Hat Trick & Hickeys — Bonus Chapter
The Pregame
by Chase Power
⚠️ This bonus chapter contains explicit sexual content intended for readers 18+. Set between Chapters 18 and 19 of Hat Trick & Hickeys — spoilers ahead.
The night before the biggest game of my career, Jonah Park was sitting on my couch with his tablet and a stylus, wearing my T-shirt and nothing else, reviewing defensive zone coverage patterns with an intensity that should not have been arousing and was devastatingly, catastrophically arousing.
The T-shirt was mine—a faded Chicago Blaze practice tee three sizes too large on him, the hem hitting his mid-thigh, the collar slipping off one shoulder to expose the collarbone I’d memorized with my mouth over three months of systematic study. He’d commandeered it from my closet without asking, which was a behavioral pattern I had stopped pretending to mind approximately seven seconds after the first time it happened. Every time he wore my clothes, something primitive and possessive in my chest hummed like a generator, and I’d stopped being embarrassed about the humming.
His glasses were on. His legs were folded beneath him, bare from mid-thigh to ankle, the lean muscle of his calves visible in the lamplight. The tablet screen cast blue light across his face, illuminating the focused furrow between his brows and the way his lips moved slightly when he was reading data—a habit he was unaware of and I was obsessed with. He’d been at it for four hours.
“Their penalty kill in elimination games drops by eleven percent compared to regular season,” he said, swiping to a new chart. “The weak-side forward overcommits in the final five minutes of the third period. If the game is close—and the model says there’s a sixty-eight percent chance it will be—the lane from the left circle will open for approximately one point four seconds. That’s your window.”
I took the tablet out of his hands.
“You’ve been doing analysis for four hours. It’s eleven o’clock the night before game seven and you’re sitting on my couch in my shirt with no underwear talking about weak-side forwards, and I need you to understand that I have been thinking about exactly one thing for the past ninety minutes and it has nothing to do with penalty kills.”
“The existing plan is data-driven and—”
“The new plan involves you, in my shirt, in my bed, making sounds that have nothing to do with defensive zone coverage.”
His eyes darkened. “That’s not a plan. That’s a suggestion lacking specificity.”
“You want specificity?”
“I always want specificity.”
I leaned in. Put my mouth against his ear. And I told him—in explicit, graphic, anatomically specific detail—exactly what I intended to do to him. I told him how I was going to take off his glasses and put my mouth on every inch of skin the shirt had been covering. I told him how I was going to take his cock in my mouth and suck him until he was begging. Until the man who controlled everything was so far past control that the only word left in his vocabulary was my name.
His breathing had changed by the second sentence. By the time I finished, his eyes were closed and his lips were parted and the pulse in his throat was hammering at a frequency his resting heart rate had never authorized.
“That’s very specific.”
“I learned from the best.”
I reached up and took off his glasses. Slowly. The same gesture, the same language we’d been speaking since a café in February. I folded them carefully and set them on the coffee table. His eyes, without the frames, were dark and dilated and fixed on me with an intensity that made my blood feel carbonated.
I pulled him into my lap. He came willingly—knees bracketing my hips, the T-shirt riding up his thighs, his weight settling against me. I slid my hands under the shirt. His skin was warm and smooth and I ran my palms up his sides, feeling the muscles tighten under my touch.
I pulled the shirt over his head. He was naked. Entirely, immediately naked in the lamplight on my lap, and the sight of him—the collarbone, the flat stomach, the cock already thickening against my abdomen—hit me like a physical force.
His mouth traced the tattoos. Kissing the Greek text at my collarbone, he murmured the translation against my skin: “‘I am made of everything I have survived.’” He followed each line of ink with his tongue, teeth grazing the skin underneath, and the precision of it was so distinctly Jonah that I groaned and my hips rolled upward against his bare ass and he gasped.
I carried him to the bedroom and laid him on the bed. He looked up at me—bare, flushed, his cock hard against his stomach—and I kissed down his body. His throat. His chest—I closed my mouth around one nipple and his back arched and his hand came to my hair. Teeth, just enough. His breath caught. His hips bucked upward, the hard length of his cock pressing against my stomach, smearing precome across my skin.
I followed the trail of dark hair below his navel with my tongue, tasting salt and warmth and the particular scent of his skin that I could identify in a blind test. His hips lifted toward my mouth, seeking, and I pressed them down with both hands and held them there.
I wrapped my hand around his cock. He jerked in my grip—a full-body spasm. He was hard, fully hard, the shaft thick and hot against my palm, the head flushed dark and wet. I stroked once, slow, root to tip, my thumb pressing the underside vein, and the sound he made was guttural and half-choked.
I took him into my mouth.
His entire body went rigid. His hand fisted in my hair. And the sound—a shattered “oh fuck” that broke across both syllables—reverberated through the room and through every nerve I owned.
I took him deep. Relaxed my throat, hollowed my cheeks, swallowed around him. I set the rhythm—slow, thorough, my tongue working the underside on every upstroke, suction increasing on the downstroke, a technique I’d refined over three months of dedicated practice on this specific man and this specific cock.
I brought him to the edge. Felt it in the tightening of his thighs, the shortening of his breath, the way his hand went from gripping to pulling. His cock pulsed against my tongue. He was right there—
I pulled off.
