by Van Barrett
“Oh, damn,” Clay groaned hoarsely, eyes wide.
Rust popped Clay's waist-button free. He pulled down his zipper, reached into his boxers, and fished out that big, throbbing dick. Clay's hefty manhood lumbered in the open air with a growing rigidity.
Rust gasped at the sight—“My god, you're big.”—and lowered his head to Clay's lap.
“Rusty!—Rusty … are you sure … you want to do this in here?” Clay protested weakly.
“Oh yeah,” Rust said, leaving no doubt about it.
Clay submitted with a quiet whimper. And Rust began to brush the tip of his tongue up and down Clay's length, slowly, teasingly—milking Clay for every long, tortured groan and blissful moan.
Clay squeezed the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening with his grip. He kept his eyes glued on the road ahead, even as Rust locked his lips tight around his tip and pushed, plunging that thick cock deeper into his red-hot, juicy, luscious lips …
“Oh my god you're so good at that. Fuck, buddy, I can't wait to be with you for real.”
Hearing that made Rust burst with happiness. He pushed his lips down Clay's cock deeper, faster, heavier and sloppier.
Clay kept both eyes on the road ahead. One hand on the wheel. And the other hand, he laid gently on the back of Rust's head—which bobbed rhythmically, up and down, up and down. Wet slurps and suction pops filled the cabin, as the truck raced down the old country highway.
“Oh, yeah, bud …!”
###
EPILOGUE:
The Years to Come.
Three Years Later.
– Rustin and Clay –
Clay eagerly waited at the streamer-wrapped front gates of Second Chance Horse Rescue with a huge group of party-goers.
First, there were the employees. All the 'original employees' were here—Liz, Max, Melissa, Cheryl, Jodie and Sarah—but so were all the newer employees, too. Even the employees who had the day off showed up today: everyone wanted to be here and witness something that small-town country folk don't often get to see.
Second, Clay had invited a large group of 'friends of the farm'—donors, the regular volunteers, some of the farm's service providers, some of the adopter families that he'd stayed in touch with over the years. Travis was there—the once-upon-a-time 'problem' teen who clicked with Apple. Holly and her parents were there, too—they were the family that adopted Rebel. Bearded old man Critter even drove out for the event, too.
Third, a crew from the local news station were there—a reporter and his camera man. The reporter milled around in a wool suit that was way too hot for the summer weather; he fanned himself relentlessly and patted at his sweaty brow.
“So where is he, already?” Max asked impatiently. “He's late.”
“Only by a few minutes late,” Clay answered. “He's coming, don't worry.”
Clay spotted it before anyone else: the tiny cloud of dust as a black car traveled up the dirt road.
“There,” Clay grinned, pointing it out. “That's him. He'll be here in a few minutes.”
The crowd cheered with excitement and pumped their signs into the air with enthusiasm.
The camera-man aimed his camera at Rust's car, apparently wanting footage of the BMW as it travailed the old country road in the distance.
Clay nervously paced back and forth, running his hand through his hair again and again.
Man. He really did it.
That was pretty cool—he'd often dreamed about this day. Of course, in his fantasies, the circumstances were always different … he was the one being welcomed by the local town-folk; he wasn't the one throwing the party.
But hey.
He'd accepted long ago that things just weren't meant to be like that in his life. And so this was as close as he was ever going to get. Which, to be fair, was pretty damned close. Not to mention, cool as hell.
And more importantly, he couldn't possibly be any happier for Rust, who'd completely deserved it.
***
For both men, the three years that transpired after their reunion went by in a flash.
After an emotional goodbye in Dallas, the two men practically had to pry themselves apart. Rust walked into Parkland Hospital and met with his concussion specialist.
He'd passed all the tests. That wasn't a surprise. They hadn't really shown anything in the first place. As long as Rust said he felt better, and could convincingly demonstrate it in exercise, they had no choice but to take his word for it.
By the end of the weekend, Rust had boarded a plane and joined his team back in Columbus. The team doctors were stymied by his progress—apparently, they'd all but written off his return to hockey themselves. But he passed their tests, and his physical fitness levels were quickly returning to normal.
Within another week, Rust was cleared to play. When the team gave him the all-clear order, and he walked through the dressing room doors to gear up before a game, his teammates hopped to their feet and applauded, hooting and hollering.
“Alright, alright,” Rust laughed, humbled. “Thanks. But the party's over. We got work to do, boys.”
And work they did. Rust's return to the ice calmed the young squad immediately, who shook their losing woes off as if they'd been a months-long bad dream. The team's descent through the standings stopped, and instead they started to string wins together again, grinding their way back into the middle of the pack.
Rust was a huge part of that. It wasn't just his experience and leadership that helped—he felt, and played, like a brand new player. He was more explosive on his skates, a stronger presence along the boards and in the corners, but most importantly—he was a calmer, smarter player.
He still played with a physical edge—but ever since he'd made amends with Clay, he felt that deep wellspring of anger had totally dissolved. Which, at first, might have worried Rust, because he wasn't quite so intimidating out there on the ice.
