Coach Me Through It

MM Hockey Age-Gap Romance
by Chase Power

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Pairing: MM
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Praise Kink, Age Gap, Size Difference, Former Idol, Secret Relationship, Forced Proximity, Hurt/Comfort

He hired a legend to teach him control. Then he learned how good surrender could feel.

Declan Walsh is the Portland Evergreens’ highest-scoring problem. He’s also one suspension away from losing the contract that was supposed to define his career.

After another fight goes viral, his agent hires the only man Declan has never been able to dismiss: Roman Calder, Portland’s legendary former captain. Roman is disciplined, controlled, and fifteen years older. He knows exactly how to recognize the moment before a player loses himself. He also knows better than to want the volatile young star he’s been paid to help.

Then Roman tells Declan he made a good choice. Two quiet words should not leave a six-foot-five professional athlete desperate to hear more.

Their consulting agreement ends before either man crosses the line. Their attraction does not. Soon Roman is talking Declan through more than penalties and panic. He’s teaching him how to ask, how to surrender, and how to accept praise without believing he must earn every touch.

But Declan’s comeback comes with a new contract offer across the country, while Roman is offered a future inside the organization Declan may leave behind. Both men know how to control a game. Neither knows how to risk an honest future.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Retired legend x current bad boy MM hockey romance
✅ 15-year age gap with silver-fox energy
✅ Praise kink that evolves from professional coaching to the bedroom
✅ “Good boy” meets six-foot-five power forward (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotional)
✅ Size difference where the bigger man willingly surrenders
✅ A hero who learns to ask instead of fight
✅ Dual POV, no cheating, HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit consensual sexual content (graphic MM scenes), praise kink, light restraint, age gap, size difference, professional hockey violence, on-ice fighting, panic attacks, performance anxiety, emotionally harmful parenting, career uncertainty, and temporary breakup. Intended for readers 18+.

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Chapter One: Five Minutes for Fighting

The hit came from behind, and it wasn’t on me.

I heard it before I saw it — the sick, wet crack of a body folding into the boards at full speed. The kind of sound that traveled through the ice, up through your skates, and settled somewhere behind your sternum like a second heartbeat.

Eli went down.

Twenty-one years old, a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet, and the kid crumpled like someone had cut his strings. His helmet bounced off the glass. His stick clattered away. He slid facedown along the boards, and for two full seconds, nobody on the ice moved.

I moved.

I didn’t think. I didn’t check the clock, the score, the situation. I crossed the ice in four strides and dropped to one knee beside Eli, and the first thing I did — the thing nobody would see on the replays because it didn’t fit the story they wanted to tell — was put my hand on the back of his neck and say, “Hey. Eyes on me. You good?”

Eli blinked. Nodded. His pupils were the same size. His mouth guard was still in.

“Stay down,” I told him. “Trainers are coming.”

Then I stood up, found the defenseman who’d hit him, and beat the living shit out of him.

Here’s what the cameras caught:

Me dropping my gloves at center ice. Me grabbing Dmitri Volkov by the collar of his jersey and dragging him off balance before he could square up. Three punches — two to the jaw, one to the side of the helmet — before the linesmen got between us.

Me shoving the first linesman.

Me shoving the second one.

Me following Volkov toward the tunnel, still screaming, while two officials physically redirected me. Me knocking over a camera stand on the way to the locker room because it was in my path or because I needed to hit something that wouldn’t bruise, depending on who was telling the story.

Here’s what the cameras didn’t catch:

My hands shaking the entire time. Not from rage. From the three-second gap between hearing the hit and seeing Eli move, when my brain decided he was dead and my body had to do something about it or stop working entirely.

Nobody ever asked about the shaking.

They asked about the camera stand.

Julian called at midnight. Julian Park had been my agent since I was nineteen years old. He was thirty-eight, immaculately dressed, permanently exhausted, and the only person in my professional life who had never once pretended my behavior was acceptable because I scored goals.

“Three-game suspension,” he said without preamble. “Effective immediately. League fine — amount TBD, but expect six figures.”

“Volkov hit Eli from behind. Full speed. Head first. That’s the conversation we should be having.”

“That has nothing to do with you shoving two officials and destroying broadcast equipment.”

“It was a camera stand.”

Julian exhaled. The sound of a man who had been exhaling at me for six years.

“I’ve arranged for someone to work with you. Privately. Someone who understands what it’s like to be on that ice, under those lights, with sixty million people watching you decide in real time whether to be the hero or the villain.”

“Who?”

Julian paused. Julian never paused.

“Roman Calder.”

Roman Calder. Two-time championship captain. Portland Evergreen legend. The most disciplined center in the history of the league. The man whose timeout speeches I’d memorized when I was thirteen years old, sitting in the upper deck of Evergreen Center in a jersey three sizes too big.

I was thirteen the first time I saw Roman Calder play. My mother had driven me down from Buffalo for my birthday. He scored twice that night. But what I remembered was the timeout. Portland was losing 3–1. When the team came back out, they were different. Sharper. Faster. Roman had done that. With his voice.

I’d spent my entire career trying to do the same thing with my fists.

“Tell him I’ll be there,” I said.

I hung up and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw stars.

None of it scared me as much as the thought of Roman Calder watching my game tape and finding exactly what everyone else had already found.

That there was nothing underneath the anger worth saving.

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After the Drill — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon

One year later. The community rink at dawn. Roman runs the old stop-at-the-whistle drill. Declan stops perfectly every time. And when they get home, Roman discovers that his six-foot-five boyfriend has been planning exactly how to take him apart — slowly, thoroughly, with every word of praise he’s ever learned turned into a weapon of devastating tenderness.

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