🔥 Bonus Chapter: The Storage Room

A Coach’s Off-Limits Son Bonus Scene — Luke’s POV
by Jace Wilder

This scene takes place during Chapter 4 of Coach’s Off-Limits Son. The book version is Ryan’s POV. This is what Luke was thinking.

The Storage Room — Luke’s POV

I hadn’t planned this.

That was the lie I told myself as I walked through the tunnel beneath the stands, heading for my office, definitely not looking for Ryan Keller, definitely not thinking about the way he’d been avoiding me for four days like I was a live grenade in a team-issued polo.

Four days of professional distance. Four days of good morning delivered in that flat, controlled voice that meant he was performing normalcy so hard his jaw probably ached. Four days of watching the biggest, most disciplined man I’d ever met reroute through the building to avoid sharing a hallway with me, and the worst part—the part that made me want to shake him—was that the avoidance was louder than anything he could have said.

Ryan Keller didn’t know how to want something without fighting it. And the fighting was the tell.

I found him in the equipment office at the end of the tunnel. Door open. Sitting on the edge of the desk, scrolling his phone, hair damp from the shower. He was still in his base layer and compression shorts, and the compression shorts were doing their job—compressing—which meant I could see the outline of his thighs, the narrow taper of his waist, the way his shoulders filled the small room like they’d been engineered to occupy maximum space.

I knocked on the doorframe. His head came up. When he saw me, his face did the thing—the lockdown. Doors closing, walls rising, the fortress reassembling itself in real time.

But underneath the lockdown, in the half-second before the mask snapped into place, I saw it. The flash. The raw, involuntary want that Ryan treated like a disease and I treated like evidence.

I pulled the door shut behind me. The click of the latch was the loudest sound in the room.

What followed was the argument. The confrontation I’d been building toward since the midnight gym, since the catch, since the three seconds where his body had been pressed against mine and we’d both been hard and neither of us had moved and I’d gone home and not jerked off about it because I was a professional and also a liar.

I told him the truth. All of it. That his avoidance was a billboard. That Dex had asked twice. That Tommy thought he hated new staff. I laid out the evidence with the clinical precision of a man presenting data, and watched Ryan’s rehearsed speech—the one he’d clearly been practicing for days—disintegrate word by word.

“If you’re so straight,” I said, and I was close now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his body like a furnace, “then tell me I’m wrong and walk out.”

The door was right there. The exit was clear. I’d given him every opportunity.

He didn’t walk out.

He grabbed me.

Here’s what they don’t tell you about kissing a closeted man for the first time: the desperation is a flavor. You can taste it—the years of suppression, the accumulated want, the specific violence of a desire that’s been locked in a box and is now tearing through the walls with its bare hands.

Ryan kissed like a man drowning. All teeth and force and the clumsy, devastating urgency of someone who’d spent so long denying himself that when the dam broke, technique was the first casualty. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my hips, my ass—pulling me against him with a ferocity that punched the air from my lungs and lit my nervous system on fire.

I kissed him back without mercy. No grace period. No gentle introduction. If Ryan Keller was going to crash into me, I was going to make damn sure the impact counted.

We slammed into the shelving unit. Binders rained down around us. Neither of us stopped. His cock was a steel ridge against my hip—thick, insistent, straining against those compression shorts that suddenly seemed offensively inadequate—and the size of him sent a bolt of want through me so sharp I gasped into his mouth.

“This is a mistake,” he said, and his hands were on my ass, pulling me closer.

I bit his lower lip. “Huge mistake.”

What happened next was not a decision. It was gravity. His head fell back against the shelving and I went for his neck—tongue flat, mouth open, tasting salt and soap on skin that vibrated under my lips—and his hips bucked against me, and the friction of his cock grinding against my stomach dragged a sound from him that I felt in my marrow.

I sank to my knees.

The concrete was cold. My joggers did nothing to cushion it. I didn’t care, because I was eye-level with the most obscene tent I’d ever seen in compression fabric, and Ryan Keller was looking down at me with an expression that was going to live in my head rent-free for the rest of my natural life.

Terror. Need. The specific, devastating vulnerability of a man watching his own carefully constructed identity be dismantled by a twenty-seven-year-old on his knees in a storage room.

“Luke.” His voice was gutted. “We—if someone—”

I hooked my fingers in his waistband and pulled. His shorts came down and his cock sprang free, and—

God.

I’d imagined this. In the shower, in bed, during a conditioning session where I’d been demonstrating hip hinges and my brain had helpfully supplied an alternative use for the position. I’d imagined Ryan’s cock with the creative license of a man who’d been thinking about it too much and too often.

The reality was better. Thick. Flushed dark with blood. Curving upward, the head slick where precome had been leaking, a bead of it catching the fluorescent light like something obscene. He was bigger than I’d estimated, which was saying something because my estimates had been generous.

I wrapped my hand around the base and his entire body shuddered. Every muscle, simultaneously, like he’d been hit with a current. His hand went to the shelf above him, gripping, and his other hand—his other hand went to my hair. Not pushing. Hovering. The hand of a man who wanted to grab and was terrified of what the grabbing would mean.

I stroked him once. Slow. Root to tip. Felt him pulse in my palm—hot, heavy, alive. His precome was slick under my thumb as I traced the ridge of his head, and the sound he made—a bitten-off, chest-deep groan—went straight to my own cock, which was straining against my joggers with an urgency I was choosing to ignore because this moment was not about me.

