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Oh my God please let this be over soon!
... is all I can think when Nelson has his finger running between my abs, tracing each and every neatly-packaged muscle with a curiosity that feels way too genuine.
Straight guys are the worst. And I say that with love, okay, because I love straight guys in a bad way. Borderline unhealthy kind of way. But they get curious and they act like this, like what he's doing at this very moment ...
And it doesn't matter that I'm not attracted to him, would never be attracted to him. It doesn't matter that he's straight, and he's married, and his sense of humor is totally corny and he really has no interest in me whatsoever. Except like, maybe at a super-deep and repressed level – but whatever, I'm really not about to go there! I'm not qualified to psychoanalyze the guy, okay?
The point is, all that doesn't matter.
What does matter is that his touch feels so goddamn seductive. Makes my eyes want to roll back in my head. Makes my inner-slut wanna come right out, grab his hand and push it lower.
Those thick finger-tips sliding reverently between my abs. The excited electricity that jumps from his fingers, right through my abdominal wall and deeper. The rhythmic exhale of his sweltering breath, so soft and warm against my belly. The salty smell of his sopping-wet clothes, clinging to him ...
Gulp.
The guys are all watching, too. All I've got on is a thin pair of athletic shorts and the entire dressing room is staring right at me, giggling and howling like maniacs as Nelson fucking fingers my six-pack. I'm short on breath, softly begging him to stop, because I'll be in trouble if he doesn't soon.
You see what I'm getting at yet?
Nelson's touching me all over, and I'm getting hard in front of my new team.
Thankfully my shorts are baggy enough it's not totally obvious. And thankfully I wore boxer-briefs, and my cock was already angled downward, so it can fatten and swell up between my thighs and hopefully no one will notice.
This is one bitter-sweet moment, man. The story of my life.
The sweet part is, these guys are starting to accept me. That's fucking fantastic. I honestly didn't think it'd happen this fast, before I even played a game for them. At the same time, I know that not every last wound has been healed – Donovan, I'm pretty sure, still hates me. But I'm getting there. In time, I know these guys will trust me.
The bitter part is, now more than ever, I know that I can't control myself. No matter how much I tell myself I can. I'll always be attracted to dudes. I'll always get hard if they touch me in the right (or maybe wrong) places. That I'll never be “just one of the guys” – I'll either be holding back a big piece of myself from them, or I'll be the outcast. The one guy whose belly you shouldn't touch when you feel like gently caressing some six-pack abs.
What would Nelson think if he knew he was making me hard right now? He'd fucking freak out, I bet. Then again, if he knew, he wouldn't being touching me like that in the first place.
And that alone makes me think I should just tell them. What's the worst that could happen? But of course, I can't. Maybe someday, eventually. But not now. No way.
Meanwhile, the time bomb shackled around my neck continues to quietly tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc right in my ear. If it weren't for that, I probably wouldn't even consider telling these guys the truth. But that's the situation I'm in.
I know, I know, I can't keep worrying about it. Believe me, I've come to that realization myself. I've gotta just play my game and not worry about it. If it comes out and nukes my career – fine. At least I'll say I gave it my all, like Grams said.
Finally, the media guys are allowed into the room. I've never been so happy to see a bunch of journalist folk in my life – normally I dread 'em, but this time, their sight does me a favor: my cock goes limp.
Whew.
Nelson and a few others grumble and head to the shower. The media swarms around me and I give my interview.
***
AFTER I FINISH UP MY interviews, it's time to hit the showers and get dressed. When I come out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist, I'm a little surprised to see that Vance is still here. He's all showered and dressed up already – in fact his wavy locks are starting to air-dry.
Most of the other guys take off as soon as they get dressed, but Vance has stayed behind. He's chatting with Tanner and McNabb.
But Vance turns when he sees me come back from the shower. “Hey bud.”
“Sup Vance.”
“I'll wait for ya, if you wanna walk together to the hotel again.”
“Sure,” I say as I turn my back to Vance and the others and drop my towel.
