Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  I was hypnotized, like I said.

  And then, without me even wanting to, my eyes went even lower.

  Oh. My. God.

  Jonesy is ... he's a grower, I'll say that. Not that the dude is small when we're in the dressing room. Not that I've paid attention to it, either – okay? But – but this. It was ... it was something.

  It was long. But it was also thick. The head was fat, and with a little upturn at the end. Big, virile veins ran up his shaft.

  I dunno how to describe cocks. I've never had to do that before. I've never thought about any cock but my own ... it's a weird place to be in.

  Maybe that's why I couldn't look away? 'Cause I've never seen a hard cock besides mine. That makes sense, right?

  I'd definitely never seen another guy beat it before, either. A morbid curiosity gripped me. I couldn't look away, couldn't will myself to leave the bathroom – no matter how scared I was of getting caught.

  So, mesmerized, I stayed. And I watched.

  I watched that arm work in waves. Starting slow, with deep, deliberate tugs. Building up faster. Until he's jerking it fast and light.

  With each cycle, a strange thing happened. His dick grew thicker. Longer. Fatter. The head itself – I could see it swell! I thought for sure he'd bust ... and a part of me even got excited. Yes, I'd whisper silently to myself, do it.

  But he wouldn't let himself cum. Instead, he started over, went back to his slow and steady strokes. And my brow would furrow and I wanted to swear under my breath, damn it! Cum already!

  What the hell? I had to ask myself. Why do I even care?

  I guess because – I know what it's like. I know how good it feels to cum. That pressure blast – a pop of relief – that comes again and again, shooting out in heavenly threads. And for those next few moments, you're on top of the world and nothing else matters.

  So I want him to do it already. So I can say yes, quietly pump my fist, and get the hell out of there. And move on with my life.

  Each new cycle brought him closer. He'd build himself back up even faster. His cock growing thicker, fatter, longer.

  Then he got to the one that I knew, deep-down, would be 'the one.' There was no way he could resist this one – his penis looked swollen and vulnerable.

  Wide-eyed, I was helpless to do anything but stare.

  Here it comes, I thought to myself, biting my lip.

  And all I could think about was a crazy thing. I thought about how beautiful his body was. What a perfect build, so trim but muscled – the ideal man. I could just imagine being a woman, being under him, my hands pressed up against his abs – feeling his abs clench and tighten the moment he came. Feeling his seed spray inside me.

  Oh fuck, I thought, a hot flash rippling over my body. That's the moment I realized my own cock was hard. Uncomfortably and painfully erect – gouging against the crotch of my pants.

  “Unngh!” Callan whimpered softly, and I knew he was trying to keep his voice down – so I wouldn't hear. If only he knew how close I really was.

  And then ...

  Sprrrrtttt!

  The sound of a high-pressure spray blasting against the glass door.

  My jaw fell open in disbelief. Another part of me, deep down, screamed with an agonized thrill – Yes! Yes! Yes!

  Then he pumped himself like a shotgun, priming himself for the next blast. Sprrrrtttt! Again and again.

  My heart froze in my chest. I didn't dare make a peep. And now, finally, it dawned on me what a fucked thing I'd done – and how close I was to getting caught. He was done, after all, he'd spilled his seed. Yet, here I was – kneeling right outside the shower, my face inches from the glass where he'd lost himself. And I'm afraid to make a sound or move an inch, because I know that could get me caught.

  Any second now, he could open his eyes and see the scene of my crime.

  I'd lost the right to gloat, to antagonize, to point my finger and laugh and call him names. I lost that right minutes ago – when I found out he was jerking it, and instead of shouting about it, I stayed quiet. I didn't dare make a damn noise – and I actually watched him finish.

  I was the deviant now, and I knew it. Not him – me.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Callan had lost a little of his firmness after he came. But he still he milked his cock in his hands, squeezing it from the base to the tip, until he'd spilled the last drop.

