by Van Barrett
“I think we could've kept it a secret.”
“Hell no,” Clay laughed. “Look, we can't even—ooh—keep our hands off each other now. When we were young, dumb, horny 20-somethings? You know we would've tried something that only some young, dumb kids would try.”
“Young, dumb, and full of cum, eh?” Rust joked.
“Yeah. Exactly. Like, I can picture us trying to fuck on the Zamboni when no one was around or something like that. Or maybe a secret bathroom blowjob on the team plane. Something like that.”
“Ha!” Rust's eyes widened in the dark. He liked those ideas. “God, I hope so. That sounds fuckin' hot.”
Clay playfully groaned. “See? We're still fantasizing about it even today.”
Rust stopped stroking, and the air was filled with a pregnant pause.
“I wanna suck your dick, Clay,” Rust blurted out.
And he wasn't asking for permission, either—not that Clay would stop him—because a second later, Rust turned around, dove under the covers and climbed between Clay's strong legs. He wrapped one hand around Clay's shaft, leaned in, and let Clay's manhood pass between his lips.
“Oh, damn!” Clay grumbled from outside the covers.
Rust made short work of his old friend—his mouth was too hot, too wet, and his tongue too skilled. When Clay blew his load, his every last inch was buried in Rust's throat. Rust just swallowed and swallowed the hot cum down his throat as it flowed out.
And then, a second later, Rust's head was back on that pillow, and the two men were shoulder-to-shoulder. Clay was panting for air, and Rust wore a satisfied grin on his face.
“Fuck you're good at that,” Clay growled, letting his fists fall against the heavy comforter with a cushiony plop.
“Thanks.” Rust paused. “That's good to know, because I haven't had a whole lot of practice.”
“Really?” Clay's tone suggested that he might be disappointed.
“Is that not what you wanted to hear?” Rust asked.
“Nah, it's fine. I guess—well, it's kind of ridiculous. I don't know if I should say.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, first let me ask you. From your time in the NHL, have you met any other gay hockey players?”
“No … I mean, who knows, I might have met them. But if I did, they're closeted like me.”
“Oh.”
Again, Clay sounded disappointed.
Rust laughed. “Seriously, why are you asking?”
“Sometimes, I liked to imagine that you had all these boyfriends around the league. Other gay hockey players—maybe your teammates, but maybe even your opponents, too. Yeah, opponents, I think that's hotter. Like maybe you guys would wait around in the dressing room after a game, until both your teams had left. And then you'd sneak into the shower and suck each other off and have hot, angry sex with the enemy, or something.”
Rust let out an amused snicker. “And you liked to think about that?”
“Well. You know.” Clay stumbled over his words. “It made me feel good to think that you weren't alone. Plus, it was—err—kind of a hot fantasy that I liked to jerk it to.”
“Oh. Okay. I get that, that's hot.” Rust was still hard from sucking Clay off, but hearing his dirty fantasy only made him harder.
“So you didn't have any boyfriends?” Clay asked.
“Nope. I've dated a few women, just to make sure, you know? And maybe so my teammates didn't think I stood out or anything. But, yeah, after you … me and women, just sort of, …” Rust sputtered. “Well, we just don't go together. It's not the same.”
Clay nodded knowingly. “I didn't date any, but I know what you mean.”
“But boyfriends? I wouldn't know how to get them, Clay. Never set foot in a gay bar. They're not my thing and I'd be so damned scared of being spotted at one. Besides, all I know is hockey.”
“Shit. Same here. Well, hockey and horses. But trust me, you don't want anything to do with the guys you meet in the horse rescue business …”
“No? You never got down and dirty in the stable with old Critter?”
“Dude! Gross!” Clay slugged Rust's shoulder. “That's so wrong, man. Ugh!”
Rust couldn't control his belly laughs, and once Clay got over his disgust, he joined in on the laughter, too.
And then things quieted down.
