One on One (Cayuga Cougars Book 5)

by V. L. Locey

  The men murmured in agreement. I peeked at the redhead chawing his gum. He jerked his head to get me moving. Lord above, I hated this kind of talk.

  “A key point that I’d like to address, pertaining to the Cottonmouths, is the way that they’re coached. Mike Mullins is a not a gracious man. He’s driven to win and, I believe, at his core, he’s willing to do anything that secures him wins. He overlooks cheap hits, he tends to be volatile, and he encourages his players to use any means required to get under other players’ skins. This includes hurling racial, religious, and gay slurs.”

  My eyes touched on the few men who I knew were LGBT, and then I locked down McGarrity. His gaze had ignited instantly, and I knew why. He was not a man who would take a bad word being said about his lady love, and rightfully so. But, and this is the part that was eating at me like a boll weevil on a cotton bud, everyone in the league knew that he and Lila were a couple. They were open, proud, and brooked no shit about who they were. The fact that Lila was transgender was bound to come up on the ice, and it would not be in a complimentary manner. “We wanted you to all be aware that this will be a key way of distracting you from whatever it is you’re assigned to be doing. Do not retaliate to jibes and digs. This is giving them the power.” Mario said nothing, but land sakes, was he working his jaw. “They will instigate. They will do their best to make you lash out. They have a strong power play, best in the league behind ours, and they will make us pay if we let them fluster us. Forewarned is forearmed. Get your rhino hides on and when they go low, we’ll have to go high.”

  A row rumble of anger rolled over the men. I could hear Victor masticating. How he’d kept his claptrap shut was beyond me, but he had. So far, anyway.

  “That’s all I had to say. Ice in five minutes.” I stalked out of the dressing room, feeling as if I’d just been gutted in some dark, unforeseen manner. “I need some tea.”

  I’d thrown myself into my office, guzzled a good half gallon of tea, and paced off most of my anxiety and disgust. I was making another pass around my desk wondering if I should switch to decaf tea, when someone rapped on my door and then stepped in, not waiting for me to call for him to enter. Mario was dressed for the ice, his helmet on his head, his mouthguard in his gloved hand.

  “Just wanted to lay this out, man-to-man, the first time someone says one word about my Lila, I am knocking the shit-gibbon into next week. You can bench me afterward, you can suspend me, you can boot my ass to the curb. I don’t really care. I got fourteen games left before I retire. I love this sport and this team, but I love my woman more. Just thought we ought to have us a wee talk so we both know where the other is coming from.”

  “Understood,” I said. He nodded, crammed his mouthguard in, and thumped off. “Sweet Mary and Joseph,” I sighed as my ass came to rest on the edge of my desk. I rubbed at my eyes with my fingers, vigorously, until my phone vibrated in my pocket. Pushing up with an exaggerated exhalation, I was thrilled to see it was my man calling.

  “Townsend Harris, you do have a way of appearing when I need you most,” I said, kicking my door shut then flopping into the old office chair behind my desk.

  “Rough morning?” Town asked as I threw my feet to the top of my desk.

  “I’ll fill you in tonight. We’re still going to dinner with Ben and his wife?” I was excited to meet the mayor and his bride. Ben seemed to be the kind of politician this country needed, forthright, open-minded, liberal, and affable.

  “Yep, I’ll pick you up at six. Sporty casual with scruff,” he said.

  “Scruff? I was brought up to shave before a meal out with friends.”

  “I like the scruff when you rub it against my belly.”

  “Ah, well then, I’ll be all kinds of scruffy,” I chuckled. The sharp thud of a fist on my door made me groan. Kalinski threw the door open and stepped inside.

  “Time to play games,” he announced before walking out, his ball of gum still resting in his cheek like a big old wad of Copenhagen chewing tobacco.

  “I have to go.” I pulled my feet down from my desktop. “I’ll see you at six, in full scruff.”

  “Can’t wait.” He made a soft kissing noise then hung up. I sat there for a moment, watching the Cougars file past to the ice, the sounds of their deep voices filling my tiny office. I had a strong suspicion that when we rolled into Augusta there would be blood spilled. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be ours, but I knew my old team well. I made a mental note to tell the head trainer to pack extra bandages. He was going to need them.