  And then I was transported back in time – reminded what it was like to be Callan's age again.

  His cock seemed to grow more rigid. Firmed up like a piece of lumber. And he was ready to go again – he had to go again.

  “Ugh,” he groaned, realizing he was too weak to stop himself. That he'd have to jerk it all over again.

  That was it – the escape I needed. I finally snapped out of my trance. He'd jerk himself again, and that was great, because that meant he was distracted. I forced myself to look away, having satisfied my curiosity, and slowly, quietly, crawled back out of the bathroom.

  And then I closed the door, softly, silently, and no one was any wiser.

  And then I snuck down to the hotel bar.

  Callan would never have to know about any of it.

  That is – if I had left his clothes in the bathroom. Instead, here they sit, right on my lap at the bar.

  The fuck am I supposed to do with these? I wondered, shaking my head at his clothes and finishing off my drink.

  “You want another?” the bartender asks.

  I have to think it over. Another drink might help – if Callan wants to talk about what happened. Then again, another drink might make me do something stupid. Say too much, maybe.

  “No,” I say, waving the bartender off. I leave the bar, taking Callan's clothes with me.

  But on the walk back to the room? I find a trash can, and I dump Callan's clothes in it.

  “Sorry,” I mutter under my breath. I feel horrible throwing his things away.

  But it's not just clothes I'm throwing away. It's evidence. Of something fucked up. Something I witnessed, and – what's more – something I felt but can't quite explain.

  I dunno what it means. But I'm perfectly content and fine to take that whole experience and throw it in the garbage, never to see the light of day again. And no one will be any wiser.

  23.

  Not My Fault

  Callan

  Uhhhh.

  I know I'm not crazy.

  I know I brought a change of clothes into that bathroom with me. I know it because it's one of my favorite shirts, a shirt I've had since my Junior days. But now I can't find it anywhere. Not in the bathroom, not in my suitcase, not anywhere else.

  And even if I'm somehow wrong about that one – I know, for sure, that there was a bath towel in that bathroom with me. I'm 100% positive on that.

  So what's the explanation? Is this hotel haunted? Was it aliens?

  Seriously, bro. I don't get it.

  I mean, maybe, possibly – Vance did something? Like maybe he snuck in and took my clothes and my bath towel. But, err, why he would do that would be my first question.

  The second question would have to be so cringe-ifying my soul hurts. But, if it was him ... did he – y'know – see anything?

  Just the thought of that makes me wanna die. As if this year hasn't already been fucking weird enough. That would take the cake.

  Whatever, though. I leave the bathroom, grab a new towel to dry off with, and change into a separate set of clothes.

  I'm not sure where Vance went, since he's not in the room anymore. I'm trying to ignore that dreadful feeling inside me that knows his disappearance is related to the missing clothes.

  Maybe he's playing some kind of prank. Maybe he didn't see anything at all.

  “Enough!” I tell myself, sick of all the questions buzzing around my mind and driving me mad.

  So I lay in bed and turn the TV on. And, after a half-hour or so, I hear the key-card pass into the door lock. My stomach wrenches.

&
nbsp; Oh God here we go. Moment of truth.

  Vance walks in. He keeps his eyes low. Mumbles “hey,” but doesn't look at me as he walks past my bed to his own.

  “Hey,” I say. “Where'd you go?”

  “Had a drink at the bar,” is his curt reply. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

  A drink at the bar? My eyes narrow. Vance isn't one to just go out for a drink by himself. He needs a reason – like going out with the boys, or having a drink with dinner.

  A reason.

  But that's as far as I'm willing to go on that topic, because my chest is getting all tight at the mere thought of what that reason could be.

  Oh well. I'm not about to ask him where my clothes went. Even if I do want them back. So what's done is done, I guess. Back to focusing on hockey.

  “So uh, big game coming up next,” Vance says. “The last game of the season.”

  Ugh. Then there's that topic.

  “Yeah,” I croak. “The Jets. My old team.”