“Seriously though, Clay? There's at least one man in the horse rescue biz I'd love to fuck around with …”
“Oh—wow—you're still cheesy as hell, Rust.”
And then Rust was sliding under the covers again.
“Oh God, here we go again,” Clay muttered, grabbing a fistful of bed sheets as Rust dragged his tongue up and down his quickly-growing length.
27
On Ice
– Rust –
Rust woke up with a sleepy moan and a thin sheen of oily perspiration on his brow. The light coming through the bedroom window was bright, which caused him a moment's panic:
Shit! What happened to my curtains?
But as he blinked and took in his surroundings, reality set in. He wasn't at his dark hotel room anymore. This was Clay's bedroom, as strange as that fact was. And, even stranger of course, was the fact that his chronic migraines had finally let up, leaving behind a thin haze that only vaguely lingered in his head. But it was like the morning fog, and it would clear as the day passed: in fact, it already was beginning to clear.
Rust looked to his side and saw not Clay's naked body, but the evidence of Clay waking up 'first thing in the morning' like he'd said: the tussled bed-sheets from which he'd slid out, no doubt quietly and carefully, so he wouldn't wake Rust.
Rust partly wished Clay had woken him, maybe given him a kiss on the forehead and whispered 'bye.' But Rust was sure Clay didn't want to risk waking him at all; he needed his rest, after all.
Especially after last night, Rust thought, biting his lip.
He felt partly guilty, but also partly turned on. Last night, he'd kept Clay up for hours. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true: they'd kept each other up. After Rust sucked Clay off the second time, Clay swore he had to get to sleep, because he had such a long day ahead of himself, and so they had to keep their hands off each other.
“Okay,” Rust had said, understanding that perfectly fine and clear.
But, as soon as Rust turned on his side—facing away from Clay, to make sure he wouldn't be tempted—there was Clay's warm naked body, spooning and pressing up against him from behind.
This feels like trouble, Rust had thought to himself. It was bad enough, feeling Clay's muscular, naked body pressing up against his own bare flesh.
But then Clay went ahead and slid his hard cock between Rust's thighs.
“Uhh,” Rust laughed. “I thought you said you need to get to sleep, bud.”
“Yeah, I do … but … ugh.”
Clay thrust himself in and out, pumping his hot cock between Rust's thighs. Clay bared his teeth and nibbled on Rust's earlobe from behind. His prickly stubble tickled Rust's neck until he shivered with pins and needles.
“Fuck,” Rust grunted. “You're getting me hard again, dude.”
“Good,” Clay chuckled. And then he wrapped his hand around Rust's shaft and started the whole damn thing over again.
That had went on for how long, exactly?
Hours.
Rust didn't know what time it was when they finally were too sleepy and too drained to do anything more, for real. But through the east-facing window, the first hint of daylight had appeared on the horizon. Poor Clay would be lucky if he managed to get two solid hours of sleep.
***
Rust stumbled out of bed. The clock on the wall told him he'd slept in until 1 o'clock.
Wow. Slept in today.
His ears perked up when he spotted the note taped to the front of the bedroom door. It read:
“Hey Rust,
Hope you're still feeling good today! Had fun last night. Good to catch up and say all that needed to be said.
I'm working outside. Make yourself at home. Anything in the fridge is fair game. I left some coffee for you.
Oh, and dig into my closet if you need a change of clothes.
- C”
Rust didn't particularly feel like he needed a change of clothes, but the temptation to dress up as Clay for a day was too much to resist.
He opened his closet and rifled through it, finding hanger after hanger of long-sleeved, button-down flannel shirts.
“Seriously Clay?” Rust chuckled to himself.
It made sense that he should have all those work shirts, of course. It was just sort of funny, considering in their hockey days, Clay loved to dress up nice for the bar or club. Rust wondered if he even had any snazzy shirts like that left over from his party days …
But, hey, according to everything Clay had said, he'd led a quiet life since then.
