by Van Barrett
Still Rusty sucked and slurped at his manhood, refusing to let a single drop of Clay's cum go to waste. Or maybe Rusty didn't want the blowjob to end? Maybe he didn't want to face what came next?
And what does come next? Clay had to silently wonder.
When Clay's cock at last went limp and fell out of Rusty's mouth, Rusty sat up. He tilted his head at Clay, and threw himself right next to the captain. They laid on their backs on that truck hood—which by now had begun to cool and wasn't quite so warm anymore.
The two stared quietly at the darkening blue sky. A pin-point of white light caught Clay's eye as a star emerged; then another, and another, and another …
“Clay?” Rusty asked at last, his voice meager and uncertain.
Clay swallowed before he could answer.
“Yeah Rusty?”
A long silence. Clay didn't know what to say, and apparently neither did Rusty.
Rusty grabbed the captain's hand, turned it over, and mated their palms together.
“I, uh … I hope I didn't do anything stupid.”
Clay didn't know how to respond to that, either. His palm suddenly felt very hot and sweaty, and he wanted to take his hand back from Rusty, but he didn't want to look like a dick.
Clay rolled off the hood and scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, uh, you want another brew?” he asked.
“Um … sure.”
Clay went around to the bed of the truck, took a few moments to try to gather himself, and came back with two beers. He sat back on the truck hood, but with a little more space between them this time.
The two men drank their beers with a cloud of tension between them. They tried to talk, but conversation was choppy and hard to make.
“You happen to hear any updates on that game?” Rusty asked.
“No.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Long pause.
“Hey, did Washington call you yet?” Rusty asked.
“No.”
“Oh.”
Another long pause.
What the hell do you say to your best friend after he sucks your dick? Clay wondered. The whole situation was insane.
They finished their beers in silence. At last, Clay grumbled, and slid off the truck hood again.
“Guess we should head back, yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rusty mumbled. He sounded deflated.
Fuck, Clay thought. He really didn't want Rusty to feel bad … but he wasn't sure what to do or say to make him feel better.
The two climbed into Clay's truck, shut their doors, and drove home.
***
Now that they were on the road, with the windows open and the air rushing past … Clay started to think about how they'd gotten to this point. And, when he thought about it in context, it didn't seem so totally insane anymore.
It's not like this situation came out of nowhere. There were signs. They'd done things, after all, like Rusty had said not too long ago.
It all started that first night with Manon. Clay might not have thought it was strange then—he'd shared girls with teammates before, after all. They all did it. And it was hot, seeing her suck Rusty off on their couch, after she'd just gotten done sucking him off.
It always was hot when Clay shared a girl with another guy.
When Manon worked Rusty into a frenzy, and Rusty lost control of himself and started uncontrollably thrusting in and out of her mouth, Clay stroked himself faster. He wanted to time his orgasm with Rusty's. Rusty burst, splattering his load all over Manon's face. And Clay burst all over his own chest.
“Damn,” he groaned. And so did everyone else, all giddy and basking in their afterglow.
That wasn't the only time they shared Manon, either.
She lived in Montreal, and every few months, she came down to Hershey to visit Emily. They didn't see Emily ever again, but Manon always made a point of letting Clay and Rustin know when she'd be in town.
Both guys always looked forward to her visit.
So maybe it started innocently enough. But they pushed the limits; they all did. Manon, for one, loved being between the two of them. She seemed to get drunk off of pleasing two guys at once, and seeing just how far she could push them.
It wasn't always so easy. The first time she sucked them both off, alternating between the two, she gleefully rubbed their cocks together and tried to fit them both in her mouth at once. And Clay's throat knotted up tight. Clay was experienced, but he'd never actually touched another guy's cock … and he never expected his manhood would ever rub up against another guy's hard dick.
And he definitely didn't expect that to feel good.
Manon seemed to get off on that, too—especially the troubled, deer-in-the-headlights look on Clay's face. She'd giggle, and purr, and moan as she alternated between the two.
Damn.
“You like it, don't you?” she'd tease.
Clay didn't reply, and neither did Rusty, but they didn't have to. She knew. And once she knew that, she knew she had permission to push things further.
Over the next year and a half, they kept happily inviting Manon over. And she always took things further.
The last time they saw her, six months ago, in the heat of the moment, Manon had somehow talked Rusty into dropping down on the floor with her. She wanted him to help blow Clay.
That … that was a lot for Clay to handle. He closed his eyes, one hand on Manon's shoulder and the other on Rusty's, and tried to merely enjoy the moment. (Which he did, more than he cared to ever admit.) He didn't know which set of lips was pleasing his cock. He only knew that two mouths took turns kissing and sucking at his him. When his cock was in one mouth, the other mouth sucked his balls.
And that made him cum. Quick—embarrassingly quick.
When Clay reopened his eyes, Rusty and Manon were kissing, sloppily trading Clay's seed between their red, juicy lips.
Damn. What a sight.
