🔥 Bonus Chapter: First Home Game
A scene TOO HOT for Retail · from Yes, Captain by Jace Wilder
⚠️ Reader Warning: This bonus chapter is set five months after the epilogue of Yes, Captain. If you haven’t finished the book, you’ll spoil yourself. If you have — welcome back. Heat level: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ (extra chili — more explicit than anything at retail). Praise kink, D/s dynamics, possessive sex against a door, full mutual praise in bed, morning-after domestic fluff. Enjoy.
Tyler
We won 4–1.
I had two primary assists and a shot on goal. Marc had a goal and an assist. Reese picked up the other helper on Marc’s tally off a faceoff play they’d been running in practice for six weeks. Bishop, in net, looked every bit the man who had, during the preceding summer, learned to shut out the noise — which was to say, he let in one goal on nineteen shots and got a little standing ovation when he came out of the tunnel after the handshake line.
The handshake line.
That’s the part I want to tell you about first.
Because in the handshake line, the third-to-last guy on the Wild — a thirty-three-year-old winger named Reilly who had, last spring, been quoted in an Athletic article being nonspecifically displeased with the idea of gay hockey — reached out for my hand. He took it. He squeezed. He said, gruff and quick, into my ear: “Congrats on the A, kid. Play hard. Have a good season.”
That was it.
No look. No pause. No weird moment. A handshake like any other handshake in a hundred handshake lines. I said, “Thanks, Reilly. You too.” He moved down the line. My line moved him down the line. The world did not end. The crowd did not boo. There was no scandal. There was just — a handshake.
I had been bracing for the handshake line for four months.
The handshake line was nothing.
I was going to cry about it in the truck later, if I’m being honest, but I didn’t know it yet, standing on that ice with the arena lights making every sweat-slick face look extraterrestrial, and Reese’s hand on the back of my neck, and Marc three skaters ahead of me shaking the Wild’s captain’s hand, and my first regular-season home game as the officially-named alternate captain of this franchise ninety seconds from being over.
I will remember that handshake for as long as I live.
I will also remember what came after it, which is the part I was actually going to tell you about.
It was a Saturday.
Opening night had been Thursday — we’d lost that one, in Philly, in a shootout, which had set the bar for the home opener a little higher than ideal — and this was the home opener, which was, per the franchise’s PR plan and Sloane’s quiet nine-month build, the game. There had been a video montage before puck drop. There had been a ceremonial first puck drop with a cancer survivor who had been at every home opener for fourteen years. There had been a moment, as Marc skated out of the tunnel ahead of me with the C on his chest and I skated out behind him with the A on mine, where the crowd had made a sound I had not known they had in them for a regular-season game in October. It had been loud. It had been specific. It had been, in a way I had felt in the back of my throat, ours.
I had not looked at Marc during that moment.
I had not needed to.
I had come through the tunnel ten feet behind him, the way I had come through every tunnel ten feet behind him since camp had started, and I had felt the specific heat of being watched by a building of eighteen thousand people who had, in the preceding summer, spent a lot of money on my jersey and on his, and who had now come to see how we were going to look under stadium lights as a thing they had read about all summer and had decided they were going to witness, in person, in October.
We had looked like hockey players.
We had won 4–1.
And now we were driving home.
Marc was at the wheel.
He was in his suit. He was in the suit. I was in the suit next to him. Traffic on the exit ramp was moving the way traffic moves at ten forty-seven p.m. after a weekend home win — slow, honking, happy — and Marc had his left hand on the wheel and his right hand on my thigh.
He had not moved his right hand since the parking lot.
He had put it there before he’d put the truck in drive, with a kind of deliberate, silent ownership that was, if you knew him — and I did — the equivalent of a less-controlled man vaulting the center console.
He had not spoken much.
He had spoken approximately six words in the truck so far: you hungry? at the first red light (no), and cold? at the second (also no), and Chen — on the on-ramp, which he had not finished, because whatever he was going to say had been abandoned in favor of tightening his hand three degrees on my thigh.
I let him not finish it.
I put my hand on top of his.
He glanced at me. Just a flick of the eyes. Headlights going past his jaw. Silver at his temple catching the dash light.
I said, “You okay.”
He said, “Chen.”
I said, “What, baby.”
He said, quiet, without taking his eyes off the road: “I’m going to wreck you when we get home.”
I looked out the windshield.
I took a breath.
I said, calm, to the windshield, like a person who had not just been told a thing that had rearranged the specific geometry of his own insides: “Okay, Captain.”
His hand tightened on my thigh.
He said, very low: “Good boy.”
I did not make a sound for the rest of the drive.
He got us home in fourteen minutes.
He did the thing where he drove exactly three miles over the speed limit in every zone — his specific driving signature, unchanged in the year I had known him, patient in all weather, Marc Donovan would not get a ticket if his life depended on it — and he pulled into the garage, and he put the truck in park, and he did not get out.
