Penalty Box Privileges — Bonus Chapter
Overtime Rules — An Exclusive Scene
by Chase Power
This bonus chapter takes place six months after the events of the novel. Rye and Lucky are back in Hartford for preseason — their apartment, their ice, their rules. Contains explicit MM sexual content. 18+ only.
Overtime Rules
The apartment smells like Lucky’s Cuban coffee and the specific disaster of a man who tried to make French toast without a recipe.
“It’s supposed to be golden,” he says, poking at something in the pan that is decidedly not golden. It’s the color of a hockey puck that’s been through three periods and a bar fight. “The internet said golden brown.”
“The internet also said you’d be a third-round draft pick. The internet is not always right.”
He points the spatula at me. “First of all, fuck you. Second of all, I was a second-round pick, and you know that because you watched my draft footage, which I found in your YouTube history, which means you were stalking me before we even met.”
“I was scouting.”
“You were stalking.”
I take the spatula from his hand. Scrape the burned French toast into the trash. Start over with fresh bread and the correct ratio of egg to milk, because I’ve been making French toast since before this man was born and the fact that he thinks he can learn cooking from a sixty-second Instagram reel is both infuriating and endearing.
He hops up on the counter. Sits there in my boxers—my boxers, because Lucky Velez has not purchased his own underwear in six months on the theory that mine are “already broken in” and also, I suspect, because wearing my clothes is a form of territorial marking that he finds deeply satisfying.
It’s September. Preseason starts Monday. The apartment is ours now—his name on the lease as of June, his furniture mixed with my furniture (his is better, which I will never admit), his art on the walls including, inexplicably, a poster of a cat wearing a hockey helmet that he claims is “art” and I claim is “grounds for eviction.”
“I have a proposition,” he says.
“The last time you had a proposition, I ended up carrying you out of a bar in Vermont because you challenged a lumberjack to an arm-wrestling contest.”
“I won that arm-wrestling contest.”
“You won because he let you win because you’re pretty and he felt sorry for you.”
“I won because I’m strong. And pretty. Both things can be true.”
“We have optional skate this afternoon. Empty rink. Just us. I bet you can’t stay quiet.”
I stop flipping French toast. Look at him. He’s grinning—the specific grin that precedes either a terrible idea or the best night of my life.
“Can’t stay quiet during what?”
“During whatever I decide to do to you. In the locker room. After we skate.”
“What are the stakes?”
“If you stay quiet—completely silent—I’ll let you pick the movie tonight. Without commentary. Without falling asleep halfway through.”
“And if I don’t?”
“If you make a single sound…” He hops off the counter. Crosses to me. Puts his hands on my hips. “I get to be in charge for an entire week. On the ice and off it. No commands. No ‘good boy.’ No hand on my neck. I lead. You follow.”
“Deal,” I say.
His grin turns feral. “You’re going to lose.”
“I never lose.”
The French toast burns again. Neither of us cares.
The rink is empty. Late September afternoon. The ice is fresh. The lights are at half power. We skate for an hour—easy, loose, the preseason rust shaking off with each stride.
He’s better than last season. Stronger. There’s a confidence in his skating that wasn’t there a year ago—not the performative kind, but the real kind. The kind that comes from being loved and knowing it.
We finish skating. The locker room is empty, quiet.
Lucky stands in front of me. “Rules. No sounds. Zero. Starting now.”
He kisses me. Slow and deep, with the deliberate precision he learned from me. His tongue slides against mine and I respond with everything, then remember the bet and lock it down.
He pulls back. “Good start. Let’s see how long it lasts.”
He drops to his knees.
My hands grip the stall behind me. Lucky looks up at me from the floor—dark eyes, swollen mouth, that devastating upward gaze—and his hands go to my waistband.
He takes his time. He has learned, over months of practice and obsessive attention, exactly how to take me apart. He knows the rhythm. The pressure. The angle that makes my vision blur. He knows when to go slow and when to stop entirely and just hold me in the heat of his mouth while I—
I clench my jaw. Breathe through my nose. Every muscle in my body is locked because the sensation is devastating and the silence is a cage I’m rattling against. He’s looking up at me with those dark eyes and smiling around me and the vibration is psychological warfare.
He pulls off. Stands. Pushes me down onto the bench. Straddles my lap. Rolls his hips. His mouth on my neck, teeth on the tendon below my ear—the spot that bypasses every rational circuit in my brain.
My mouth opens. I catch the sound before it escapes—redirect the energy into my hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave marks.
“That was close,” he whispers. “I almost had you.”
He reaches between us. His hand wraps around both of us and I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste copper because the sound that wants to come out is not a groan, it’s a roar.
He shifts. Pushes my shorts down. Pushes his own. Skin on skin, his hand wrapped around both of us—the slick heat sends a bolt of electricity from my spine to my skull.
“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he pants. His forehead against mine. His hand faster. “You’re shaking. Just—let me hear you—”
I grab his face. Kiss him. Pour every sound I can’t make into his mouth. He moans against my lips in a way that tells me he can taste what I’m holding back.
His hand tightens. Twists. His thumb does the thing that makes me lose my mind.
I come. Silent. Mouth open, eyes shut, body rigid, the orgasm so intense it borders on violent—the compression of denied sound and overwhelming sensation creating a pressure that goes through my body in long, shuddering waves. He follows—not silent, not even close, his moan echoing off the locker room walls.
Silence. The fluorescent lights hum. Our breathing slows.
“I won,” I say.
“You did NOT—”
“I stayed silent. Those were the terms.”
“You were SHAKING. You bit your lip so hard it’s bleeding!”
“Silently.”
He laughs. The real laugh—the enormous, building-filling one I unlocked on a cold morning on the ice a lifetime ago.
“Fine. You win. You always win.”
“Not always.”
I touch his face. “You beat me in September. Day one. Training camp. You walked in late with earbuds in, grinning at everyone, and I thought, I’m in trouble.”
His expression softens. “That’s when you knew?”
“That’s when I started losing.”
“For the record, I knew during the cold tub. When you said ice that shoulder and I felt it in my spine.”
“I’m faster than you. I’ve always been faster.”
“But I get there.”
“Yeah. You always get there.”
“Come on,” I say, offering my hand. “Let’s go home.”
He takes it. Doesn’t let go. We walk out together into the September sun, counting forward. Always forward.
Thank you for reading! If Rye and Lucky earned a spot on your shelf, a quick rating or review on Amazon means the world.
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