Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  “Give it to me, bud,” I say at last, hoarsely.

  “Yeah? You really want it?” He asks softly.

  “Yeah. C'mon. Fuck me already ...”

  I watch over my shoulder as he tears a foil package open and slides on a condom. Oh man, I grunt, wiggling my ass at him impatiently ...

  The mattress craters under his weight as he climbs the bed and mounts me. I feel the heat of his thick, strong thighs against my rear as he nears. He grips my ass and gently spreads me. My head hits the mattress and I stick my rear high in the air for him.

  “Yeah, Cal ... give it to me, bud.”

  I feel the tip of his manhood as he places it against my virgin hole. My ass tightens reflexively, but I take a long, deep breath and it relaxes.

  With care, Cal pushes forward.

  I gulp loudly as his thick glans slowly pierces my ring of tightness.

  “Fuck.”

  He only gives me small piece of himself and doesn't push further. But even still, it's a hell of a lot to deal with.

  “Fuck. It hurts, Cal.”

  “I know,” he whispers. “Just breathe deeply. I'll go slow. Tell me if it's too much.”

  “Okay.”

  He pulls back. It feels so goddamn good and awful all at the same time.

  “Fuck!” I roar as the confused waves of pain and pleasure crash over me. And then a moment of clarity strikes: I still want it. I want it deeper.

  “Gimme more,” I demand, bracing myself.

  “You sure?” he asks. I can tell he's concerned. That I might be having second thoughts about this.

  “Yeah.”

  Slowly he pushes in again. It's the new depths of him that hurt, that split me apart. Bubbles of nausea fill my stomach.

  “God damn, it hurts.”

  And so he eases me into his many inches, one by one. Slowly, gently, tenderly, he pushes in. Then he pauses. The blunt pain in my ass dulls as I learn to relax – and accept him, totally. Then he pulls out, just as gingerly as he entered.

  “Shit, Ty, you're tight.”

  And that, that moment when he withdraws, is what kills me. It's so perfect. It's enough to make me forget how bad it is when he's pushing in.

  And that's it. That's the hook, the reward, the part that keeps me going. After the pain, always comes the pleasure. Until he's worked into me deeper and deeper – and I take his inches easier. And then even that, when he sinks his weight into me, starts to feel good.

  “Oh, fuck yeah,” I growl as he works the last of himself into me. That last inch is a struggle, but I know the payoff will be worth it.

  “Oh, you feel so good,” he says.

  He grabs me by the waist and pulls himself out.

  I hear a growl rumble out of my throat. “More. Gimme more of that big cock.”

  He pushes back in. Eager to make the pain go away, I thrust against him, sliding my ring down his length. The pain is a blinding flash, but it goes away quickly. And Cal yelps with surprise at how I take him.

  And soon the pain isn't even a thought. We learn to move as one. He's the yin to my yang. He pushes, I pull. He inhales, I exhale.

  Faster, deeper, heavier – I want more and I demand it. “Fuck me harder, man!”

  Cal gives me what I want. I love the symphony of sounds as his pelvis claps into my ass with every thrust – our orgasmic grunts and groans, our troubled whinnies as we fuck each other harder, deeper.

  His hands wander up and down my back – first he is a gentle lover, his fingers smoothing over my spine, over my shoulder blades. Then his hands trail lower, over the tempting curve of my butt – and my gentle lover can't help himself. He is transformed into an animal, untamed and wild, and without warning his palm comes down on my ass with a harsh crack.

  “Fuck!” I yelp.

  His spank splits me apart, makes my stomach curl so high it creeps into my throat. And I throw myself back on him angrily, forcing him to take me deeper, harder.

  “Look how fucking hard you are,” he whispers into my ear, his hand sneaking between my legs and grasping my hard cock.

  It's true. He's right. I'm shamefully hard. The feel of his manhood burrowing into my ass, his glancing blows over my prostrate, have made my cock bloated and swollen in a way I've never seen it before.

  I don't know which will make me cum first – the way he pounds my ass or the way he strokes my dick while he gives it to me.