Rust threw on one of the flannel shirts and found a pair of well-worn Wrangler jeans. Both items were a good fit, and although they smelled fresh like clean laundry—they also smelled like Clay. It was nice, wearing his clothes, every breath laced with his nutty scent, like warm almond milk.
Rust made his way into the kitchen and scavenged the refrigerator. He ended up frying some bacon, whipped up a cheese omelet, made some buttered toast and poured a cup of coffee.
A newspaper sat on the table. A volunteer or employee must've brought it, because Rust doubted any newspaper delivery boy would come out this far.
Rust flipped to the sports page while he sipped his hot coffee.
Columbus had played again last night. They'd lost a close one to Pittsburgh. He browsed the stat line. Columbus' goalie had been peppered with 51 shots and made 48 saves—which, statistically at least, was a fantastic performance.
But Columbus had still lost the game 3-2. It wasn't the goalie's fault; you couldn't blame him when he stopped 94% of the shots he faced. That loss was on everyone else on the team—the offense for not scoring, and the defense for allowing that many shots.
Although Columbus had been in the race to qualify for the playoffs before Rust's concussion, ever since he'd been out of the action, the team had steadily sunk—and were losing more than half their games. And now, with that loss to Pittsburgh, Columbus slipped to 9th place in the standings—out of playoff contention.
They had to get their act together in a hurry.
That was the problem with young teams. When the going got tough, they got all shaky and nervous. They floundered and crumbled under high-pressure situations late in the season like this.
That's why veteran guys like Rust were so important. That's why Columbus had brought Rust into the organization in the first place—to be a stabilizing force in the dressing room, to show that young team what it took to win in the NHL, night in and night out.
Rust sighed, folded up the paper and stared out the window while he sipped his mug of coffee and let himself get lost in his thoughts.
On one hand …
Nothing had ever made Rust feel so relieved, like everything was finally right in the world, as when Clay told him he could stay with him until he was better. Or he could decide to stay with Clay forever. You know, whichever, no big deal.
Last night, in the throes of passion, that was a damned tempting thought—giving up the game and living a small, quiet country life with Clay. And it's not like retirement was an idea that came entirely out of left field, either. Because before yesterday, Rust was honestly beginning to think that his playing days were over.
He and Clay had to make up for so much lost time together—why not start as soon as possible? Rust had carved out a long, respectable career, and he'd made enough money to ensure a comfortable life.
No, he'd never won a Cup—that was the one notably missing achievement from his career—but players who couldn't let go of that childhood dream always ended up staying far past their expiration date. He didn't want to be like those guys. Rust wanted to go out when he was still a decent player, not a shell of his former self.
On the other hand …
Reading the sports page and seeing Columbus sliding down the standings triggered some vicious, primal instinct in Rust. He felt like an enraged mama bear while a woodland predator hungrily eyed her baby cubs. The burden of responsibility didn't just weigh on him—it was all he lived for the past ten years. He couldn't give it up now. He needed to jump back into the action and right the ship.
Deep down, Rust knew he wasn't a guy who could walk away from his team. He was still the same player, after all, who had cunningly escaped the doctors after taking a serious, knock-out blow to the head—only to return to the ice without their clearance, and score the game winning goal.
Sure. Part of him wanted to stay here with Clay. All he had to do was look out the window and see that beautiful view of the green pasture filled with all those majestic, happy horses, the green hills under the bright blue sky, the tall trees …
Go figure that Clay's ranch, with the fresh air and the lovely scenery, was so re-energizing. Wasn't that why he brought those horses here, after all? To heal up and then move on with their lives.
And so Rust knew it'd be hard to say bye to it all. Like any good vacation, he supposed, it was always hard to return to the grind.
It wouldn't be easy, and he didn't necessarily like it, but Rust knew he had to move on. This time, Rust would be the one to put their relationship on ice. He knew he had to leave Clay behind.