  Dinner out with Ben and his wife, Jeanne, was simply delightful. We went to this little rustic cabin off Route 90 that sat next to Pine Hollow Creek. The log cabin was renowned in the area for its incredible filet mignon, according to Town, who looked edible in a sport jacket worn with dark gray jeans and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to show a bit of chest hair. I couldn’t keep my eyes off that tiny bit of dark springy hair as we ate, and I actually got caught short several times. Mostly when Ben was talking about political things.

  “…to the public July first.”

  My gaze was on Town’s throat and how it worked when he drank his ice water or swallowed a bite of meat or baked potato. My date cleared his throat. My eyes flew from his neck to the mayor and his wife as my cheeks grew warm.

  “I’m sorry, I was off gathering wool. It’s been a long season,” I said, hoping to cover for the gaffe. Ben and Jeanne graciously accepted my apology.

  “You boys do play a long season. And so many games!” Jeanne exclaimed, while dipping her tiny bite of steak into a glob of steak sauce on her plate.

  “Yes, ma’am, we do. Come July we’re all pretty much too tired to skate or eat,” I threw out, and jabbed at my steaming potato. “So what were you saying, Mayor?”

  “Ben, please,” the lanky man seated next to me said. A server passed by with something on his tray that reeked of garlic. “I was saying that we’re going to be taking the proposal for the LGBTQ youth center to the public on July the first. As you and Town are a couple, and I know there are a few other LGBTQ men on the team, we’d love to have you join us at the town meeting. The community respects athletes, and your stories and support will certainly help us get this up and running.”

  I glanced at Town chewing his steak, his eyes warm and soft, and resting on me. Did I speak up about the mayor’s assumption that Town and I were a “couple” or not? We had been on several dates since the wine tour, little local things like ice cream cone runs or nights at his place or mine. Eating, loafing, sucking each other off. I did enjoy the blowjobs and cuddles afterward. I’d even gotten brazen enough to ask him to spend the night the last time we’d gotten together for dinner. He’d been happy to sleep tight to my back, his arm resting on my hip. Playing little spoon suited me just fine.

  “I’d be delighted to come speak or help in any manner that I can,” I replied with a smile. Town’s eyes glowed with something deep. The meal then went on as they do, with more talk, a few laughs, and haggling over the check.

  “Ben’s a nice man,” I told Town, as he drove us back to his place for a nightcap. Nightcap in this instance, meaning someone’s mouth on someone’s dick. Either was fine with me. Hell, maybe I’d get brave and offer up the suggestion to sixty-nine.

  “He is, smart too, and really genuine in his wish to help this tiny community grow and develop.”

  Idle chit-chat filled the short ride home. Once inside his quaint little brick home, we heeled off our shoes, poured ourselves some sweet blackberry wine, and nestled into the sofa.

  “So, you have to leave again tomorrow morning,” Town said into his wine glass.

  I took a sip and nodded sadly. “Yeah, I wish this season were over. I know that’s sacrilegious, but Lord above, I am tired.”

  “I’ll be honest here and confess that I’ll be happy when the season is over as well. I want you to win it all but…” He lifted a shoulder to finish his thought.

  “I totally understand. I feel the same. And
I got what, eleven years on you? If I were thirty again my get up and go would get up a lot faster,” I joked, before taking another taste of my wine.

  “You talk like you’re ready for a walker,” he replied with a playful shoulder to shoulder nudge. “We have a lot of things in common like our tastes in books, movies, food, wine.” He held up his delicate glass for emphasis. I tapped it with mine and the glass sang beautifully. “I even kind of like your music, for the most part, although it lacks a lot of soul. I’ve been practicing a few songs for you. Want to hear one?”

  That perked me right up. “Yes, please!”

  He placed his glass on an oval coffee table then stood. I watched him walk to the guitars in the corner and lift the acoustic one from its stand. Hearing him play a song or two when I was over had become routine.

  He sat down on the table facing me, guitar in his lap, and began plucking. I knew the music instantly. It was Come and Go Blues, one of my favorite songs by the Allman Brothers. Town smiled at me as he worked the neck of the guitar with those long, rough, skilled fingers.