He turned his head.
He looked at me.
I said, “Marc.”
He said: “Get out of the truck, Chen.”
I got out of the truck.
He got out of the truck.
We walked, together, not touching — because there were still cameras somewhere on this planet, and because Marc Donovan, even five months into being the first publicly out active captain in NHL history, still had a specific muscle memory in every parking garage that he was not going to retire in my lifetime — to the elevator. We rode up. We walked down the hall. He unlocked our apartment door. He let me in first, the way he always did. He closed it behind us.
He turned the lock.
He did not turn on the lights.
The entryway was lit only by the city glow through the living room window and the faint green of the oven clock down the hall, and Marc Donovan — Captain Marc Donovan, in a charcoal suit, with silver in his hair and snow on his shoulders from the flurry that had started somewhere between the fourteenth and fifteenth minutes of the second period tonight — turned, and he looked at me, and he walked two steps forward and he put both hands on the lapels of my suit jacket and he backed me up against the closed door.
He was not gentle about it.
He was not rough about it, either.
He was deliberate about it. Like he had been planning, since the moment the final horn had gone in our building ninety minutes ago, exactly how many inches he wanted my back against the door, and exactly how much of his weight he wanted against my chest, and exactly where his mouth was going to land, and exactly how long he was going to wait before letting me say anything at all.
He did not kiss me.
He held my lapels.
He leaned in, his forehead against mine, and he breathed for a long count of what was probably five seconds but what felt, in the specific heat of his body and the specific quality of his aftershave — my cologne, he had started wearing my cologne in August, and I had not commented on it because the one time I had commented on a cologne he had worn it had disappeared out of our bathroom the next day — like a very long time.
Then he said, against my mouth, quiet and clean and with the specific control that had gotten him to eighteen seasons in this league:
“You were so good tonight.”
I closed my eyes.
He said, “Look at me, Chen.”
I looked.
He said: “I said you were good tonight.”
I said, small, into the half-inch of air between our mouths: “I heard you, Captain.”
He said, “Say thank you.”
I said — because there was nothing else I was going to say, because there had been nothing else I had been going to say for thirteen months now, because this was the specific piece of theater that had become our private grammar and which was, as Marc Donovan worked his thumb along my jaw in the dark of our entryway with his body pinning mine to the door, shaping this moment entirely:
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Good boy.”
He kissed me.
He kissed me hard.
He kissed me with his body full against mine, with his hand moving up from my lapel to the side of my face, with his other hand coming up to fist in the hair at the base of my skull. He kissed me the way a man kisses you when the kiss is the first move of a negotiation he has, in his head, already won. He kissed me until my mouth was open against his and my hands were on the buttons of his shirt — because my own jacket was still on, and he had not taken it off me, and I understood, with a small clean jolt of recognition, that he was not going to take my jacket off me tonight until he decided.
I got his shirt open.
He did not stop kissing me to let me.
I got my hand inside his shirt, flat on his sternum, and I could feel his pulse through his skin, and I could feel the goose-bumps rise along his ribs from the cool of my hand against the heat of his body, and he said — against my mouth, against the side of my jaw, into my ear, in the voice he used to put me on my knees —
“I want you out of this jacket, baby.”
I said, “Yes, Captain.”
He took my jacket off me.
He took my jacket off me slowly, sliding it down my arms with the same specific care with which he did anything he cared about, and then he was working on the knot of my tie, and I was breathing in a way that was not quite breathing, and he got the tie off and he dropped it on the floor — on the floor, Marc Donovan who folded his own tie every night and put it on the dresser had just dropped a Brioni silk tie on the tile of our entryway without looking at where it landed — and he put his mouth on the side of my throat, and he said into my skin:
“Do you know what you looked like tonight, Chen.”
I said, breath gone, “Marc — “
He said: “With that letter on your chest.”
I closed my eyes.
He said, mouth still on my throat, teeth just grazing: “You looked perfect.“
I said, “Captain — “
He said, “Letter like yours. Playing like you played. Setting me up in the third. Not even looking to see if I was where you needed me. You knew I was where you needed me.”
He bit, gently, at the spot under my jaw.
He said: “You were so fucking good, baby.”
I said, broken, into the ceiling: “Marc.“
He pulled back.
He looked at me — flat against our entryway door in a half-open dress shirt with my tie on the floor and my jacket in his hand and my mouth wet and my eyes wet and my hands shaking where I had them on the waistband of his pants — and he said, low and wrecked:
“I need to be inside you, Tyler.”
I said, “Yes.“
He said, “Here or the bed.”
I said, “Here.“
He said, “Okay.”
He kissed me again.
He did not take me to the bed.