28
Managing the Pain
– Clay –
With a tired groan, Clay headed for the house. He kicked off his slicker boots at the door and walked in—or maybe staggered in would be the right word.
He was happy to see that Rust was sitting at the kitchen table, and not lying in bed with a crippling headache.
“Whew, you're up,” Clay said with a breath of relief. “How do you feel?”
Rust turned and smiled. “Pretty damn good, Clay.”
“Glad to hear it.” Clay neared, put his hand on Rust's shoulder, leaned in and snuck him a quick kiss on the lips. “Love your outfit, by the way.”
“Yeah? I raided some cowboy's closet.”
“I can tell. He's got great taste.”
Rust laughed and rolled his eyes.
Clay winced, his walk more labored than usual, as he made his way over to the fridge to grab some lunch.
Rust noticed.
“Damn, you're limping more today, Clay.”
“Yeah,” Clay trailed off. “I get a little stiffer if I don't get a good night's rest.”
“Oh, shit. I'm sorry, dude.”
“Hey.” Clay peeked from behind the fridge door and gave Rust a wink. “It was worth it.”
Rust grinned.
“But yeah, it's not just my hip. It's like that whole side of my body gets tight. Hip, knee, shoulder, ankle, everything.”
“That's because your whole body is connected, Clay.”
“Think so?”
“I know so. If you've got a bad hip, the rest of your body tries to compensate to take the pain off it. Then you end up with sore everything, because the pain gets spread around.”
“Huh!” Clay pondered that, looking like it was something of a revelation. “That's really, really interesting. I never thought about it like that before. Makes sense, though.”
“Yup. Thanks to hockey, I know a little about body pain. I'll have to show you something that can help you out with managing the pain.”
“It's not pain-killers, is it?”
Rust made a sour face. “What? No.”
“Good,” Clay laughed. “'Cause if you were living on those, I'd be heart broken. It's a bad habit to kick, you know?”
“Believe me, I've seen it. But nah man, I don't touch those, no way.”
Clay ferried storage containers from the fridge to the counter-top; the containers were filled with last night's leftovers from family dinner. He pulled two plates from the cabinet.
“You want me to make you
a plate, Rust?”
“No, I just ate, actually. I'm stuffed.”
“What'd you have?”
“Omelet.”
Clay grinned. “How many eggs?”
“Six.”
“Hell yeah, that's what I like to hear,” Clay laughed. “That's what I miss most about playing hockey: eating like a pig every day … no offense.”
“None taken, bud. I love it too, thanks to you.”
Clay made his plate and took a seat at the table, across from Rust, and lowered himself into his chair carefully, with a quiet groan.
“Damn, you are hurting, aren't you?”
“Ah, it's not too bad.” Clay took a big bite of brisket sandwich. “Mm. So what's this thing you're gonna show me to help with the pain?”
“Just some stretches I've picked up along the way that have helped me with my injuries. They really help—but you have to do them every day, Clay.”
“Stretches? Aw hell.”
“They help! They really do!”
“I know … I know …”
***
Clay thought the stretch that Rust called 'counter-stretch' was bad.
But now Rust had him doing 'sitting floor,' which sure looked easy and painless enough when Rust demonstrated it. (He sat with his back flat against the wall, his butt on the floor, and his legs straight out in front of him, forming a ninety degree angle.)
But when Clay actually tried it himself?
“Aaaaaaaaargh!” Clay grumbled. “Holy hell! This is horrible, Rusty!”
“Just hang on!” Rust laughed, but he frowned sympathetically at the same time. “Twenty more seconds.”
“Shit! Twenty seconds?!” Clay yelped, fighting through the searing pain. “Ahhh!”
When Clay's minute was finally up, he popped off the ground in a hurry, mumbling “fuck!” and “goddamn!”
“Yeah,” Rust smiled, “you'd be surprised how many of the boys back in Columbus can't even handle that one.”
“I'm not surprised!” Clay snarled. “It's like medieval torture.”