  Vance turns away from me and rolls on his side, facing the wall. “You nervous?”

  I wince. Truth is? Yeah, I'm a little nervous. But not about the outcome of the game. We're already in the playoffs, no matter what. I'm just nervous about what might be said during the game.

  “No ... not really,” I say. “I just wanna win.”

  I see Vance nod, but he doesn't say anything else.

  What the hell.

  We don't say another word to each other. It's late anyway, I guess. I turn the lamp off and toss and turn until I finally fall asleep.

  ME AND VANCE DON'T talk much on the ride to the airport, or on the flight back to Chicago. In fact we don't sit by each other on the plane like we normally do. That's alright, I guess. A little space could be good. At least I won't have to think and obsess over what he might have seen when he's sitting next to me, being a big awkward weirdo.

  Besides, it's not my fault. If that guy snuck into the bathroom while I was in there showering, and he saw something that he wasn't meant to see – really, whose fault is that? Not mine. So I don't have to feel bad, guilty or shameful over it.

  And it's not like he could see what it was I was thinking about while I was jerking myself. Thank God no technology for that exists yet! ...

  So he made a mistake. And now he lives with the consequences. Done.

  I just want my shirt back already.

  Our plane touches down in Chicago, and we all go our separate ways back to our own lives. Me and Vance take separate taxis back to our hotel, even if we normally grab one together.

  That's fine too. Whatever.

  By the time I get back to the hotel, and take the elevator up to my floor, and walk down that hallway – I happen to get a glimpse, just as I enter the hallway, of Vance entering his room. He beat me back to the hotel, only by a half-minute or so, and I see him hurrying into his room and shutting his door quickly. He looks like some kind of operative on a mission.

  Somehow, the sight makes me angry. I didn't do anything wrong, but now he's being all weird around me.

  And for the first time since I arrived? I'm starting to think it's time to get out of this hotel. I realize I should make a call and find an apartment. Me and Vance room together on the road – is it really necessary to be this close to each other when we're at home?

  I mean, if I'm being honest with myself, I know there's no way I would've stayed in a hotel this long if it weren't for my friendship with Vance. I would've gotten an apartment first thing, because I hate living in a hotel. Something about it feels so temporary, so fleeting, like vacation is about to end any minute.

  And maybe it finally has. Because let's be real – I was getting something of a crush on my teammate, my captain, my roommate, my hockey idol ... straight guy Tyler Vance. I mean what the fuck? Can I get any more unrealistic? Is there a fantasy any more ridiculous than that?

  In a way, I'm lucky things didn't turn out worse! And really, this might even be the best case scenario. Because now the situation can quietly, if a little awkwardly, defuse. I'll move on, he'll move on, and no one will ever have to talk about this again. And I can finally, at long last, truly dedicate myself to playing hockey without other things getting in the way.

  IT'S GAME DAY.

  I walk to the arena – by myself – thinking about the game to come. First of all, if the comments on Twitter this morning are any indication, I'm totally expecting a media circus today. Talk of 'the trade' has died down a bit in recent weeks, but this game against the Jets has given the rumors new life.

  The narrative is just too juicy for them to resist: 'Young star traded over mysterious circumstances, rift with former teammates.'

  But even I'm surprised when I walk to the arena and see just how many cameras are there, all being pointed right at me, a horde of microphones jammed into my face as I try to hurry past.

  “Callan! Callan!” the reporters shout.

  “What are your thoughts going into this game?!

  “Have you talked with any of your teammates since the trade?!”

  “What do you really think of Dimitri Burkhardt and the Jets?!”

  “No comments,” I wave them off as I strut by the crowd and into the arena. “I'll answer questions after the game.”

  I burst into the arena and find myself in a quiet hallway leading to the dressing room. Holy crap, I pant to myself. I take a second to catch my breath and clear my mind. I don't want my teammates to see me like this.

