Hockey Season Homewreckers book cover by Chase Power

🔥 Hat Trick 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Hockey Season Homewreckers by Chase Power

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus chapter takes place after the events of Hockey Season Homewreckers. It contains major spoilers and explicit sexual content (18+). Read the novel first for the full experience.

Set three months after the epilogue. Spring league. Theo’s POV. Explicit content — 18+.

Hat Trick

The hat trick happened in the third period of a Tuesday night spring league game that meant absolutely nothing.

Not in the standings — we were mid-table, playing for fun, the low-stakes beer-league hockey that existed solely because twelve men liked each other enough to keep showing up. Not in the record books — spring league stats weren’t tracked by anyone except Max, who maintained a spreadsheet with the obsessive precision of a man who believed his save percentage was a matter of historical record.

It meant nothing, and it meant everything, because the moment that third puck crossed the goal line I looked across the ice at Jasper and watched his composure dissolve into the real smile — the full one, the one I’d spent a season earning — and I knew exactly what was going to happen when we got home.

Hat trick rules. We’d defined them in his kitchen in September, standing three feet apart over scrambled eggs, when this thing between us was still new enough to have rules and casual enough to pretend they mattered. A hat trick meant anything goes. The scorer called every shot. Duration, position, all of it. Full creative control.

We’d never cashed it in. Through the fall championship, through the playoffs, through the winter break and the spring sign-up and three months of living together — the hat trick had remained hypothetical. A running joke. A promise filed away in the drawer of things we hadn’t needed because what we had was already better than anything a system could generate.

Tonight, I needed it. Not because the sex was lacking. Because the hat trick was the one thread from our beginning we’d never pulled, and claiming it now — inside a real relationship, a real life, a love we’d said out loud on championship ice — felt like completing a circuit.

Jasper drove us home. I sat in the passenger seat with my hand on his thigh, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans, and my head full of plans.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I’m strategizing.”

“For what?”

“Hat trick rules, Jazz. Anything goes. I call every shot.”

His jaw shifted. The thinking tell. “You’ve been waiting for this.”

“Since September.”

“You could have mentioned it at any point in the last seven months.”

“The hat trick finds you, Jazz. You don’t force a hat trick. The hockey gods decide.”

“The hockey gods put you on the ice against a team whose goalie was forty-seven and had a brace on his knee.”

“Don’t diminish my achievement.”

His hand left the steering wheel and landed on top of mine where it rested on his thigh. He pressed my fingers down, letting me feel the muscle underneath. “So what’s the plan?”

“The plan is you walk through that door and do what I tell you. For as long as I tell you.”

The car accelerated. Barely perceptible, but I felt it. Jasper’s composure was nuclear-grade, but his right foot had a tell.

Inside the apartment, I took charge.

“Bedroom. Clothes off. On the bed. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

Jasper raised an eyebrow. The composed, clinical one that said he was evaluating the instruction. I watched the calculation happen — the old Jasper, the one who controlled every encounter, weighing the request against his instincts.

He went to the bedroom. I heard the deliberate sounds of a man undressing.

I took the two minutes to wash my hands, drink a glass of water, and center myself. What I was about to do required focus. Not performance — I was done performing. Focus. The attention and care that Jasper had modeled for me, returned now with everything I’d learned over seven months of being taken apart and put back together by the most patient, devastating man alive.

He was on the bed. On his back. Naked. The lamp was on — I wanted to see him, and he knew it, and the fact that he’d turned it on without being asked told me he was already surrendering.

I stood at the foot of the bed and let myself look. Really look. Jasper Okafor — six-three, broad-shouldered, dark skin catching the lamplight like something painted. The topography of muscle I’d memorized with my hands and my mouth and never tired of studying. His chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. His cock half-hard already, thickening against his thigh. His eyes on me, steady and patient and trusting in a way that no one but me ever got to see.

“Hat trick rules,” I said. “I call every shot. You tell me if anything doesn’t work. Otherwise — you’re mine tonight.”

“I’m yours every night,” he said. Simply. Without performance.

That sentence alone nearly ended me. I undressed slowly. Let him watch. Making Jasper watch was its own category of power — the man who directed everything, lying on his back, reduced to looking.

“Three goals tonight,” I said, pulling my shirt over my head. “That means three things.”

“I thought hat trick meant anything goes.”

“Anything goes is too broad. I want specifics.” I dropped my jeans. His eyes tracked down my body and I watched them darken. “Thing one: I take my time. As long as I want. No rushing, no redirecting, no taking over. You lie there and feel it.”

“Agreed.”

“Thing two.” I knelt on the mattress. Crawled toward him. Stopped with my face above his chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. “I want you vocal. Not the measured, composed Jasper voice. The real sounds. The ones you hold back because you think control means silence. Tonight I want to hear everything.”