But as it turned out, he didn't need to be intimidating, or play such a bruising brand of hockey. Because once he rediscovered his love for hockey, he felt like a kid all over again—and turning 'defense into offense' became his passion on the ice all over again.
It's rare for an older player to rediscover his offensive game at the tail end of his career. But that's exactly what Rust had done. And, since Rust had given up his role as the 'team cop,' a couple of the younger guys—full of that youthful piss and vinegar—took up the mantel to let Rust focus on leading the team in other ways.
Which was just fine with Rust.
***
When the playoffs arrived a few short weeks later, Columbus had secured the fifth seed. Despite winning the first game of their series, they ended up losing the next 4 in a row. They were eliminated in 5 games.
Losing in the playoffs, as painful as it was, was still a tremendous experience for a young team to hold under its belt. A young team had to go through the pain and heart-break of losing. They had to know how bad it f'ing sucked—so they'd fight harder in the future to stave that pain off.
And so Rust found himself at another fork in the road: with Columbus eliminated from the playoffs, his contract was officially expired. He was once again a free agent, free to play for any team in the league.
Rust had to think long and hard. He loved that Columbus team, he loved the boys—but he also knew that they were still a few years away from being a true contender. As much he relished his role as a leader on the team … he wanted to win a Cup, and the window on that opportunity was shutting fast as he aged.
But when the contract offers started to come in, his decision was a little easier, a little more clear. One team offered him a whole million dollars more than Columbus had offered.
And the team that made that highest offer?
Why, it was Dallas of course.
That meant being a hop-and-a-skip away from Clay and his horse rescue farm. That meant getting to see each other a lot more frequently—which was great, because as big of a relief as it was to talk to Clay on the phone ev
ery other night, it always left him feeling a little surly that they were still separated.
(Plus, the phone sex was super hot—he liked to joke that Clay should've been a phone sex operator instead of a horse rescuer—but the same old problem still applied. Talking and thinking about being intimate with Clay only made him miss it that much more.)
But! If Rust signed with Dallas, Clay could actually go to his home games! When he had an actual break in the playing schedule, Rust could drive out to the country and stay at Clay's farm!
The more he thought about it, the more appealing the very generous offer became.
At the end of the day, every player knows that hockey's just another business. Rust was sad to say bye to his teammates*, but he'd been through the pain of that before, too.
(*His teammates gave him endless shit about signing with Texas. “Thought you hated Texas?! The hell, Rust!” But it was all in good fun—and once they heard the money value, they understood perfectly fine. “Well shit. I'd go play in Antarctica for that!”)
Rust put his pen on the dotted line and signed a two-year contract with Dallas.
He was closer to home now.
***
When Rust called Clay and told him over the phone he'd received a contract offer from Dallas, Clay's heart jumped into his throat.
“Are you kidding me? Sign it!” Clay said immediately. “Sign it, sign it, sign it!”
Rust laughed. “I didn't even tell you how much mone--”
“The offer could be for the league minimum and I'd still tell you to sign it, Rusty! We'll be close!”
“Okay, well … it's not league minimum … it's actually--”
Clay's jaw dropped when he heard the number.
Holy hell. Dallas had offered Rust the best deal by far.
It was really going to happen, wasn't it?
Rust had a hard time leaving his old team. The guy was loyal. That was one thing you could say about him—it really made him sad to walk away from that young team. And they were sad to see him, go too—but at the end of the day, they understood why.
And yet, they didn't even know about his relationship with Clay. That detail only made his decision that much more obvious.
So Rust packed up his things, leased a nice downtown Dallas apartment, and moved in to begin his off-season training … with every-other-weekend trips out to Clay's. (While Clay would drive out to Rust's place on the other weekends.)
The team and the city of Dallas quickly went to work on making Rust feel appreciated. He was anointed by the local sports media as the 'missing piece' for a team whose defensive corps needed a serious upgrade.
In the off-season, Rust sat down with a Dallas reporter for an exclusive interview. One of the first questions that came up was about Rust's concussion from the previous season:
Reporter: “Everyone's probably thinking it, so we should probably get this out of the way: last season, in a game against Dallas, you were hit by Jamie Bente and suffered a serious concussion. Now that you two will be teammates, a lot of Dallas fans are wondering: is there any bad blood between you two?”
Rust laughed the question off.
“No, not at all. Hockey is a physical game, and when you play a physical game, sometimes guys get hurt, unfortunately. But I watched replays of that hit and I've got no issue with the way Jamie hit me. It was a clean hit—shoulder-to-shoulder, no elbow; textbook open-ice hit. I wasn't looking. That's my fault. Actually, I have a story I could share here—that first night after the game, when I ended up in the hospital, Jamie sent me a text message saying he was sorry I was hurt, and he hoped I made a speedy recovery. I knew then that he was a solid guy. And, more recently, as soon as the news broke that I signed with Dallas, Jamie called me and we had a little talk. We're both excited for the future, excited to be teammates.”
The reporter moved on and asked Rust about his recovery from that hit—how it happened, if he's still feeling better, and so on.
“Absolutely, I feel great now.”