  The heat between us grows. Sweat drips from my bangs and into my eyes, stinging me; my chest hair has gone damp and matted. His thighs and pelvis swelter, and with each thrust, he stamps his steamy dampness into me.

  His hands rub up and down my sweat-slicked back, moving my glistening oil all around. And that hand always moves lower, to my burning-hot ass, the one he can't help but spank over and over every time he is tempted.

  Crack! Crack!

  I'm sure his hand-print must be seared into my flesh; so too must his nails, which he sinks into my back like claws, and drags down my skin.

  I've never been fucked like this. I can't hold myself up anymore. My chest hits the mattress. Only my ass remains in the air – and only because he props me up, holding my rear up with his hands, still spreading me apart as he fucks me.

  “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” I grunt, a knot in my throat. “I want your cum, dude!”

  But I don't just want it. I need it.

  Cal flips me over. My sweaty back sinks into the mattress, my body finally going limp – all but one part of me, which throbs in the air.

  Cal puts my legs over his shoulder and enters me in missionary. His cock sinks into my ass; my cock twitches and heaves as he tunnels in.

  All I can think is, I've never had it like this before, never been so – dominated, owned. I feel like I belong to him, my legs spread wide and mounted. He's having his way with me.

  And ... I wouldn't have it any other way. Seeing him, hearing him; how the pleasure that I give him twists his face. The sounds he makes with every thrust. My palms pressed flat against his hard, clenched abs – pushing against him so lightly as he fights to enter me.

  It all makes me melt. And soon I can't take anymore.

  “I'm so close, Cal, I'm gonna cum ...”

  He likes hearing that. The corner of his lip curls up with a dark smile. And he knocks my hand away from my cock and jerks me himself.

  “Oooh!” he warns, his in-and-out pace growing frantic and turbulent.

  “Cum with me Cal, cum with me!” I plead.

  He pulls out and whips his condom off, flinging it aside. He presses our cocks together – underside to underside – and wraps his hands around them. Then he thrusts in and out of his hand, pumping himself into me.

  “I'm fucking cumming!” I shout.

  “Aughh!” he roars.

  And we both burst at the same time. Streaks of cum blast up my chest, painting long lines up and down my abs, my pecs. Cal jerks us off with his mighty hand, stroking it up and down our sweaty and creamy cocks.

  Spent, Cal falls on top of me with a tired gasp. Slick seed mingles between our hairy and steamy chests. And Cal's lips, hot as an oven but as juicy as a peach, claim mine.

  “Fuck,” I gasp, my chest heaving. “That was so hot, man.”

  Cal's face falls in the crook of my neck.

  “Yeah,” he chuckles softly. “Goddamn.”

  I wake in the middle of the night. We're still in my bed, but somehow we've managed to climb under the sheets. I don't remember how or when. With all my stirring, Cal moans sweetly.

  I'm not sure if he's awake or not. And I wanna test the waters. So I whisper softly ...

  “I love you.”

  He inhales sharply. Guess he's awake after all. His hands press into my pecs. “Yeah? You really mean it?”

  “... Yeah.”

  He pants, and I can hear his smile. “I – I love you too, man.”

  We wrap our arms around each other and kiss, his full lips plump against mine. My heart swells for him with each throb – here he
is, my first true love. And he says he loves me too.

  I press my bare self against Cal's naked back, wrap my arms around him, and the two of us fall back asleep.

  50.

  Ping!

  Callan

  In the morning, I wake and slide out of Tyler's bed and sneak into the bathroom.

  Don't fall for him, don't fall for him! I say to myself in the mirror ...

  ... And then I crack up immediately.

  I can't believe I was ever so stupid to turn Vance down – or think that whatever was happening between us was a bad idea. Looking back at all the things he did for me and said to me, it's clear he cared. Even from the beginning – long before anything between us ever happened.

  I just couldn't believe it. Couldn't accept it.

  I guess I've spent way too long hiding in shadows, pretending to be somebody I'm not. But when he stood up during that press conference and told everyone – holy shit – I knew it was the real deal. For sure.