His chest expanded. “Agreed,” he said, quieter.

“Thing three.” I lowered my mouth to his sternum. Pressed my lips there. Felt his heartbeat stutter. “I want to hear you say my name. Not Jazz, not baby. Theo. Every time. So I know you’re here with me.”

“Theo.” Quiet. Testing it. Like the first note of a song he was about to sing.

“Just like that.”

I started at his feet. The inside of his ankle, where the bone was sharp under thin skin. His arch — he twitched, ticklish, and I filed it. The inside of his calf, the corded muscle that I ran my tongue along until he shifted on the mattress. His knee. The tender skin behind it that made his breath catch when I kissed it, open-mouthed, warm.

His thighs. God, his thighs. I spent a full minute on the inside of his left thigh alone — kissing, licking, biting softly enough to tease and hard enough to leave a faint mark. His quad tensed under my mouth. His hand came down to my hair and I caught his wrist.

“Not yet. Hands on the mattress.”

He let go. Put his hands flat on the sheets, fingers spread. The effort it cost him was visible — tendons standing in his forearms, the discipline of a man obeying an instruction that ran counter to every instinct he had. Jasper’s hands were instruments. Taking them out of play was taking away his primary language.

I bypassed his cock entirely. Kissed the crease of his hip. The plane of his stomach, where the muscle twitched under my lips. His navel. The ridges of his abs, each one a topographic line I traced with my tongue. I could feel his cock against my chest, hard and hot, straining upward, and I gave it nothing. Made him wait.

“Theo.” His voice was already different. Lower, rougher, stripped of the clinical precision he wore like a second skin.

“I hear you.”

I moved to his chest. Took my time with each pectoral — the broad, sculpted planes of muscle that I knew from months of sleeping against them. His nipples, which I’d discovered were devastatingly sensitive when approached with patience. I circled one with my tongue, slow, then closed my lips around it and sucked, and the sound he made — a low, broken groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest — was worth every second of restraint.

“Other one,” he breathed.

“I’m calling the shots, remember?” But I gave it to him anyway. Moved to the other side, used my teeth this time — a graze, then a bite, then my tongue soothing the sting — and his back arched off the mattress and his hands fisted in the sheets and the word that came out of his mouth was my name, fractured into syllables.

His neck. I spent minutes on his neck. The column of his throat, where his pulse hammered under my mouth. The tendon that ran from his jaw to his collarbone, which I traced with my tongue and then sucked, leaving a mark I’d see tomorrow and feel a proprietary satisfaction about. The hollow behind his ear, where my breath made him shiver.

“You’re killing me,” he said. Into the dark above his head. His voice was wrecked. Twenty minutes of sustained attention and the composure was in ruins. “Theo, please — I need —”

“What do you need?”

“Your mouth. Lower. Please.”

Jasper Okafor saying please twice in under a minute. I’d broken a record. I kissed down his body in a straight line — sternum, solar plexus, navel, the trail of hair below it — and when I reached his cock I stopped. Hovered. Let my breath wash over the head, warm and close, and watched it twitch.

“You can touch me now,” I said.

His hands were in my hair instantly. Not guiding — clinging. The desperate gratitude in the gesture cracked something open in my chest every single time.

I took him in my mouth. Slow. Inch by inch. Let him feel the heat and the wet and the pressure of my tongue against the underside as I sank down. He was thick and hard and leaking against my palate, and the taste of him — salt and musk and the specific flavor that was just Jasper — was something I’d become addicted to over seven months and had no intention of quitting.

He groaned. Full volume. The sound I’d asked for — no filter, no composure, just the raw noise of a man whose defenses had been systematically dismantled by his boyfriend’s mouth. I rewarded him for it. Took him deeper. Relaxed my throat and let him hit the back of it and swallowed around him, and his hips jerked off the mattress and his fingers tightened in my hair.

“Fuck — Theo — right there — don’t —”

I set a rhythm. Slow, deep strokes with my mouth, my hand wrapped around the base to cover what my lips couldn’t reach, my other hand flat on his hip to feel the muscle jump. I varied the pressure — tight suction on the upstroke, a loose, wet slide on the way down, my tongue working the ridge under the head on every pass. I hummed when he said my name. I held eye contact when his head lifted off the pillow to watch me.

The eye contact was the weapon. Jasper looking down at me with his cock in my mouth, my eyes on his, the intimacy of it so extreme that it bordered on confrontational. I held the gaze. Didn’t blink. Let him see exactly how much I wanted this — not as performance, not as obligation, as hunger. Pure, specific, devoted hunger for this man and this act and the privilege of being the one who took him apart.