He kept me against the door. He stripped me where I stood — belt, pants, shorts, all of it, down around my ankles, still in my half-open dress shirt, still in one sock that had, at some point in the undressing, become a comic casualty neither of us was going to stop to fix — and he dropped to one knee in front of me in our dark entryway, and he took me into his mouth.
Marc Donovan, in a four-thousand-dollar charcoal suit, on the tile of our apartment entryway, on his knees, in the dark.
My back hit the door.
I made a sound that was not a word.
He did not rush.
He did not rush any of it. He took me in with the specific unhurried attention of a man who had, in the preceding thirteen months, learned every specific response my body made to every specific thing he did, and who had also learned — in the preceding five months, since I had first said I love you to him in an equipment room in March — that I would give him whatever he asked me for, in any room, at any time, and that he did not have to hurry to get it. He had me against the door of our apartment and he had forever and he was going to take his time.
He took his time.
He took his time until my hand was in his hair and I was shaking and I was saying his name in every possible permutation my mouth could make of it — Marc, Marc, Captain, Marc, baby, Marc, please — and he pulled off me, and he looked up at me, and he said, low:
“Not yet, Chen.”
I said, wrecked: “Marc.“
He said, “I want you coming on my cock, baby. Not my mouth. Not tonight.”
I made another sound that was not a word.
He stood.
He kissed me.
He tasted like me, and he tasted like the evening, and he tasted like the specific reverent smoke of everything he had just said to me at the base of this door, and I kissed him back with a mouth that was still working out how to form vowels.
He said, into my mouth: “Turn around.”
I turned around.
He pressed me forward with his hand flat between my shoulder blades — not hard, not rough, just placed, the way he placed everything — until my forearms were flat against the door and my face was near the wood and my back was curved slightly at the specific angle he liked, which was an angle he had taught me in increments over a year, and which I did now automatically, and which he noticed, and which he rewarded, in the voice he used to reward me:
“There you go, baby.”
I said, against the door, “Marc.”
He said: “You remember what I said to you in the truck.”
I said, “Yes, Captain.”
He said: “Say it.”
I said, “You said you were going to wreck me.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“When we got home.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You said it in — in the voice.”
“What voice, Chen?”
“The — Captain voice.”
He laughed, quiet, behind me.
He said, mouth against the back of my neck: “Good boy.”
He had lube on him.
He had lube on him because in August — three weeks after we’d come back from the coming-out honeymoon we had not called a honeymoon, a trip to a lake cabin in Vermont where I had learned for the first time what Marc Donovan looked like fully unwound for seven days in a row — I had come home to find, in the top drawer of the entryway sideboard, a small unopened bottle of lube, and a box of condoms, and a folded note in Marc’s handwriting that read for emergencies — M, which I had laughed at for about six minutes before I had understood that he was not joking.
He was not joking.
He was a thirty-seven-year-old man who had, at some point over the summer, decided that he was going to keep supplies in every high-traffic room of this apartment so that if he ever decided he wanted me in that specific room he did not have to make either of us wait the eighteen seconds it would take to go retrieve them.
The entryway sideboard had, since August, contained emergency supplies.
He used them.
He opened me slow.
He opened me slow against the door of our apartment at eleven oh-eight p.m. on a Saturday night with my cheek against the painted wood and my hips pressed back into his hand and my dress shirt still half-on and hanging off one shoulder and my mouth open and my eyes closed, and he said, into my ear, in the specific voice that he had been using, for nine months now, when he wanted to hear me make a particular kind of sound:
“Look at you, baby.”
I made the sound.
He said, “So good for me.”
I made the sound again.
He said, “I have you.”
“Captain — “
“I know, baby.”
“I — “
“I know.”
“I need — “
“I know. Just a second. You’re okay. You’re doing so good. Just a second, Chen. I’ve got you.”
When he finally pushed into me — slow, with his forehead against the back of my neck, with his free hand flat on my sternum under the dress shirt, with the other hand braced against the door above my head — I made a sound that was a thing I had only ever made for him, and that he had told me, on a summer night on a dock in Vermont with stars above us, was a sound he had decided he was going to spend the rest of his life earning.
He stilled.
He breathed.
He said, into my ear, quiet and low and with his whole voice inside it:
“I love you, Chen.”
I said, against the door: “I love you, Captain.”
He moved.
He fucked me slow against the door.
He fucked me slow against the door for a long time.
He did not rush any of it. He had said he was going to wreck me. He was. The wrecking was slow. The wrecking was a specific unhurried grinding roll of his hips into mine that took apart every single piece of restraint I had been carrying around with me for four hours of professional hockey under stadium lights. He had a hand on my sternum, flat, weight carried, and he had his other hand over mine where I had it braced against the door, and he said into the back of my neck, in between specific careful thrusts:
“You’re so good.”
“You’re so good for me, baby.”
“Look what you do to me.”
“I thought about this the whole third period.”
