Chapter 81 81: Submerged Realities
The mist on the lake was beginning to lift, burned away by a sun that felt far too bright for the secrets they were carrying. Marcus, ever the visionary, paced the dock like a man possessed, his eyes darting from the water to the two athletes sitting on the edge.
"The dock is too static," Marcus barked, gesturing toward the shallow, rocky bank near the reeds. "I want a 'Rebirth' shot. The two captains, emerging from the water, shoulders squared, jerseys soaked. I want the fabric clinging to you. I want to see the muscle, the struggle, the grit."
Saint felt a cold spike of panic. Under the heavy, dry-wick fabric of the Westbridge jersey, Baby's wrists were a map of their night. The moment that fabric got wet, it would turn translucent, hugging every curve and revealing every shadow on the skin beneath.
"Marcus, the water is freezing," Saint interjected, his voice the smooth, reasonable tone of the Perfect Captain. "We have a game in forty-eight hours. If one of us catches a cold—"
"You're athletes, not porcelain dolls, Kross!" Marcus snapped. "Into the water. Now."
Baby stood up first, his expression a mask of "Golden Boy" defiance. He didn't look at Saint, but as he stepped past, his fingers brushed against Saint's thigh—a quick, grounding touch. "Let's just get it over with, Kross. Unless you're afraid of a little chill?"
Saint scoffed, an act to cover his anxiety, "Of course not." He replied tightly, standing.
They waded in. The water was biting, a sharp, crystalline cold that made their breath hitch. As the water rose to their waists, the white and blue jerseys began to darken, the fabric heavy and sodden.
"Stop there!" Marcus shouted from the shore. "Now, turn. Walk toward me. Together. Kross, put your arm around his neck—like you're dragging him home after a brawl."
Saint reached out, his arm heavy with wet fabric, and hooked it around Baby's neck. As he pulled him close, he saw it. The wet sleeve of Baby's white jersey had turned sheer, and the angry red ring of the handcuffs on his right wrist was visible through the fabric like a brand.
Saint's heart hammered. He shifted his grip, sliding his hand down to catch Baby's wrist, his own large hand acting as a shield, covering the mark entirely. To the camera, it looked like a supportive, firm grip. To Baby, it was a silent rescue.
"Beautiful! The tension is incredible!" Marcus yelled, the shutter firing like a machine gun. "Baby, look at him! Give me that 'I-hate-that-I-need-you' look!"
Baby tilted his head back, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He looked at Saint, and for a moment, the cold of the lake disappeared. The "Rebirth" wasn't for the cameras; it was the raw, terrifying reality of two men who were finally drowning in each other.
"Glorious!" Marcus shouted, smiling into his camera as he checked his shots. "Thirty minutes! Resetting for the forest shots!" He announced.
"Take a break, Captains," Marcus gave them a thumbs up and led his team away to quickly organise for the next shot.
The moment they were cleared, Saint didn't head for the warming tents. He gripped Baby's elbow and steered him toward the weathered cedar boathouse at the far end of the property. They slipped inside, the air smelling of old wood, motor oil, and lake water.
The door clicked shut, plunging them into a dim, dusty twilight.
"Saint—" Baby started, his teeth beginning to chatter from the cold.
Saint didn't let him finish. He shoved Baby against a stack of life vests, his hands fumbling with the wet, heavy hem of Baby's jersey. He pulled the sodden fabric up, his eyes immediately finding the red marks on Baby's wrists. In the dim light, they looked even more deliberate, a stark reminder of the "God" who had surrendered only hours before.
"He saw them," Saint rasped, his voice thick with a mix of adrenaline and possessive heat. "The camera caught it before I could cover you."
"He saw 'intensity,' Saint," Baby countered, his voice shaking. He reached up, his cold, wet hands framing Saint's face. "He saw exactly what he wanted to see. Stop being the Captain for a second and just... look at me."
The "Intensity" Marcus had been chasing on the dock exploded. Saint crashed his lips against Baby's, the kiss tasting of lake water and desperation. It was a hurried, frantic collision, their wet jerseys a cold barrier between their skin that they both tried to crush.
Saint's hands moved to Baby's waist, his fingers digging into the damp skin above the waistband of his pants. "I can't do this," Saint groaned against Baby's mouth. "I can't stand there and pretend you're just a teammate when I still have the taste of you on my tongue."
Baby pulled back just enough to look into Saint's grey eyes, his own blue gaze fierce and unwavering. "You have to. Because if we break now, they win. The Danvers win. The Kross legacy wins."
He leaned back in, his voice a low, seductive whisper. "But right now? In the dark? You don't have to be perfect. Just be mine."