I brought him to the edge. Felt it building — the tension in his thighs, the shortening of his breath, the way his hand in my hair went from holding to gripping. His abs clenched. His hips stuttered. He was close, so close, the precipice visible in every line of his body —

I pulled off.

The sound he made was devastating. Not a word — a noise, guttural and frustrated and so far from composed that the man who’d walked into the Forge in September with perfect posture and measured speech would not have recognized himself.

“Not yet,” I said. My voice was rough. My jaw ached. I didn’t care. “I’m not done with you.”

“Theo, I swear to —”

“Hat trick rules.” I kissed his hip. Ran my tongue along the crease where his thigh met his pelvis. “My rules, my pace, my night. And I say you don’t come until I’m inside you.”

His head dropped back against the pillow. His chest heaved. I could see his cock twitching against his stomach, slick and flushed, and the restraint it was taking him to not reach for himself was a visible, physical labor.

“Turn over,” I said.

He turned. Face down, arms folded under his head, the long line of his back exposed. The landscape of him from behind was its own religion — the width of his shoulders, the taper to his waist, the swell of his glutes, the powerful columns of his thighs. I ran both hands from his shoulders to his hips, pressing, feeling the muscle release under sustained pressure the way it did on my PT table when he worked on me. Except this wasn’t clinical. This was worship with biomechanical knowledge.

I kissed the back of his neck. The nape, where his hair was cropped short and the skin was warm and smelled like soap and sweat from the game. Down his spine, vertebra by vertebra, my mouth open, my tongue tracing the channel between the erector muscles. His back arched into the touch. His breathing was audible — heavy, rhythmic, the breathing of a man being taken to a place where his body led and his brain followed.

I reached the small of his back. Pressed my thumbs into the dimples above his glutes — the sacral dimples, which I knew from Jasper’s own anatomy lectures were attachment points for the posterior sacroiliac ligaments, and which I knew from experience were the spots that made him grind into the mattress when I pressed them. He ground into the mattress.

I kissed lower. The curve of his glute. His hips shifted, anticipating, and I could hear the sheets bunch under his fists.

I used my hands to spread him open. Pressed my mouth to the most intimate part of him, and the sound he made — a choked, startled gasp that dissolved into a moan so deep it vibrated through the mattress — was confirmation that the hat trick rules had been worth waiting seven months to claim.

I took my time. This was the one act where Jasper had no composure, no reserve tank, no clinical distance. My tongue worked him in slow, devastating circles. I alternated between pointed pressure and flat, broad strokes, reading his reactions the way he’d taught me to read bodies — the clench and release, the shift of hips, the escalating volume of sounds that were entirely, beautifully uncontrolled.

“Theo — oh god — Theo, that’s — don’t stop — please don’t —”

I didn’t stop. I slid one finger inside him while my mouth worked, and the dual sensation made his whole body seize. He was tight and hot and clenching around my finger, and when I crooked it forward and found the spot I knew better than my own name, his face turned sideways on the pillow and the look in his visible eye — glazed, desperate, undone — was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Two fingers. Slow, deliberate, the patient opening I’d learned from his own technique. His body knew mine now — the resistance was brief, the softening fast, trust made physical. I worked him with my fingers and my mouth simultaneously, and the sounds filling the room were symphonic. His voice breaking on my name. The wet obscenity of my tongue. The creak of the bed. The percussion of his fist hitting the mattress when the pleasure spiked.

Three fingers. He was pushing back against my hand now, beyond pride, beyond composure, the disciplined athlete and measured professional reduced to a man chasing sensation with his whole body.

“I need you,” he said. Voice cracked open. “Theo, I need you inside me. Now. Please. I can’t — I need —”

“Look at me,” I said.

He turned over. The effort of it was visible — his limbs shaking, his body flushed from chest to thighs, his cock swollen and dark and leaking steadily onto his stomach. He looked at me from the pillow with eyes that held nothing back. No fortress. No walls. Just Jasper, open and wanting and trusting me with the version of himself he’d spent thirty-one years protecting.

I rolled the condom on. Slicked myself. Positioned. His legs came up around my waist and his hands found my shoulders and the contact — his palms flat against my skin, hot and grounding — anchored us both.

I pushed inside him slowly. Felt him open around me, the tight heat parting for me with a trust that was physical and emotional simultaneously. His mouth fell open. His eyes stayed on mine. The stretch was visible in his face — pressure, then adjustment, then the moment it shifted to something else entirely.

“Move,” he said. “Theo. Move.”

I moved. Long, deep strokes that used my whole body, my hips rolling, my weight settling over him. Face to face. Foreheads close. The angle was the one I’d learned hit him deepest — slightly upward, steady pressure on the spot that made his eyes lose focus and his mouth form shapes that weren’t words.