The sound he made was devastation compressed into a single syllable. His hips chased my mouth, and I held him down and his face—flushed, pupils blown, mouth open—was the most beautiful evidence of controlled ruin I had ever produced.
“Tell me the opening faceoff alignment.”
He stared at me. His cock was wet with my spit, twitching against his stomach.
“You—are you—”
“The game plan, Jonah. You spent four hours on it. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
“I will kill you.”
“After you tell me the faceoff alignment.”
“Chen on the left wing,” he gasped. “Dvorak right. Nate at center. Their center cheats on the draw and Nate exploits that on—on sixty-one percent of—fuck, Leo, please—”
I licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock. Root to tip. He broke mid-sentence.
I took him back in my mouth. Deep, fast, no preamble, and the contrast with the denial was so acute that his entire body spasmed and he cried out loud enough that the neighbors would have opinions.
I brought him to the edge again. Built the pressure with dedicated suction, my hand working the base, my tongue doing the thing on the underside of the head that reliably produced incoherence. His breathing went jagged, his muscles went taut—
I stopped. Pulled off. Pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the tip.
“Goalie tendency. Glove side. Third period.”
“I am going to murder you with data.”
I wrapped my hand around him and stroked. Once. Slow. Tight. He convulsed.
“Cheats high.” His voice was destroyed. His eyes were wet. “Blocker is open. Wrister from the left circle. Half a second window. Release point fifteen degrees below optimal creates the glove-side vacuum—Leo, I swear to God—”
I took him in my mouth for the third time. This time I didn’t stop.
I gave him everything—depth, speed, suction. My throat relaxing around him as I took him deeper than I’d managed before, swallowing around the head in rhythmic pulses.
“Good,” I said, pulling back just long enough for the word. Against his cock. “You’re so good, Jonah. You’re brilliant and you’re mine and you’re going to come in my mouth right now.”
The praise broke him. His body went rigid. His cock swelled against my tongue and he came. Hard. Long. Pulsing in my mouth in rhythmic contractions that I swallowed around, taking everything, while his body arched and his voice cracked open on my name spoken like a prayer and a profanity and a declaration.
He pulled me up. Kissed me. Tasted himself on my tongue and kissed me harder.
“Your turn. On your back. Now.”
I rolled over. He rose above me—compact, flushed, his hair destroyed. The size difference inverted, the way it always was when Jonah took control.
He kissed down my body with analytical precision. He mapped me in quadrants—chest, ribs, stomach. He spent a full minute on the groove above my hip, sucking a mark into the skin that would sit exactly where my jersey pad pressed during games, a bruise that would pulse with every stride.
He pulled my sweats down. Freed me. And then he studied me—his face inches from my cock, his eyes moving over the length of it with the focused attention he brought to a new dataset. I could feel his breath on my skin, each exhale a small gust of heat.
“I’m establishing a baseline,” he said.
“I am begging you to stop establishing a baseline and put your mouth on me.”
He wrapped his hand around the base. His thumb found the frenulum and pressed, and my entire body jolted.
“Data point one,” he murmured, and took me into his mouth.
Jonah gave head the way he did everything: with methodical, focused, relentless intensity. He cataloged my reactions in real time—when I groaned, he repeated the motion; when my hips lifted, he adjusted his angle. He was running a live optimization algorithm on my pleasure, and the efficiency was annihilating.
He took me deep—deeper than I expected, his throat relaxing around me, and the sensation of being enveloped completely made me see stars. He pulled back to the tip. Circled his tongue. Looked up at me, and the eye contact—his dark eyes fixed on my face while his lips were wrapped around the head of my cock—short-circuited my brain.
His hand cupped my balls, fingers pressing behind them into the perineum with a pressure that sent a shockwave up my spine.
He pulled off just long enough to say: “You’re going to be extraordinary tomorrow. Come for me, Leo.”
I came. The orgasm was seismic—a deep, full-body event, my cock pulsing in his mouth, his throat swallowing around me, his hand milking the base until I was gasping and shaking and saying his name in a voice too raw and too honest to be the voice of a man who had spent his life performing.
We lay on my bed. Tangled, sticky, breathing. His head on my chest, his hand over my heart.
“You quizzed me on the game plan during a blowjob.”
“Multitasking.”
“You edged me twice and used the denial as incentive for tactical recall.”
“Positive reinforcement is the most effective learning methodology. The literature is clear.”
“The literature did not anticipate this application.”
“The literature lacks imagination.”
I laughed. Into his hair, the laugh of a man who is so in love that the laughter and the love are the same sound.
“I know the plan,” I said. “The goalie cheats glove side. Blocker is open. Wrister from the left circle. Half a second.”
“You’re going to be extraordinary tomorrow,” he said. Not a prediction. A statement of data-driven certainty from the only person whose certainty I trusted.
“My body knows that the smartest man in professional hockey is lying on my chest and he quizzed me on zone entries while I was inside his mouth and he is the most extraordinary thing in my life.”
His hand pressed harder against my heart. His eyes closed. We fell asleep tangled together. The night before the biggest game of my career, and I slept like a man who had nothing to prove and everything to protect.
Tomorrow, the ice. The game. The lane from the left circle. The half-second window. Tonight, this. His heartbeat against mine. The constant that didn’t change. Worth every risk.