He dragged Saint's hand down to the heavy, wet weight in his pants. The contrast of the freezing lake water and the sudden, spiking heat between them was overwhelming. They were shivering, their lungs burning.
"Baby... here? What if –"
"They won't, baby," Baby whispered, pressing himself against Saint, "They're too busy editing and prepping for more picture..." He hooked his arm around Saint's neck, brushing his lips against Saint's jawline.
"Give me a quickie, Captain," Baby murmured, his hand cupping Saint's undeniable evidence.
Saint's control snapped like thin ice.
He spun Baby around in one rough motion, pressing his chest to Baby's back and pinning him against the rough cedar wall of the boathouse. The stack of life vests cushioned Baby's front just enough to keep the wood from biting too hard into his skin.
"Hands on the wall," Saint growled low against the shell of Baby's ear. "Now."
Baby obeyed instantly, palms slapping flat against the weathered planks, wrists still raw and angry-looking even in the dim light filtering through cracked slats. Saint didn't waste time admiring the marks this round—he needed to claim, to cover, to remind.
He yanked Baby's soaked shorts down just far enough to bare his ass, the wet fabric catching on thick thighs before bunching at his knees. No underwear—Baby never bothered with them during shoots like this. Saint's breath punched out of him at the sight: pale skin goosebumped from cold, the faint pink imprint of last night's plug still visible, the tail long gone but the memory branded into both of them.
Saint shoved his own shorts down just enough to free his cock—already painfully hard, leaking steadily from the adrenaline and the memory of Baby's mouth under the sheets hours earlier. He spat into his palm once, twice, slicking himself fast and messy.
"Gonna be quick," Saint rasped, lining up. "Gonna be deep. You good?"
Baby arched back, pushing his ass against the blunt head. "Fuck yes. Do it."
Saint thrust in on one hard stroke.
Baby's head dropped forward, a choked moan swallowed by his own bitten lip. The stretch burned—cold skin meeting hot friction—but the lake had already loosened him, left him sensitive and greedy. Saint bottomed out with a guttural sound, hips flush to Baby's ass, and paused for one trembling second to let them both feel it: the way Baby clenched around him like he was trying to keep him forever.
Then Saint fucked him.
Fast. Hard. No gentleness, no preamble—just the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin echoing in the dim space. Each thrust shoved Baby forward onto his toes, the life vests muffling the impact against his chest. Saint's big hand clamped over Baby's mouth—not to silence him completely, but to catch the sharpest cries, to feel every ragged exhale against his palm.
"Quiet," Saint hissed, even as his own hips snapped forward again. "They're thirty feet away."
Baby whimpered into Saint's hand, nodding frantically. His free hand reached back, nails digging into Saint's hip, urging him harder, deeper.
Saint angled up—once, twice—until he hit that spot that made Baby's knees buckle. Baby sobbed against Saint's palm, body locking tight, inner walls fluttering wildly.
"Fuck—there—" Baby gasped, voice muffled and wrecked.
Saint didn't let up. He pounded into that angle relentlessly, short, brutal strokes that kept the pressure right where Baby needed it. His other hand slid around front, wrapping around Baby's leaking cock. Three rough pumps and Baby was already trembling on the edge.
"Come," Saint ordered against his ear, teeth grazing the lobe. "Come on my cock while I fill you up. Quick, baby—now."
Baby shattered silently—back arching, thighs shaking, cock pulsing hot and thick over Saint's fist. The rhythmic clench around Saint's length dragged him over with a strangled groan. He buried himself to the hilt and came hard, flooding Baby deep, hips grinding in tiny, possessive circles as he rode it out.
For five pounding heartbeats they stayed locked together, breathing in harsh, uneven pulls. Saint's forehead dropped to the back of Baby's neck, lips brushing damp skin.
Then reality crashed back.
Saint pulled out carefully, watching his come trickle down the inside of Baby's thigh before he tugged the shorts back up, covering the evidence. He turned Baby around, cupped his face with shaking hands, and kissed him—slow this time, deep and filthy with the taste of lake water and sex still on both their tongues.
"You okay?" Saint whispered, thumb stroking the sharp line of Baby's cheekbone.
Baby gave a shaky, sated smile. "Never better, Captain."
Saint huffed a quiet laugh, pressing one last kiss to his forehead. "We've got ten minutes before they notice we're gone. Get your game face on."
Baby straightened his jersey with trembling fingers, wincing slightly as the wet fabric settled back over sensitive skin. "Already on. But you owe me a warm shower and round two tonight."
Saint's eyes darkened with promise. "Deal." He leaned in, giving Baby one last deep kiss.
"They said I'd find you two..." Cam's words died in his throat as he froze at the door, his eyes widened as he stared at his two captains' lips locked in an unmistakable kiss.