I set the pace: slow. Agonizingly, deliberately slow. Each stroke a full withdrawal and a full return, the friction sustained and specific, every inch of me felt inside every inch of him. His hands moved from my shoulders to my back, nails dragging down my spine, and the sting of it made me hiss and drive deeper.

“Faster,” he said.

“Not yet.”

“Theo —”

“I said not yet.” I slowed further. Nearly stopped. Held myself deep inside him, not moving, just there — the fullness, the connection, the shared breathing. His legs tightened around my waist. His body clenched around me, trying to pull me deeper, and the sensation was staggering but I held still. Made him feel the waiting. Made him understand that this wasn’t about speed or performance or getting to the finish line. This was about being here. Together. Present in every second.

“I love you,” I said. Not a declaration. A fact stated while buried inside the man it was about. “I love you and I’m keeping you and this is what that feels like.”

His hand came to my face. Thumb on my cheekbone. The gesture that had started in a hotel room in Cortland and had become our signature — the touch that said I see you.

“I love you,” he said. His voice in ruins. “Now please — for the love of god — fuck me.”

I fucked him.

Not slow anymore. Hard, deep, the rhythm building from measured to relentless. The bed protested. The headboard found the wall. Jasper’s hand left my face and gripped the pillow above his head and the sounds he made were loud and constant and shameless — my name, profanity, fragments of sentences that collapsed under the weight of what his body was feeling.

I shifted his hips. Changed the angle. Found the spot that made him shout — actually shout, a sound I’d never heard from him at this volume — and I stayed there. Drove into it. Every thrust hitting the same devastating target while his body shook under mine and his hand found his own cock.

“Don’t touch yourself,” I said. Breathing hard. Sweat dripping from my forehead to his chest. “That’s mine tonight.”

He dropped his hand. Made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “You’re a goddamn sadist.”

“I’m thorough. You taught me that.”

I wrapped my hand around him. Stroked in time with my thrusts, the dual sensation — me inside him and around him simultaneously — producing a full-body response that I could feel in the way his muscles locked and his breathing fractured and his legs around my waist pulled me impossibly deeper.

“I’m close,” he gasped. “Theo — I’m —”

“Come for me.” I locked eyes with him. Tightened my grip. Drove deep. “Let me see you. Let me hear you. Say my name and let go.”

He came. The orgasm tore through him like a wave through a breakwater — violent, total, irresistible. His body clenched around me in rhythmic pulses that pulled the breath from my lungs. He was hot and wet between us and his face was the most honest thing I’d ever witnessed — mouth open, eyes struggling to stay on mine, my name pouring from him in a continuous broken stream.

“Theo — Theo — Theo —”

It pulled me over. The sound of my name in his mouth, the clench of his body, the sight of his face stripped of every defense — I buried myself deep and came with a force that wiped my vision white. My hand on his hip. My face against his neck. His heartbeat slamming under my ear. Both of us shaking. Both of us breathing like we’d just played triple overtime in the championship of our lives.

Silence. The ringing kind. The kind that follows something seismic.

I held myself above him on trembling arms. His hand found my face again. Thumb on my cheekbone, tracing the line of sweat.

“Hat trick,” I said. Voice destroyed.

He laughed. The real one. The full one. The laugh that changed his whole face and made the room feel like the safest place on earth. It dissolved into a groan when I pulled out — carefully, because I was always careful now, because caring for this man’s body was a privilege I would never treat as routine.

I dealt with the condom. Got a warm washcloth from the bathroom. Cleaned him up, which he protested weakly and accepted completely, and the contrast — the independence he performed versus the care he craved — was the most Jasper thing in the world.

Back in bed. His head on my chest. My arm around him. The lamp still on. Our breathing finding a shared rhythm.

“You know you only scored on a forty-seven-year-old goalie with a knee brace,” he said.

“A hat trick is a hat trick, Jazz. The hockey gods don’t grade on a curve.”

“The hockey gods have low standards.”

“The hockey gods gave me you. Their standards are impeccable.”

His fingers traced patterns on my chest. Slow, absent, the idle touch of a man who was completely at peace. “Same time next Tuesday?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“You’ll allow a hat trick?”

“I’ll allow you to try. The forty-seven-year-old goalie might not be available.”

I laughed into his hair. Pulled him closer. The lamp threw gold light across the ceiling and the apartment was quiet and the spring league schedule was on the fridge and our gear was tangled together in the hallway and the coffee maker was set for 5 AM because Jasper still woke at five even on nights when I kept him up past midnight.

The morning would come. The alarm would go off. I’d reach for him before I opened my eyes, and he’d be there, because he was always there, because staying was the thing we’d both learned to do and neither of us was going to stop.

But that was tomorrow. Tonight was the hat trick.

Tonight was ours.

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