Clay couldn't make sense of the conflicting feelings he had in the moment, or in the weeks and months that followed. The easiest solution was not to think about it. Hockey players were super close and sometimes, they did kinky things together. It was the hockey player's code: you didn't talk about what went down between the boys with people outside of the room, because they wouldn't understand.
Of course, what went on in their bedrooms between them and Manon was their own secret. Something they wouldn't even dare to tell their teammates. Even they wouldn't understand it, as wild, dirty, and open-minded as they were.
Maybe that should've been the thing that tipped Clay off, that things weren't quite normal between him and Rusty.
Maybe he knew that, too, on some deep and repressed level.
But right now … as ever … the solution was not to think about it.
7
Your Shot
– Rustin –
The ride home to their apartment was a short drive, but it might as well have been one of the team's three-hour road trips up to Binghampton.
The silence was deafening. Both Rustin and Clay couldn't find any words worth sharing. Overwhelmed with regret and guilt, Rustin kept his eyes trained out the passenger window.
He knew he'd taken a risk and he'd understood that he might have to pay the consequences. But he felt stupid now that it was done. He'd really believed that Clay would've stopped him if he wasn't into it, and Rustin could just quickly apologize and blame it on the beer and say it didn't mean anything.
He hadn't expected that Clay would let him suck his dick, and then things would be weird. That was the worst of both worlds.
Or maybe he figured he would've had the social grace to navigate the veritable mine-field that was sucking off your best friend.
And teammate. And captain. And roommate. And all the other god-damned labels.
He could still taste Clay's cum in his mouth. Worse yet, in spite of his guilt? He liked the fact that Clay's essence lingered in his mouth. He liked the complexity of flavor in Clay's hot cum: bright, salty,
sweet, a touch metallic. It never quite went away, even after they'd each had that post-blowjob beer. He could still feel its slickness in the lining of his cheeks. The spicy, almost mint-like, tang that buzzed deep in his throat.
He swirled his tongue all around his mouth, desperately searching for the next trace of Clay's masculine taste.
And he told himself to enjoy it for all it was worth—because that was probably never going to happen again.
Sigh.
In fact, Rustin knew he'd be lucky if they never talked about this again, and the whole thing passed by in a haze—like some weird dream that you had a vague memory of, but couldn't actually recall any of its details.
Clay pulled the truck into the driveway.
“Here we are.”
“Yup.”
The two men unbuckled their seat belts and went in without saying another word.
***
Rustin popped a frozen pizza into the oven, chopped up two heads of broccoli to steam, made a giant salad with tuna and avocados, and re-heated some chicken breasts and baked potatoes they made the other night.
Communal dinners were a nightly tradition for the roommates. They had big appetites and always consumed as many calories as they possibly could, just as Clay had taught him. They often cooked together, but tonight, Clay plopped himself on the couch and threw a hockey game on TV. He gazed into the TV, but he seemed to be looking right through it.
Rustin figured the call from Washington would come any moment. With Bergman injured and missing playing time, the pro team had to call a defenseman up.
In a way, Rustin looked forward to Clay getting the call. At a bare minimum, he knew it'd give Clay something else to think about besides what they'd just done. Maybe he'd be so excited, he'd completely forget about the blowjob? Unlikely, but hey … a desperate man can dream.
And once Clay got the call, Rustin could drive him to the airport, drop him off, and then head back home—where he could be alone.
And then he could scream into his pillow, punch the living shit out of his mattress, and wonder why the fuck he ever thought that suddenly blowing his teammate out of nowhere was a good idea.
Soon, dinner was ready. Clay joined Rustin at the table and the two chowed down. They stuffed themselves, their eyes trained on the hockey game on TV.
“Wonder what's taking so long?” Rustin wondered aloud.
Normally Washington called within a half-hour. But it'd been over an hour. Had something gone wrong?
“Dunno,” Clay replied flatly.
And then, finally, after they were done eating, a phone started buzzing on the counter-top.
Rustin's eyes lit up—as much as they could light up right now, anyway. “There it is, bud. There's your call.”
Clay jumped up from the table and rushed over to the counter where their phones were. But instead of answering, he stared at the vibrating phone.
Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt.
“The hell are you waiting for? Aren't you going to answer?!” Rustin shouted.
Clay grabbed the buzzing phone and slowly turned around.
The man looked crushed.
He held up a phone. It wasn't his.
“It's for you, Rusty.”
He walked over and handed Rustin his cell phone. The caller ID read, “Washington Capitals.”
Rustin held the buzzing phone in his hand.
What? No. No way. This can't be right …
He swallowed and looked up at Clay.
Part of him didn't want to answer the phone. This was supposed to be Clay's shot, not his! If the team was passing Clay over? Rustin and Clay both knew what that meant.
The organization had soured on Clay. He didn't have a future with the Capitals. Worse yet, they never even thought enough of him to give him a true shot.
And that wasn't how things were supposed to work out when Rustin imagined their future together as NHL teammates.
“Better answer it,” Clay said, his voice lifeless.
Rustin stared at his phone. He looked up at Clay with a furrowed brow.
Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt.
Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt.
“Answer, buddy. This is it—this is your shot.”
And then Clay turned his back and disappeared into his bedroom.