This moment was about Ryan. About breaking him open. About showing him what his body already knew and his brain refused to accept.

I looked up at him and took him into my mouth.

The sound—

I will never forget that sound. A gutted, involuntary noise ripped from somewhere behind his sternum, like something had been cracked open that had been sealed shut for years. His hand stopped hovering and grabbed—fingers fisting in my hair, gripping to the edge of pain—and his hips surged forward before he caught himself and froze.

“Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

I pulled off just enough to speak, my lips brushing the head of his cock, tasting him on every word: “Don’t apologize. And don’t hold back.”

Then I swallowed him again. Deeper. Letting my throat relax, taking him until my lips met my fist, and the noise Ryan made—guttural, desperate, a sound that belonged in a bedroom and not a storage room—was the most erotic thing I’d ever heard.

I worked him with everything I had. Mouth and hand and the specific, practiced skill of a man who genuinely loved this act—the power of it, the intimacy, the way a man’s body couldn’t lie when your mouth was on his cock. I found the rhythm that made his thighs shake: a slow, wet glide with suction on the head, tongue pressing the frenulum, hand twisting at the base. His hips had started moving—small, helpless thrusts he was trying and failing to control—and his hand alternated between gripping my hair and loosening, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away.

I pulled off. Kept stroking. Looked up.

His face was a masterpiece. Dark flush, bitten lips, sweat at his temples. His eyes were wide open, locked on my face with the stunned intensity of a man watching a fantasy become real.

“You taste so fucking good,” I said, and my voice came out wrecked—lower and rougher than I’d intended. I stroked him slowly, savoring. “Since day one. Since you walked into my gym and looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive and then pretended you didn’t.”

“Luke—” His voice cracked on my name.

I licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip, and watched his whole body convulse. “All those days of you avoiding me. All that discipline. All that control. And you’re here now, shaking, with my mouth on you.”

I took him deep again and stopped teasing. Set a rhythm that was fast and wet and relentless, and Ryan’s hand settled on the back of my head—not pushing but holding. Cradling. His palm warm against my skull, fingers in my hair, like I was something precious.

That was the moment I knew I was fucked.

Not the blowjob. Not the cock in my mouth or the sounds he was making or the six-foot-three wall of muscle shaking apart above me. The hand. The gentleness in it. The reverence. Ryan Keller, the most controlled man in professional hockey, holding the back of my head like I was something he was afraid to break.

Caleb had never touched me like that. In four years. Not once.

“I’m close,” Ryan rasped. His hips were stuttering. “Luke, I’m—you need to—I’m going to—”

I didn’t pull off. I tightened my grip, hollowed my cheeks, and looked up.

“Say my name when you come,” I said, pulling back just long enough for the words to land. “Just once. That’s all I want.”

I wanted to hear it. Needed to. Not for the ego—though, fine, partially for the ego—but because Ryan Keller had spent four days pretending I didn’t exist, and I needed him to say my name while I made him come, and I needed him to know, in his body, in the place where his body couldn’t lie, that the pretending was over.

I swallowed him again, and Ryan broke.

“Luke—fuck—Luke—”

Broken and raw and gorgeous, echoing off the concrete walls, loud enough that if anyone had been in the tunnel they’d have heard it. His cock pulsed on my tongue, hot and bitter and salt, and I swallowed everything, working him through it, feeling every shudder travel through his body and into mine through the hand in my hair and the thighs trembling against my shoulders.

I pulled off carefully. Sat back on my heels. Wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

My own cock was aching—had been since the first kiss, straining and ignored—and every nerve in my body was screaming for friction, for release, for Ryan’s hand on me, his mouth, anything. But I didn’t touch myself. This moment was his. His reckoning. His cracked-open face and his shaking hands and the expression of a man who’d just had the walls blown off the structure he’d spent a decade building.

He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Undone. Destroyed. Real.

And then he pulled up his shorts and told me to forget it happened, and walked out.

I sat on the desk afterward and called Priya.

“How stupid?” she asked.

“Storage-room-blowjob-on-my-knees stupid.”

“The straight one.”

“The straight one.”

She sighed. “How was it?”

I closed my eyes. Behind my lids: Ryan’s face when he came. The cracked-open devastation. The hand on my skull. The way he’d said my name like it was being ripped out of him and he wanted it to hurt.

“Ruinous,” I said.

“Oh, honey.”

“Yeah.”

I hung up. Sat in the storage room with the taste of him in my mouth and the knowledge that every promise I’d made to myself—never again, not another closeted man, not another locked door—had just crumbled.

Because when Ryan Keller cupped the back of my head mid-blowjob with a hand that should have been demanding and was instead gentle, I’d felt something shift in my chest like tectonic plates. And I knew—with the certainty of a man who recognized his own pattern and was choosing to walk into it anyway—that I was going to fall for him. Hard. Completely. Against every rational instinct I had.

I was going to let a man who’d just told me to forget it happened become the most unforgettable person in my life.

And the worst part—the very worst part—was that I already had.

Want the full story? Coach’s Off-Limits Son is available now.

Never Miss a Release

Get new release alerts, exclusive bonus content, and reader-only giveaways.