  One thing is for sure, for now, we're in this together. However it turns out. And that makes it that much easier to deal with, I think. If I end up unemployed after this season – well, so will Vance, most likely. Maybe we'll be kicked out of the league but at least we'll still have each other, right? And we'll just figure out our new lives and go from there.

  (Doesn't hurt that he's made a lot more money over his career than I have so far! Ha ha! Retiring on some small Caribbean Island actually doesn't sound too terrible to me anymore!)

  I leave the bathroom and find Tyler stirring in his bed.

  “Who were you talking to in there?”

  “Myself,” I grin as I jump in bed with him.

  “Talking to yourself again? What about?”

  I tilt my head at him. “You really wanna know?”

  “Uh ... I think so.”

  “Just telling myself not to fall for you too hard. In case you end up being some crazy psycho dude.”

  “Like Jason?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  Tyler chuckles. He puts his arms around me and squeezes me tight. “Well, I'm not like him.”

  “Good.” I bury my nose against his neck and let his sleep-musk fill me. Mm.

  “Guess we should get up soon, eh?” Tyler asks. “Big game today and all. Gotta get our routines started.”

  “Yeahhh.”

  He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and powers it on. His eyes bug out when the phone comes on. “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “My voicemail box is flooded.”

  The messages play out on speaker phone. The first message snares us both immediately.

  “Hey Tyler, this is David Brock.”

  David Brock was a big, mean son-of-a-bitch defenseman. He retired the year after my rookie year – thankfully – 'cause facing that guy was always a battle, and one that always had me icing some enormous bruise the next day. But I've got a world of respect for him, and so does the rest of the hockey world.

  Brock's message continues. “Just wanted to say I saw you and Jonesy's press conference and wanted to congratulate you both, and thank you guys. I just wrapped up an interview with a reporter here at my home in BC – you guys have encouraged me to come forward, too. Pass my thanks along to Jonesy, and good luck to you guys in the Finals.”

  “David Brock!” I pant. “No way! Brock's gay? I never would guessed that about him.”

  I turn my phone on and find the same surprise waiting for me. We listen to message after message on our voicemail. We get support from all over – current players, former players, gay advocacy groups. Everywhere.

  Even Jason left me a message of apology.

  “Hey Callan, I know you probably hate me right about now ... or maybe not ... hopefully not. But um, anyway, I just wanted to say good job, and also sorry, for starting this mess. I uh, I don't wanna end up on the wrong side of history, heh heh.”

  Tyler rolls his eyes at that message. “That guy is unreal.”

  I shrug. “Yeah. Pretty sure he was just chasing money from the beginning.”

  With still plenty of messages still to be heard, we shut our phones off and start our days. We'll have breakfast, a morning skate, a nap, and then game-time at 6 PM.

  DURING WARM-UPS BEFORE the game, ol' 'Meat-Tree' Burkhardt gives me a terrible, cold-blooded stare from his half of center ice. I skate up to center ice and grin.

  “Sup, Meat-Pole?” I joke and jab my fist into his chest. “Got any stunning revelations left for the world, or was that it?”

  “I don't know how you fuckers managed to turn this shit around and make it sound like something positive,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “It's pretty disgusting, if you ask me. It's a disgrace. And it's bad for sports.”

  “That's why you're a dinosaur in this game, Burky. Guys like you are slowly being phased out. Sorry to be the one to tell ya.”

  He points at Vance, who takes warm-up shots behind me, and then points at me. “So you're telling me you two are the future of the game, huh? This is where the game is heading?”

  “A future where good hockey players can have their own private lives and not have to hide in shame?” I shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

  He scoffs and lumbers off. “Whatever.”

  I call after him. “Hey, good luck tonight, Meat-Wad!”

  “Fuck off, Jones.”

  The game starts soon after. And from the beginning, it feels like a total 180 from the first game.

  Our team has mended the rift that had our dressing room spinning out of control. The Jets don't have the psychological edge anymore. Burky's plan back-fired, and he's not the only skater out there looking skittish.