I hate to say it. But the idea that Vance, handsome fucking stud, is staring at my bare ass? And wants to walk home with me? It's exciting, alright. And I'm glad I'm facing this way. Not because I'm all giddy and getting hard over him walking me home, okay – I'm not that pathetic.
But, well, maybe because if I saw his eyes go down and steal a peek at my cock ... well, yeah, that would probably do it. And good luck explaining to a dressing room full of guys why my cock won't stop growing.
Anyway, I step into a fresh pair of boxers before I can think about it too much and jinx myself. Then I put on the rest of my suit.
“So, how'd you like the Chicago media?” Vance chuckles. “Just a taste of what's coming tomorrow, I'm sure. They're gonna be all over you after your first game with us.”
“Aw, they're not so bad. And I'm sure they're ready to write a story about me actually playing, and not re-hashing the stupid trade for once ...”
I finish dressing and say bye to the others. Vance says bye to them and we walk out together.
Just outside the arena, we sign a few autographs for a group of waiting fans. The Spring air is sweet and soft, the temperature perfect.
“I'm so excited for tomorrow,” I say to Vance as we make our way down the street. The after-game traffic rush has already passed.
“I think we're gonna have some serious chemistry,” Vance says out of nowhere, and looks up at me with the corners of his eyes crinkled up.
“Wha?” I stammer, but I immediately know he's talking about the other kind of chemistry. The kind between hockey players. On the ice. Duh. “Oh, yeah, totally – me too.”
We walk another block without saying a word. I hope he didn't pick up on my obvious weirdness.
“You played a pretty awesome game tonight, Vance,” I croak out. “I liked your goal. The ol' back-door beaut. You should've seen my fist pump in the training room. Haha.”
“Oh, that,” he says dismissively. “Tanner did all the work on that one. What a beautiful set-up he made, huh? Man, that kid's really turned into a hell of a player.”
“Do you ever just ... receive a compliment?” I laugh. “Without passing it off to someone else, I mean?”
He chuckles. “I dunno. I guess not? I uh, I expect a lot from myself. So when I succeed, it's hard to get excited. It's more like ... I'm just doing my job.”
“I know. I like it.” I bite my lip tentatively. Shit, did that sound weird? “I mean, that's a great trait for a captain to have. Sets a good example for everyone else to follow.”
“I can tell you're the same way.”
“Huh. Think so? I dunno.” I ponder it for a second, and then burst out laughing. “No, man, you're wrong. I love compliments. Go ahead and give me one and watch me soak it up.”
“I meant your work ethic – not how you take compliments!” Vance laughs. “But hell, let's give it a shot anyway.”
He thinks it over and gets a sneaky grin. “Okay, Jones, here we go: You're a hell of a hockey player.”
Surely that was just the warm-up to the real compliment to come, right? A beat passes, then two, and three. And Vance ain't delivering. I shoot him an annoyed look.
“... That's it? That's your compliment? 'A hell of a hockey player'? How generic, dude!” I suck my cheeks in loudly. “Don't you have, like, any glowing praise for me?”
“Ahh, Jones!” Vance throws his head back, howling with laughter into the darkening sky. “You're ridiculous, man.”
We pass by a sports bar and grill, but Vance throws on his brakes and grabs my shoulder.
“Hold up. You have dinner plans tonight?”
“Not really, no. I guess I was gonna check out the hotel menu.”
“You wanna pop in and grab a bite instead? This is one of my favorite spots.”
“Sure.”
We walk in. The place looks busy, with a group of people patiently waiting for tables. But the hostess recognizes us with a knowing, coy grin. She mutters something to her co-worker and they whisk us off to a massive booth towards the back of the restaurant.
“Right this way, Mr. Vance and Mr. Jones,” she says, and I know we've just received the special treatment.
We take a seat and wait for our server.
“Okay, here's a real compliment. But don't let it go to your head, alright?” Vance rubs his hands together, preparing himself. “And don't tell the boys, either – they'd kill me. But whenever we played you guys, and you'd get us all riled up? I loved it, man. I thought you were just the kind of presence we need, the ingredient we've been missing. No one else on the team plays a game like you. I've had my eye on you since our first game against each other.”