Reporter: “Columbus had basically stopped giving updates about your health when you were still missing time. There's this idea that's been floated out there, that you were in really bad shape—whispers of retirement and so forth—before your health seemed to improve over night. Is there any truth to the rumors that you sort of … miraculously improved?”
Rust shifted in his seat and chuckled—a little uncomfortably—as he mulled over his answer. He hadn't told the media about his recovery thus far. All he'd told the media back in Columbus was that he woke up one day feeling better.
And that was mostly true.
“He might kill me for telling you this—there's an old teammate of mine from Hershey. Clay Grayson. He was our captain, my mentor, and all that. Well, Clay runs a horse rescue farm now a few hours outside of Dallas. It's called Second Chance Horse Rescue. Yeah, I was absolutely in miserable shape, and retirement became this word that lingered on the tip of my tongue. But then I met up with Clay, my old teammate. He invited me out to his farm, and something about that place just turned my health around. The horses, the fresh air, getting to do some work in the outdoors, hell, catching up with an old friend? Whatever combination it was made my situation improve overnight. It's crazy and I can still hardly believe it when I think about it, but I think he had a huge role to play in my recovery.”
Rust wasn't going to come out to the media—not like this, not now, and definitely not by dragging Clay into it. Maybe they could come out together someday, but not today.
The reporter asked for more information about Clay's farm. Once the interview aired, word spread quickly among about Rust's recovery at Clay's farm. It was a unique time when the worlds of hockey and horses met—with hockey fans learning about horses, and horse lovers learning about hockey.
But word spread like a wildfire. Rust, sensing an opportunity to turn all the publicity into some good will, tweeted a link to Clay's website—where people could watch videos of their horses and learn their stories.
And also donate!
And so the donations came pouring in like a rockslide. Rust had done it: he'd found a way to give Clay money without giving it himself, since the guy was too darned stubborn to accept his boyfriend's money.
Clay and Rust had just finished up a day of work at the farm, when Clay finally caught wind of the grass-roots funding drive. He sat down at the computer, logged into the farm's bank account, and saw a number that couldn't possibly be right.
He laughed and shook his head. “Rust—buddy! Come here, you gotta see this! The bank fucked up bad. Look at all the money they put in the farm's account. Ha! I better call 'em so they can fix it.”
Clay whipped out his cell phone and started dialing. But Rust snatched the phone away and pointed his finger at the monitor.
“Look, Clay. That's not a mistake. Those are donations.”
Clay gave Rust a look like he'd sprouted a second head. “Whaaaaat?”
“The Dallas interview came out yesterday and everyone's sharing it online. It's kinda viral in the hockey world right now, bud.”
Clay's eyes narrowed. “Yeah, and?”
“And—I also tweeted a link to your site.”
“So …?”
Rust rolled his eyes. “Your farm is all over the news and people are donating, Clay. That's your money. Yours. You can expand your farm now.”
Clay swallowed. He looked at the figure on the screen, and then back at Rust. And then back at the screen again.
“Damn it, Rusty! Look at all this money! What the hell!”
Rust pinned his fists to his hips defiantly. “Aw, shit, don't tell me you're mad about it.”
Clay hopped up out of his seat, threw his hat back on and scrambled to find his truck keys. “I'm not! I'm thrilled! But now I gotta get to work!”
Rust rushed after him, laughing. “Don't leave without me, damn it.”
***
The next two years were a busy time for both men.
Clay built mo
re structures and doubled the size of his stable, allowing for 100 horses instead of 50. That meant doubling his work staff, too—and expanding their volunteer programs and funding drives, too.
The transition wasn't exactly easy or smooth—it was long, hard days of construction, planning, and training. Clay often worked at least 12 hours a day, seven days a week, until things finally began to slow down.
Clay could now help twice the amount of horses, and things were running smoothly. But his farm wouldn't truly feel 'finished,' because one big piece in his stable was still missing: Rust.
Yes, they saw each other often—but 'often' never seemed to be enough. Rust's busy, jet-set schedule meant his visits to the farm during the hockey season were few and far between. But Clay did his part to make sure they still saw each other at least once a week, by driving out to Dallas to be with Rust. Even if only for lunch.
And while they hadn't 'come out' to anybody … Liz was the first to know.
She'd sensed something was brewing with Clay for months, if not years. His weekly trips to Dallas weren't horse-related—that excuse could only go so far before it was obvious he was lying, after all. And the fact that Rust, a pro hockey player, was still coming out to the farm and staying the night …
Well, it was sort of a miracle no one else figured it out. Or maybe they had. But no one asked about it but Liz. She did it in a very sly way, too.
“You seem really happy lately, Clay.”
“I uh—I am!” he said, acting somewhat suspect.
“It's Rust, isn't it?” She smiled that sweet, all-knowing and all-accepting, motherly smile.
Clay's throat tightened. He considered lying. But he knew she'd see right through him anyway.
“Ah hell. Yeah. It is.”
She smiled wider, hugged him, whispered: “I'm so happy for you.”
He knew his secret was safe with her. And, as Clay would find out in time, Liz would become a trusted confidant who helped him work through his thoughts and emotions as he navigated his first serious relationship.