Chapter 73 Luke

Chapter 73 Luke
This chapter contains a warning xx 

Luke

⛸️

The roar of the crowd is a physical thing, a vibration that travels up through the soles of my shoes and into my bones. We're right at the glass, Section 114, Row A, and the world is a blur of black and gold. A Bruin's player gets slammed against the plexiglass just feet from us, the sound a deafening THWACK that makes me flinch.

"See that?" Bev shouts over the noise, her elbow nudging mine. Her eyes are bright, alive with the game. "He didn't see the hit coming because he was watching his pass, not his man. You do that, you end up on your ass. Keep your head on a swivel, Luke. Always."

I nod, my eyes glued to the ice. She's been doing this all period. A player makes a move, and she's there in my ear, a running commentary of pro-level tips and tricks. It's like watching a completely different sport. I'm not just a fan anymore; I'm a student, and she's the best damn teacher in the world.

During a TV timeout, she leans closer. "Look at how the Bruins' D-man is pinching along the boards. He's sealing off the wall. That's what I want to see from you. Don't just let the winger walk out. Be a nuisance. Be a wall."

"I got it," I say, my voice full of a confidence I've never felt before.

The game flies by in a whirlwind of speed and violence. When the final buzzer sounds, the scoreboard reading 4-2 in Boston's favor, we're on our feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd. The adrenaline is still pumping through me as we shuffle out of the arena and into the cool night air.

"That was incredible!" I say, my voice hoarse.

She grins, a wide, triumphant smile. "Told you. Now," she says, her tone shifting, "I need a drink to celebrate that win. You wanna come with?"

I hesitate, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "I'm only seventeen, Bev. I can't get in."

She waves a dismissive hand. "You don't have to drink. Just keep me company. Come on, it'll be fun."

"Okay, sure," I agree. Why not? This day has been perfect.

The bar is dark and loud, packed with people celebrating the win. Bev squeezes through the crowd and orders a round of what looks like whiskey and cokes, plus two extra bottles of beer. I watch, impressed, as she downs the first drink quickly.

"Dang," I say over the music. "You're really going all out."

She winks at me. "Boston won. We deserve it." She pays the tab and slips the extra bottles into her large purse. "Secret stash," she mouths at me, and I laugh.

My coach is cool as fuck.

By the time we leave, she's definitely tipsy, her laughter a little too loud, her steps a little unsteady. We get into her massive Escalade, and I eye the driver's seat.

"You're not gonna drive, are you?" I ask. "You're kinda drunk, Bev."

She waves a hand at me, then seems to think better of it. "You're right. You're so responsible. I like that." She digs in her purse for her phone. "I'll get us a hotel room. We can just chill until we sober up."

"Alright," I say, like this is the most normal suggestion in the world.

Twenty minutes later, we're walking into a fancy hotel lobby. She gets us a room with a king bed, and my stomach does a weird little flip, but I push the feeling down. We're just waiting to sober up. That's all.

The second the door to the room clicks shut, she plops backwards onto the huge bed, bouncing slightly. "Drinky drinks, Luke!" she says, pulling the bottles from her bag with a flourish.

I chuckle and take one, twisting the cap off. We drink and talk, the alcohol loosening my tongue and making the world feel warm and fuzzy. We're sitting on the same bed, leaning against the headboard.

"You're so getting drafted," she says, her words slurring just a little. "Without a doubt. That scout is going to take one look at you and fall in love."

"I know," I say, the cocky confidence flowing out of me, fueled by her praise and the beer.

She eats it up. "That's the attitude! You're a killer, Luke. A winner." She sighs dramatically, her head lolling to the side to look at me. "You know, you're the best player I've ever coached. But apparently, this coach can't get a nice relationship. I'm so deprived of cuddling."

The words hang in the air between us. Without thinking, I say, "Well... we can cuddle if you want."

Her eyes light up. "Sure."

Next thing I know, we're lying down, her head on my chest. I can smell the shampoo in her hair and the whiskey on her breath. Her arm is draped over my stomach. "This is nice," she murmurs into my t-shirt. "Definitely needed." She's quiet for a moment, then adds, "I'm also deprived of kisses."

My heart hammers against my ribs. She lifts her head, her brown eyes searching mine in the dim light of the room.