“Whoa.” I'm at a loss for words. I run my hand over my short, prickly hair. “Thanks, Vance, I ... it's so weird hearing that from your idol ...” I stammer. I hadn't told him that yet. “Errr.”
“Shutup.” His burning eyes narrow at me. “What'd you just say?”
“Well. Yeah.” I clear my throat. “You were uh, kinda my hockey idol when I was growing up. I was 11 during your rookie year.”
“... No kidding?” Vance chuckles, almost nervously.
I can feel my cheeks heating up. Shit, should I not have told him that? “Don't worry. It's not like I had posters of you all over my bedroom or anything, ha ha ...” (Actually, I did, but I'm not about to admit that shit to him.) “I just liked the way you played.”
Our server comes by and interrupts us to ask if we want any drinks. The server looks at me, wanting my order first.
“I dunno,” I grumble, peeking over at Vance. Lately, some bad things have happened when I decide to drink. “I think I'm alright with water.”
But Vance chuckles and tells the waiter, “Two Michelob Ultras.” The server walks off and Vance turns to me. “I don't care if you have a beer after a game, Jonesy. You don't have to try to impress me. Just be yourself.”
“Impress you?” I force a laugh. I know I'm a terrible liar – but my saving grace is that nobody else knows that. Yet. “You don't know my reasons for not drinking. What if I have an alcohol problem?”
He gasps, and his brows lift with a touch of concern. “Then I'd feel pretty bad.” He leans over the table, hushing his voice. “Do you?”
I have to ponder it for a second. “No?”
“Heh. You don't seem so sure.”
“Yeah, alright. It kinda runs in the family. Or so I've heard. So I gotta be careful.”
“Shit. I'm sorry, man. We can send it back. My bad. I didn't know.”
I laugh. “It's okay, I can have one with ya. I'm just tryin' to make you feel bad.”
“Oh.” He rolls his eyes. “You're good at that, aren't you?”
“Yup. It's why you guys traded for me, remember?”
“Uh huh.” He grins. “But, ya know, I know it's all an act, Jonesy. I'm curious to find out what you're really like, deep down.”
I swallow. Something about that feels ominous. I don't want him to know what I'm 'really like.'
Our attention turns to our menus. Vance takes a peek and folds up his menu, knowing what he wants right away. But I have a harder time choosing.
“You said earlier your Grandma raised you.”
“Oh. Yeah. Long story short, my Mom didn't want anything to do with me and I've got no idea who my Dad is. So uh, Grams raised me.”
“Damn.” Vance looks pained on my behalf, but I don't need the sympathy.
“Hey, it's okay. Grams was better than any parent I could've asked for.” I turn my attention toward the menu instead. “So what's good here?”
“Um, it's a pretty standard bar and grill.”
“I thought you said you loved this place.”
“Well, I do ... I mean ... it's on the walk back to the hotel.”
“Vance.” I stifle a laugh. “Did you remember to wear your fanny-pack today? 'Cause I'm getting a serious Dad vibe from you right now.”
The server approaches with our beers in hand, and he's ready to take our order. Vance orders a salad with grilled chicken, and I get the fish and chips. After the server leaves, we clink our pint glasses together and take a big gulp.
“Gotta admit, I wouldn't have pegged you as a salad guy,” I say, wiping the foam from my lips.
“I wasn't when I was your age,” he laughs. “But your body starts to slow down, and those fish and chips don't treat you quite the same.” He leans in again. “You're gonna have to work harder if you wanna keep those abs, bud. Get ready. 'Cause it's comin'.”
My mouth falls open in mock outrage. “Why do I feel like you're taking delight in my inevitable downfall?”
He grins. “Don't worry. You've still got a couple more years at your peak. Gather ye rosebuds, Jonesy.”
“What's that mean?”
“It's from a poem about youth. It's by Robert Herrick.”