Finally, with Clay out of sight, Rustin mustered the courage to answer the phone. The Capitals' general manager was on the other end. He talked smoothly and gregariously, like a well-practiced politician.
He asked Rustin how he'd like to come 'show his stuff' in the NHL for a few games.
Rustin replied lamely, “I'd uh, I'd like that very much, sir.”
It felt like a bold-faced lie, but the GM didn't seem to notice. He congratulated Rustin, told him to pack a bag with a couple weeks' worth of clothes, and take his ass to the Harrisburg airport, ASAP, because a private flight to Washington was chartered and already waiting for him on the runway.
Rustin hung up and set his phone down.
I'm going to the NHL, he repeated to himself over and over.
And he really thought that when this moment finally came, he'd be jumping up and down and screaming his lungs out. Instead, he felt like it wasn't the right time at all. He felt like he was leaving behind some seriously unfinished business.
Clay re-emerged from his bedroom. He'd showered and changed into a fresh t-shirt and pair of jeans.
“You about ready to go, pal? I'll drive you to Harrisburg,” Clay said. He sounded more alive than he had a few moments ago, at least.
“I have to pack my bags,” Rustin mumbled. “I should shower first, too.”
“Okay.”
Rustin got up and tried to slink past Clay. But Clay stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Rustin turned and faced him like a frightened animal.
“Hey. Rusty.”
“Yeah?”
“I'm proud of you. You deserve it.”
“Thanks.”
“You're a hell of a player.”
“Thanks.”
Clay shook his head.
“A great guy, too.”
“Th-thanks.”
They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. It sure seemed like the moment called for some gesture, some words of reassurance. Maybe even something more daring: a kiss?
But after the risk that Rustin had already taken, he knew he couldn't trust himself to think clearly or rationally. Besides, the ball was solidly in Clay's court.
So Rustin waited. Waited and waited, until it began to dawn on him: nothing was going to happen. Had he miscalculated again? Rustin's cheeks burned bright red as the embarrassment set in, and he hurried past Clay.
He went to his bedroom and started to pack his bags.
8
Clean and True
– Clay –
Clay wasn't at all surprised when Rusty got the call.
Rusty was the more talented hockey player. Simple as that. He knew it, Hershey knew it, Washington knew it. Rusty probably knew it, but he was too damned nice to ever say it.
The only thing Clay had over Rusty was experience—but with the three years that Clay had spent mentoring him, that advantage had all but evaporated. Clay had done his job raising the youngster, alright, and he'd sold his future to see the mission through.
Rusty was the exciting talent, the youth, the bright future of Washington's defense. Like most Canadian boys, Rusty had practically learned how to ice skate before he learned to walk.
Clay, on the other hand, grew up on a freakin' farm. He didn't pick up his first hockey stick until age 9. He didn't tie a pair of ice skates until age 10. While Clay grew up picking manure out of a horse stable, Canadian kids like Rusty were being born with a hockey stick in hand.
Kids who ate, slept, and breathed puck.
Some things, you started too late in life to be a success at. What could you do? That was fate. Sometimes it screwed you.
Considering his roots, Clay knew he was damned lucky he'd taken his 'career' this far. Twenty
-two NHL games played. Wow. Kind of amazing for the son of a cattle rancher, who had grown up thinking his whole life would play out under the hot Texas Sun. He could go back home whenever he wanted and his small hometown would throw a parade and act like he was royalty, returning to his humble beginnings at last. They'd see him as a success—not what he felt like. Which was a failure who couldn't make it to the next level.
Clay had also finally understood something else, something a hell of a lot more serious: Rusty had purposely tanked their third and last training camp together.
During their second training camp, Rusty excused his bad play because of Clay's ankle injury. Rusty had said that he felt lost without his steady defense partner.
Even back then, that excuse didn't seem totally right to Clay. Because Rusty was normally so composed when he played. There were times when Clay was injured, obviously, and missed a game or two. Or he'd get thrown out of the game for making a nasty hit, or too many fights, or the coach would mix the defensive pairings up and Rusty would play with somebody else instead … and Rusty never played as badly as he had during that training camp. He played well with everyone.
But their third and last training camp? Clay wasn't injured, although his game was starting to fall off the cliff—and the coaches let him know it, too. A man hits his physical prime in his early to mid 20's. Clay was already over the peak of that hill, and sliding down the the wrong side of 20. As fit as he was, and as hard as he worked, it was happening—he was losing a step.
And Rusty hadn't looked much better in that third training camp. He'd dogged it all over the ice. He played like he had a weeks-long case of the brown-bag flu. But that couldn't be it, because Rusty didn't drink much, and never during a training camp.
After they both got cut, Clay asked Rusty what the hell had happened to him.
“Damn, I dunno, Clay. Couldn't find my game out there, I guess.”
Clay had a niggling suspicion something wasn't right about that. And after seeing the way that Rusty didn't even want to answer that phone call—and the blowjob, for God's sake—those doubts were all but confirmed.
Rusty was a good kid. A damned good kid. He liked Clay so much, he put Clay's career over his own.