She slowly leans in, and then her lips are on mine.

It's soft, questioning at first.

My mind screams that this is crossing a line, that she's my coach, that I'm only seventeen.

But then another thought, louder and more powerful, cuts through: She's my only hope. My only ticket to the NHL. I can't screw this up.

So I don't pull away. I don't push her off.

I kiss her back.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, but it quickly deepens.

Her lips part, and I follow her lead, my hand moving up to cup the back of her neck. Her hair is soft against my fingers. The alcohol buzzes through my veins, making everything feel hazy and unreal.

She's the one person who believes in me. The one person who sees my potential. And right now, she wants me.

She pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against mine, her breath warm on my face. "Not only are you good at hockey, you're a good kisser, Luke," she whispers, her voice husky.

"So are you," I manage to say, my own voice coming out rougher than I expected.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across her face. "I knew you'd be." She shifts, moving to straddle my lap, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of my thighs.

The hotel room is dark, save for the sliver of moonlight cutting through a gap in the heavy curtains. It catches the curve of her shoulder, the line of her jaw. She looks incredible.

She runs her hands up my chest, her palms flat against the worn cotton of my t-shirt.

"You know," she says, her eyes locked on mine, "this is what winners get. This is the reward for all the hard work, for putting in the hours when no one else is watching." Her voice is a low purr, a hypnotic rhythm that I find myself nodding along to. "You're not like the others, Luke. You're special. You deserve this."

Her words are like fuel on a fire. I feel a surge of something hot and powerful—pride, arrogance, desire—all mixed together. I reach up, my thumb tracing the line of her collarbone. "I am," I say, the words tasting like truth. "I am special."

She leans down and kisses me again, harder this time, more demanding. Her hands slide under the hem of my shirt, her fingers cool against the heated skin of my stomach.

I gasp into her mouth as her nails lightly scrape against my abs. Every touch feels electric, sending jolts straight through me. I've never felt anything like this. It's a million miles away from fumbling kisses in the backseats of cars with girls my own age.

This is different. This is deliberate. This is... a lesson.

"See?" she murmurs against my lips. "Your body is a tool, Luke. But it's not just for hockey. It's for this. For pleasure. For power. You need to be in control of it, always. In control on the ice, and in control here." She rocks her hips against mine, a slow, deliberate movement that makes my head spin. "Are you in control, Luke?"

I'm not. I'm completely losing my mind. But I nod anyway, because that's what she wants to hear. "I'm in control."

"Good boy," she whispers, and the praise sends another wave of heat through me. She sits up, pulling her own shirt over her head in one fluid motion.

The moonlight illuminates her skin, the familiar lines of her body I'd only seen in pictures now right here in front of me. I reach out, my hands trembling slightly as I touch her waist, pulling her closer.

The rest of the night is a blur of skin and whispered words, of her guiding me, teaching me, showing me what it means to be a man in her eyes.

It's not just about the physical act; it's about the power dynamic, the way she looks at me with a mixture of desire and ownership.

She's molding me, shaping me into her ideal, and I'm letting her, because in her eyes, I'm not just Luke Holman, the rich and popular high school hockey kid.

I'm Luke Holman, the future NHL star. And this, she tells me, is just part of the training.

⛸️

The first thing I see is the blade of light slicing across the hotel carpet, so sharp it looks like it could cut. My head is a lead weight, and my mouth is a desert, each swallow scraping against a throat lined with sand.

Beside me, Bev is a still form under the sheets, her breathing a slow, rhythmic tide. The night returns not in a wave, but in fragments. 

A shard of laughter from the bar. The taste of her lipstick, slick and artificial. The kiss that wasn't a question, but a statement. And everything that followed, a silent film playing behind my eyes.

A cold dread coils in my gut, a snake of pure anxiety. 

This wasn't coaching. This wasn't strategy. This was a line crossed, erased, and redrawn in a place I didn't recognize. 

What happens now? To the team? To the scout who holds my future in his hands next month?

I extract myself from the tangled sheets, my movements stiff and unnatural, a marionette with tangled strings. 

My clothes are a crime scene on the floor. 

My phone on the nightstand glows with the time: 3:47 PM. The morning and afternoon is gone, stolen. My parents will crucify me.