He must've seen the look on my face after telling me that. He waves his hand in the air like he can erase the conversation. “Ha. Nevermind.”
I set my palms flat on the table and lean forward. I don't want him to feel self-conscious. “Don't feel bad, Vance. I'm just surprised. Honestly, I don't know anything about poetry. Or, uh, books. I basically don't read anything. I'm pretty dumb, actually. And I don't have a high school diploma to prove it. You know I dropped out of school to play Junior, right?”
He chuckles. I guess I hoped that he'd jump up and say no, Jonesy, you're not dumb at all! I can tell you're really, really smart!
... But that doesn't happen. And a streak of disappointment stabs my heart. All I can do is wonder if he agrees.
“I don't read as much as I should, either,” he says at last. “I read that poem in my one and only year of college. I was only 18, hopeful that I had a pro hockey career ahead of me, and I thought I'd never get old. Y'know?”
He pauses. “And now, here I am, eating dinner with a guy that grew up watching me play. Holy shit. I am old. When did that even happen?”
I don't know what to say. Vance seems to be looking through me, looking deeper into himself. Right now I feel like I'm not even qualified to hang out with this guy. He's deep and stuff. I feel like a dumb kid next to him. What the hell do I know?
“You're only 29, Vance, that's not old at all.” Of course, I'm only 21, hardly qualified to tell him how he should feel about his age. So I'm not surprised to see Vance shrug my comment off.
I take another big drink from my beer and ask him, “What'd you study in college?”
“Well. As a freshman your classes are kinda all over the place. But,” he pauses, his head bobbing left to right as if he's still weighing his options. “I always thought psychology would be great to study.”
I crack up. “A hockey-playing psychologist.”
“Well, I'm not saying I'd practice it! I'm just interested in it. How the mind works and stuff. Why we do the things we do, I guess.”
“So are you crazy, Vance?”
He cocks his head at me. “The hell do you mean?”
“I've always heard people say that a dude goes into psychology because he wants to find out why he's so fucked in the head.”
“Huh.” Vance's lips make a funny pout. He looks like he's actually thinking it over. “I've never heard that.”
“So? Is it true or not?”
He gets a wily grin. “I guess I'm not qualified to say. Maybe if I ever go back and finish my degree I'll tell ya.”
The server brings our food out, and by this point we're both starved. We dive right in, noshing away without barely speaking to each other – except a few muffled comments about how good the food is. We scarf the rest of our meals down and polish our plates clean.
“I'm so stuffed, dude,” I say, rubbing my bloated belly. “I dunno if I can even make it back to the hotel. Salad seems like it would've been a good idea right about now.”
The server comes by and drops off the bill. I reach for it, but Vance insists on paying it. “You can get it next time.”
Next time. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I'm a little relieved to know I'm not too dumb or boring for there to be a next time.
We head out and walk back to the hotel. Vance stops with me in front of my room door.
“Alright, Jonesy, get some rest. Big game tomorrow.”
“Of course.” I fumble with the key-card. I'm eager to part ways with Vance now, and when the door opens I practically burst into my room. “G'night Vance.”
After the day I've had, I seriously need some alone time. I mean, I need to beat it. I can't tear my suit off fast enough – then I hop in the shower, turn the heat on full blast, and give in.
“Hell yeah,” I mutter to myself. Clouds of steam roll all around me. The sound of wet flesh tugging up and down fills the bathroom. “Fuck, yeah.”
It's all too much, man. All those guys, standing around, looking at my abs. Making jokes about 'em. Touching them. All while I've got a secret boner going on ...
Then, going out to dinner with Vance ... staring at his handsome face all night from across the table. Ugh. What I'd do to him if I ever had the chance.
My firmness fills my hands. I'm so hard and long, I stroke it with both hands. My vision goes white and my knees buckle as I give in to climax – and all I can do is lean back against the tile wall for support as my balls drain with one powerful blast of seed after another. I explode, streaks of my cream splashing against the shower curtain.
“Fuck yeah!”