  The first few words sent shivers down my spine. His singing voice was superb and perfect for such bluesy songs. Gritty and smoky as a speakeasy, just listening to him made my dick plump up. He did a fine job of the song, despite his wrinkled nose when he set the guitar aside.

  “It’s rough here and there. Need to tighten up the fretwork a bit, but I should have it ready when we play at Jimmy Joe’s next time.” He reached for his wine glass but never quite got his hand to it.

  I slid to the edge of the sofa, captured his face, and put my mouth over his. I kissed that man seven ways to Sunday and then led him by the hand to his bedroom, wine sitting where we’d left it, because I had to have him love me one more time before I went home.

  Our clothes were shed quickly, a sock here and a pair of boxers there, a pathway of discarded items leading to his big, soft bed.

  “I want you in my mouth,” I huffed after he shoved me back onto the bed. I’d been perfecting my oral techniques and was feeling pretty good about my skills.

  “Not this time,” he informed me, kissing into my mouth with slow, leisurely strokes of his velvety tongue. I ran my hands over his sides, feeling his ribs, grasping at his skin to keep his lips on mine when he began to slither downward. “This time it’s all me loving you so well you don’t forget who you’re a couple with while you’re down south.”

  I pushed up to my elbows as he tugged on a stiff nipple. A low moan slipped from me, my cock weeping and needy. “You’re okay with me not calling him on that then?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He flicked and teased each little nub until I was writhing under him. Then he slipped down, leaving purplish-red suckle marks on my belly and hip, my thigh, and then right on the crease of my leg. He sucked powerfully, his fingers trailing up and down my cock. I jammed my heels into the mattress, pressing my hips skyward, anxious for something more. “You’re so damn pretty,” he growled, before sucking one of my balls into his mouth.

  “Ah, hell, oh hell fire, Town,” I mewled as he sucked, slurping loudly, his hand toying with my prick as he devoured my balls. There was a moment where the slip and slide of his tongue moving down over my ass didn’t quite register, but then he did it again. “Oh hell!” I shouted, sparks of sensation firing off at the base of my spine. “What the hell…oh damn that…Town I…oh hell I love that. Yes, yes, more.”

  I grabbed my knees and pressed my legs to my chest, the cracking and grating of old joints washed away by the amazing sensation of a man jabbing his tongue into my ass over and over and over. He spit on my hole and I gasped, then pleaded for him to do it again, so he did. And then he pushed two of those calloused musician’s fingers into me, hooking them just so. The first scratch of his nails over my prostate set off some sort of erotic chain reaction in my body. My balls tightened up, my dick jumped, and my brain overloaded. As if his fingering my soaking wet ass wasn’t quite enough, Town then sucked my cock into his mouth, going deep, his cheeks hollowing, and then coming off with so much suction my eyes crossed.

  “You like this?” he asked, his voice deeper and huskier.

  He wiggled his fingers and I howled like a wolf. My body convulsed, and I came violently. Town hurried to get the head of my cock in his mouth, his tongue swirling over and around, lapping up each spurt. I rocked my hips up and back the best I could, getting more depth inside me. He pressed in deeper, harder, making sure he hit that ball of nerves with force.

  My mouth fell open and guttural sounds drifted out of me. I came and came, and he took it all, he licked up every droplet ravenously. His fingers slid in and out like a piston. He spit cum on them and then worked in a third. There was no stopping the orgasm, and who would want to? He worked me for what felt like forever, draining me, making me whimper and plead for him to stop when the tremors became too intense.

  He mumbled something against my cock as he pulled his fingers out of my ass. My hole clenched and opened. Town rubbed the edges and then climbed up over me just enough to get his cock over my ass and balls.

  “Watch me come on your ass,” he snarled, his hand pumping away. I forced my eyes open, my chest was heaving so rapidly I felt close to passing out. “Watch me. Someday, Lan, I am going to come inside you. Deep inside. I’m going to watch my cum leak out of you while I’m still buried in you.” I groaned loudly and fell into another round of shudders. “You like the sound of that? Tell me.”