  When I'm good, I burst into the dressing room with that Callan Jones grin on my face.

  “Heyyy!” the boys cheer. “There he is!”

  “Man of the hour!”

  “The locker room cancer himself!”

  I crack up with everyone else. “That's me alright.”

  Vance is here, too. I nod at him, and he nods back.

  “So how much cheddar you puttin' up tonight, Jonesy?” Nelson asks.

  In games like this – a hockey player facing his old team for the first time – it's a tradition for the new player to put up some of his money as prize for the player who gets the game-winning goal. A little something extra to motivate the team to get the win for the new guy.

  “Hmm,” I tap my chin. “How 'bout ... a grand?”

  “That's it?” he laughs. “A grand? That's how bad you want this? I bet you Fresno's putting 10 g's up against us!”

  “Hey, a grand is a lot to me, alright! I'm not making the big bucks like Fresno is!”

  A good-natured squabble about what a cheap-ass I am takes up the next few minutes. I shake my head, laughing at all their jokes, while I get dressed. And I hope no one picks up on my nervousness. Because while I've grown to love this team – I've got a sinking feeling that it could all end tonight.

  Soon, the jokes start to fade. Guys start to get quiet as nerves set in, and we start to focus on the battle ahead.

  “Alright,” Vance says at last, once we're all suited up and ready to take the ice. “Let's do it for Jonesy.”

  24.

  Last Game of the Season

  Tyler

  I haven't really cared much about why Jonesy got traded, truth be told.

  Guys get moved all the time. Sometimes for personal reasons, sometimes for business reasons. Sometimes teams just don't see eye to eye with their players. Feelings get hurt. It happens. But at the end of the day it's a business, and none of that matters – the only thing that matters is what kind of a hockey player you are.

  Which is strange, because Jonesy is a damned good hockey player – and he's been great in the room for us, too.

  But his old teammates? They don't like him. At all. It's obvious. It feels catty, even, like a group of mean girls who banish one of their own after she kissed the wrong boy. I don't get it. It makes me wonder what happened?

  Jones keeps his head down all game. He doesn't seem too interested in playing his muck-raking style like he normally does – he plays hard, and he hits when he should, but he doesn't run his mouth like he woul
d against a normal opponent.

  It's weird to see him be quiet for once.

  And I think it takes us off our game. We've grown used to letting Jonesy be our mouth-piece out there, our driving force, the guy who gets us engaged. But tonight he's not, and while he's playing well, the rest of us feel flat.

  Whatever happened between him and the Jets seems kind of serious. Because if it wasn't, I have to imagine, he'd be chirping his former teammates all game long. The Jets, for their part, are quiet too – but they wear these shit-eating grins. They'll get real close and whisper something to Jones, but his face just looks blank. No response from him. At all.

  It's weird. It looks like they hold all the cards. Like Jones is at their mercy.

  As for the game itself? It's a tense, hard-fought affair without a lot of offensive chances. Both teams are playing a tight, lock-down game, and there's a feeling that the first mistake a team makes is gonna end up in the back of the net. We don't wanna be that team, and neither do they, and so both sides really clam up.

  The fans are restless. They want something to cheer for. They want to see action. At a minimum, they wanna see fights – after all, the media has all but promised there would be bad blood. So when the fans are confronted with this cautious, tentative game? The fans' disappointment is palpable.

  Tonight, my legs aren't what they have been recently. I feel sluggish ... slow to react ... and I'm missing my top gear. And I realize this is how I played all year, before we got Jonesy.

  But something is different now. I can't find him on the ice. Every time I look for him, he's not where I expect him to be. I pass the puck to where I think he'll be, only to look a split-second after passing it and realizing we're not on the same page at all anymore.

  It's weird, considering how tight we've been all year. We've been on the same page since day one ... until this game.

  After the Jets' goalie stops the puck and freezes play, the Jets' captain, Dimitri Burkhardt, skates up to me and we're alone for a moment.