“I thought about this on the bus.”
“I thought about this in the shower.”
“I’ve been thinking about this since you put that letter on.”
“Since they called your name in the video.”
“Baby.”
“Baby.”
“Tyler.“
I came with my forehead against the door and his hand on my chest and my own hand fisted against the wood above my head, and I came saying his name in a register I did not fully recognize my own voice in, and he came inside me a minute later with his mouth open against the back of my neck and his teeth just touching my skin and his whole body shaking with the effort of not being loud — because our building had thin walls, and because Kit was downstairs, and because even Marc Donovan, with all of his carefully cultivated cool, could not keep his voice steady when he was coming inside me saying I love you.
He said it anyway.
He said it again, after.
He said it into my hair while we were still pressed against the door and he was still inside me and we were both breathing like we had run up the stairs:
“I love you, Chen.”
I said, against the door: “I love you, Marc.”
He held me there.
Eventually, we moved.
He took me to the bed.
He did it the way he did things when he was being careful — carrying most of my weight, because my legs were gone, because I was a half-conscious thing still wearing one sock — and he set me down on his side of the bed, because that was the side that was closer to the door, and he stripped me the rest of the way, and he stripped himself, and he got a washcloth warm in the sink and he cleaned me up with it, and he put the washcloth in the hamper, and he came back to bed, and he pulled me against his chest.
I was half-asleep.
I was all the way asleep in about forty seconds.
I woke up at three a.m. with his hand on the small of my back and his breath against my hair, and I lay there for a long moment listening to him breathe — steady, unhurried, the sleep of a man who had let go of a thing that had been lodged in his chest since the first time he had been photographed with his hand where it was now.
I turned my head.
I looked at him.
The faint city light caught the side of his face. Dark lashes on a cheekbone. The specific line of his jaw I had memorized the first day I had met him. The faint silver at his temple, which was more silver this month than it had been last month, and which would be more silver next month than it was tonight, and which I was going to watch turn entirely silver over years.
I was going to be here for all of it.
I put my mouth, very soft, against the skin of his shoulder.
I said, into his shoulder, at three a.m., while he slept:
“I love you.”
He said, in his sleep, without opening his eyes, the way he had been doing in his sleep since August: “I love you, baby.”
I closed my eyes.
I slept.
In the morning, there was coffee.
There was always coffee.
Marc was in the kitchen in the same sweats he had taken me to bed in, which was to say, no sweats at all — he had put on a pair of my sleep shorts, which I had noticed three months ago he had started doing, and which I had not commented on, and which he had not commented on either — and he was making the coffee, and the radio was on low, and the morning light was doing the thing it did through our kitchen window on a Sunday morning in October.
I came down the stairs in one of his sweatshirts.
It was too big on me.
It had always been too big on me.
He looked up when I came in.
He smiled.
He said, “Morning, baby.”
I said, “Morning, Captain.”
He poured me a cup. He set it on the island. He pointed at it with two fingers. I sat. He came over. He stood between my knees at the counter stool. He kissed me — slow, soft, on the mouth — and he leaned his forehead against mine, and he said, quiet:
“You sore.”
I said, “I’m fine.”
“Chen.“
“I’m fine, Marc.”
“Baby.”
“I’m fine.“
“I’ll draw you a bath.”
I laughed.
He did not laugh.
He was already pouring his own coffee with one hand and texting Kit with the other to borrow her muscle-soak bath salts, which Kit kept in her closet for her arthritis and which she had, over the course of the summer, given us access to as if we were her actual grandchildren, which we had, over the course of the summer, stopped fighting her on.
Kit texted back within thirty seconds.
Kit’s text said, verbatim — because I saw it over his shoulder — “Of course, dear. For both of you? Is Marc’s back going again?”
Marc typed, without looking at me: “For Tyler.”
Kit sent a single laughing emoji.
Then she sent: “Good for you boys. Bring the jar back.”
I put my face in my hands.
Marc kissed the top of my head.
He said, “Drink your coffee, Chen.”
I drank my coffee.
He went down the hall to get Kit’s bath salts.
And the morning of my first regular-season home win as the alternate captain of this franchise, in the kitchen we had, at some point in the preceding summer, stopped pretending wasn’t ours — I sat on the counter stool in Marc Donovan’s old college sweatshirt and I drank a cup of coffee that Marc Donovan had poured me, and I thought about the handshake in the line, and the letter on my chest, and the hand on the small of my back under a streetlight in the rain seven months ago that had started all of this being public — and I did not need anything else in the world.
Marc came back with a jar of muscle-soak and a face that was trying very hard not to smile.
“Upstairs, baby.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Good boy.”
I followed him up.
Thanks for reading. If you loved this bonus, leaving a review at your favorite retailer or on Goodreads helps an indie author more than you’d think.
— Jace
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