awake to watch.
12. Wake you up in the morning and do it all again.
“You have your maintenance schedule. I have mine,” he said. “Yours keeps the rink running. Mine keeps you running.”
He wasn’t kidding about the massage. His hands worked every muscle group with a thoroughness that was almost clinical. Shoulders, back, lower back, glutes, thighs — each group addressed with the focused attention of a man who had once been coached by me and had internalized the methodology. By the time he’d finished, I was formless. Defenseless.
Item two: he described what he saw. “Your shoulders — wider than mine. Built for carrying things.” Item three: he kissed every scar, ending at the knee, six inches of history honored with his mouth. By the time he reached the bottom of the scar, my eyes were wet.
Item four. He took me in his mouth — in the living room, in the middle of the afternoon. He edged me three times. Each time: the build, the crest, then his mouth easing off, leaving me straining and incoherent. After the third edge, the windows were open and Luke Harrington, who’d been silent in bed for six years, let the sound out. Full-throated. Unconstrained. The roar of a man who’d been quiet for too long.
He brought me over the edge. Not gently — firmly. I came so hard my vision went white. He stayed until the aftershocks faded. Then he kissed his way back up my body and reached for the notepad. Drew a line through Item 4 with the pen.
“How many items are on that list?” I managed.
“Twelve.”
“We’re on item four.”
“The day is young.”
Part Three: Empty Rink
Mason
I took him to the rink at five. The ice was gone. The concrete floor was grey and bare, the boards partially dismantled, the Zamboni covered with a tarp.
“It’s still here,” I said. “The surface changes but the foundation doesn’t.” My hand on his chest. “This is you without the surface. And you’re still standing.”
I kissed him at center concrete. The echo — our mouths meeting, the sound amplified by bare walls. I’d planned this. Brought blankets, supplies, everything we needed.
“I’m going to make love to you on the foundation of the building you gave your life to, and every sound we make is going to echo off these walls.”
We undressed each other in the empty rink. The acoustics made every sound enormous. I entered him slowly, face to face, his legs around my waist. The eye contact unbroken.
“You built this place,” I said, moving. “Every board. Every bracket. Every surface. You built it and you held it and you kept it standing for six years alone.”
“Not alone anymore.” His voice cracked. The echo carried the crack — amplified it, returned it. “Not alone.”
“Never again.”
“You’re the best thing on any surface I’ve ever made,” Luke said, and the words landed deep, structural, in the place where his praise always landed.
We came together. On center concrete. In the empty rink. The sound of both our names echoing off the bare walls like a benediction.
“We’re never telling anyone about this,” Luke said.
“Oli would make a PowerPoint.”
“With transitions.”
Luke laughed. The laugh echoed — filling the empty arena. The best sound the building had ever held.
Part Four: Home Ice
Luke
The house was empty when we got back. Truly empty. Oli was with Elliot overnight. Tanner was in Kingston for what he called a “PT session” and what I suspected was the paramedic.
Mason cooked dinner. Spaghetti with a sauce that was not quite mine but was close — the same structure, different instincts. We ate at our spots. Wine from Riley with the instruction “drink this when you’re alone and do things I don’t want to hear about.”
After dinner, Mason produced the list. Eight items uncrossed.
“We have all night. No housemates. No thin walls. No hand over your mouth.”
Tonight, the constraint was gone.
Item 7: my hands on him. I chose the slow, thorough worship that was my native language. I mapped his body with my hands and mouth, following every geometric line of his tattoo. He came with my name at full volume — unrestricted for the first time, filling the empty house.
Item 8: slow. Face to face. I was inside him, our foreheads pressed together. “Good,” I whispered. “You’re so good, Mason.” I came inside him with his hand on my jaw and his eyes holding mine.
Item 9: fast. Against the hallway wall — the spot where he’d first fixed the bathroom door. My back against the wall, his body pinning mine. The sounds I made, unconstrained for the first time in this house, were sounds I’d never heard from my own mouth.
Item 10. The thing I’d mentioned. The thing I’d never done. He took his time. More time than any previous item. The last unexplored territory of vulnerability, the final surrender. When it was over, Mason drew a line through Items 7, 8, 9, and 10.
“Item eleven. Hold you until you fall asleep. Stay awake to watch.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s on the list, Luke. The list is sacred.”
He pulled me against his chest. My face in his neck. His arms around me.
“Item twelve,” I murmured, already fading. “Wake me up in the morning and do it all again.”
“I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”
I fell asleep. And the last thing I felt was his heartbeat against my cheek — the heartbeat of a man who was watching someone he loved sleep and who was exactly where he wanted to be.
Mason Cole had built me a system for being loved. Had taken the only language I understood — maintenance, schedules, lists — and had used it to show me that I was a thing worth caring about. Not the rink. Not the ice. Not the building or the town or the chore wheel. Me.
The ice would come back in September. The Zamboni would hum. The surface would be perfect.
But this — his arms around me, his heartbeat against my cheek, the list on the nightstand with twelve lines through twelve items — this didn’t melt.
This was the foundation.
And the foundation held.
Thank you for reading the bonus chapter of Farm Team, Found Family by Chase Power.
Oli Reyes never expected to fall for the quietest man in Millhaven. But when a grumpy bookstore owner with zero interest in hockey challenges everything Oli thinks he knows about love, the billet house’s resident golden retriever is about to learn that some people are worth slowing down for.
Shelf Life — coming soon from Chase Power.
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