  The Jets as a whole can't seem to do anything right. That'll happen when a team is sputtering. They lack that extra gear, that extra 'oomph' that a winning team has. When they try for a big hit to rile the troops, they go too hard and end up taking a penalty.

  We spend the first two periods in their zone – and they're scrambling around like mad, chasing the puck, trying to keep us from scoring.

  That said, the score is still 0-0 late into the third. As badly as we're outplaying them, their goalie has kept them in it – and all it takes is one shot, one bad bounce, to end up in our net.

  That's what a good goalie will do: be the last line of defense, both literally and figuratively. When his team is mentally crushed, a good goalie can stave off the attack long enough that the team in front of him plays inspired again.

  Only that moment never seems to come. And the goalie's determination begins to sour as his teammates don't help him out. It's only a matter of time until we sneak one past him.

  With a few minutes left to go, Vance steals the puck on the forecheck from a defender. I jump into the play with him, and we streak into the zone on a 2 on 1. Vance feeds me the puck. I know he wants me to shoot – hell, he's yelling 'shoot it, Cal! Shoot it!”

  But in that brief snapshot of time, I get the sense that this play looks and feels familiar – that I've seen it hundreds of times.

  And then I remember why. This play is developing exactly like the one that Vance missed when his team lost the Cup the first time around. It's 'the shot.' The one that's haunted him for years.

  And I know I have to give it back to him, even with a defender sprawling on the ice between us.

  I send Vance a pass – lifting the puck just high enough off the ice that it flies over the defender. And then the puck comes down, landing right in front of Vance.

  He's wound up and ready for it. The puck lands, and Vance blasts it off his blade, and the puck rockets off his stick. I watch as it sails over the goalie's glove.

  And then I don't see it, but I hear it.

  Ping.

  Those few short moments, when I don't know where the puck ended up, feel like an eternity. I feel my heart-beat pounding – ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum! – and blood squirts through my arteries with a sickening pressure.

  I look at the goalie, I look at Vance, I look at th
e fans – waiting to find some hint of our fate.

  At last, Vance turns back toward me and raises his arm, his stick held high in the air. The goal light flashes. The goalie drops his head. And the hometown Jets fans groan.

  And suddenly time speeds up again and reality hits fast-forward. I skate at Vance, jump into him, wrap my arms around him.

  “You fuckin' did it!” I scream.

  “I said shoot! You fucker! I said shoot!” He shakes me by the shoulders, but he's smiling like he's scored his first-ever NHL goal.

  Our teammates on the ice with us – Nelson, Tanner, and Donovan – join the group hug.

  “That's what shoulda happened four years ago! Fuck!” Nelson pats Vance's butt.

  “Good fuckin' shot there captain!” Donovan butts his helmet against Vance's.

  “'Bout time that goes in!” Tanner can't stop smiling.

  Vance skates by the bench, all our teammates sticking their fists out for him. He flies by and earns his fist bumps, wearing a huge grin.

  With only a few minutes left in the game, we'll hang on to our lead and win the game 1-0.

  THAT'S THE MOMENT – Vance's one-timer goal, identical to the one he missed – that the series turns in our favor for sure. The moment when we know this is for real. That fate will actually be on our side this time – and not fuck us over in double-overtime of Game 7.

  We fly back to Chicago, the series knotted at 1 a piece, knowing that we'll win the next two games to take the series lead 3-1.

  Our team mentality, our confidence, completely changes after that game in Winnipeg. We're loose. We're having fun. We skate hard into every corner, knowing we'll come out of a board battle with the puck on our sticks.

  We play disciplined hockey during those games, sticking to our team structure, knowing exactly when we can break from our structure and take creative risks to push the play. And those risks, more often than not, pay off. That's what a team looks like when their confidence is sky high.

  After the games? Me and Vance head back to our hotel in Chicago. He stays in his room, and I stay in mine. And that's the way it's gotta be – because these games are way too important. We can't be up all night, suckin' and fuckin' like horny new-lovers. We got a job to do.