I tap out a flimsy lie—Phone died, stayed at a friend's—and hit send. The words look pathetic on the screen.

As I pull my shirt over my head, a rustle from the bed. "Luke?" Her voice is husky with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Late," I say, my back to her, the word clipped and tight. "We need to go."

The sheets whisper, and then her arms are around my waist, a cage of warmth. Her chin digs into my shoulder. "Not yet," she murmurs, her breath hot against my neck. "Let’s just stay. Just for a little longer."

"I can't," I grind out. "My parents..."

"They'll live," she says, her lips brushing my skin. "Last night was important, Luke. You were incredible. But this... this is just for us. Our secret. Like the lessons. No one can know. They wouldn't get it."

I turn, and her eyes are wide, clear, and utterly serious. The sleepiness is gone, replaced by an intense focus. "They'd try to poison it," she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They'd say I'm using you. But I'm not. This is about your potential. About us. About winning."

Her certainty is a balm on my raw nerves, a narrative so clean and compelling it erases the mess of my own feelings. I'm not a kid making a mistake; I'm an athlete making a sacrifice.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "Our secret."

"Good," she smiles, a predator's smile. "Now, about that scout... we need to push harder than ever. New drills. New techniques. And maybe... a few more private lessons." The wink is a final, sharp punctuation mark.

The knot in my stomach doesn't loosen. It tightens.

Later, I peel myself from the bed, the stale scent of whiskey and her perfume clinging to me like a second skin. "I need a shower," I mumble.

"Excellent idea," she purrs. "Mind if I join?"

My heart hammers against my ribs. "No."

The bathroom is a sterile box of marble and chrome. I step into the glass enclosure, the water a hot, stinging curtain against my back. For a moment, I'm alone. Then the door slides open, and she's behind me. I don't flinch. I force myself still as her hands settle on my waist.

"See?" she says, her voice echoing off the tile. "Trust. Comfort. This is what champions are made of."

Her hands begin their work, tracing the landscape of my body. My shoulders, my arms, the ridges of my stomach. Her touch is analytical, impersonal, like a mechanic inspecting an engine. "You're a machine, Luke. Perfect. Just keep fueling it."

Her exploration continues, a deliberate descent. I stare at the wall, focusing on the percussive beat of water on the floor. Then her hand wraps around me, a jolt of electricity that is part terror, part traitorous pleasure. She begins to move.

"Hey," I say, my voice a strangled gasp. I clamp my hand over her wrist, stopping her. "Don't."

Her hand stills. She looks up at me, her head tilted in a pantomime of confusion. "What's wrong?" she asks, her voice laced with hurt. "Don't you trust me?"

"It's not that," I stammer, scrambling for a reason that won't shatter this fragile truce. "It's... the age gap. It feels wrong."

A slow, chilling smile spreads across her face, but it's all teeth, no warmth. "Oh, Luke," she coos, her free hand coming up to stroke my cheek. "That's just the voice of the world. The world is small. We're not. You're not some boy. You're a man. You'll be eighteen next summer. You can do whatever you want."

The water pounds against my back, but I feel a deep, internal freeze. Her expression hardens, the softness vanishing like smoke. "Besides," she says, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss, "if you want that scout to see anything but a benchwarmer, you will do what I say. You will not question me. You will obey me."

Her eyes lock onto mine, and the threat hangs between us, as tangible as the steam. "Your future is in my hands, Luke. All of it. Don't make me drop it."

The roar of the shower fills my ears. My throat is a knot of sandpaper. I can't swallow. I can't breathe.

"Yes, ma'am," I whisper, the words tasting like ash.

Triumph flashes in her eyes. "Good," she purrs, the threat vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "Now... let me thank you for your cooperation."

Before I can react, she sinks to her knees on the slick tile. The water streams over her as she looks up at me, a glint of absolute victory in her eyes, and then takes me into her mouth.

My head thuds softly against the tiled wall. I stare up at the ceiling, at the condensation racing each other down the glass. 

The physical sensation is there, but it's distant, happening to someone else. 

All I can feel is the crushing weight of the realization that has just landed on my chest, heavier than a mountain.

I am not in control. I am not mature. I am not special.

I am a seventeen-year-old boy standing in a shower, and I am completely and utterly trapped.