  “Yes…yes…ah hell yes.” I hugged my legs closer to my chest. He grunted and bit down on his lower lip, his knees tight to my ass, as his first shot flew up over my cock and belly. Then he eased back a bit and the rest of his load coated my balls and taint. It ran down the crack of my ass to the bedding. I laid there, shivering and spent, coated in semen, watching him come. It was a thing of sheer beauty. The tendons in his neck stood out, he bared his teeth, his muscles all flexed and flowed, and his cock jerked and kicked.

  “Damn that… was just…damn,” he panted, then kind of listed to the right, pinning my left leg under him. I let go of my right leg, stretching it out. My knee cracked like a starter’s pistol. I winced and worked the leg a bit to avoid a cramp. “Oh damn.”

  He burrowed into the bed, his hand still on his dick. I pulled my leg free, straightened it, moaned in pain, and then moved that leg back and forth until it stopped prickling.

  “I am rather sure… that I will not forget…your name while I am down…south,” I stammered, then let my body melt into the bedspread.

  “Ah good. Care to…remind me of what…my name is?”

  I laughed softly at him, rolling to my side to drop a tender kiss to his sweaty shoulder. I doubted I would ever forget this man’s name or his sinfully good loving in this lifetime or the next.

  One thing about Mario McGarrity: he was a man of his word. Generally, I’d say that was an admirable trait, but in this instance it really wasn’t. Not that Brian Butress of the Augusta Cottonmouths didn’t need a fist to his filthy mouth, he did. Just not in the first period of the first game of the eastern semifinals. I’d heard the nasty slur Brian had slung at Mario. We all had. Brian had rolled McGarrity into the boards right in front of our bench, sending Mario ass over tin cups into the laps of his teammates.

  Brian then hurled a snarling “tranny fucker” at McGarrity, who came over the boards like a raving maniac, and proceeded to pound on Brian unmercifully, all within a foot of our bench. Of course, Mario was slapped with an instigator penalty and evicted from the game. Brian, the hateful pig, was taken back to have his face sewn up, and returned to thunderous applause from the home crowd. I was sickened by the thought that my kids, Betty, and James were seated right behind us. Had they heard that slur? Had the other children nearby? My stomach turned, just thinking that I had played for this team. True, when I’d been signed, things hadn’t been like this. But new management had taken over, and with this putrid new coach, the team had sunk in respectability but soared in the standings.

  We arg
ued and screamed at the officials, citing the slur that we all had clearly heard but no one else in the noisy arena had. Needless to say, things went downhill fast from that point because my team, my wonderfully inclusive team, was livid. And hotheads do not win hockey games. They simply don’t. Winners have to be cool and collected to focus. All the Cougars were too hot under the collar to concentrate. We looked like baboons out there. It was a debacle.

  After the game, and Dewey’s highly agitated speech in the dressing room, I gave Mario a jerk of my head to indicate he was to follow me. I stormed out of the away locker room, McGarrity, still in his sweaty and bloody jersey, was right behind me. I rounded on the man as soon as we were clear of the dressing room.

  “I distinctly told you that we were to not engage them when they provoked us,” I snarled.

  “And I told you that the first one to speak badly of Lila was getting his fucking clock cleaned.” He folded his arms over his chest, daring me to come back at him. I liked Mario, I did. But I was the associate coach. That demanded respect. Perhaps he was still hopped-up on adrenaline or he simply thought a laid-back Southern boy like me didn’t have it in him to slap him down. He was sorely mistaken.

  “Yes you did, and I’m now telling you that you’re sitting out the next game so that you can reflect on how to better respond to someone like Brian yanking your chain.” His eyebrows flew up and his mouth dropped. “I’ll let Dewey know of my decision. I strongly suggest you do not dig yourself in any deeper by saying whatever it is that’s burning on your tongue.”

  I walked away, so angry with him, the team, myself, and the Cottonmouths I could’ve spat fire. I’d managed to find a small spot to gather myself in solitude, or what had been solitude for about three and a half minutes. Kalinski, sans jacket and tie, blew into the small nook that housed a soda machine and a snack machine. I’d bought a can of iced tea and a Moon Pie. The tea was disgusting and tinny, but the sweet treat was beyond delicious.