Penalty Kill

by Genevive Chamblee

He glanced at his notes and chewed the inside of his cheek. He had to make Timothée appear redeemable—or at least less like a complete asshole—and do it in less than an obvious way. Any overt acts to cast Timothée in a good light may appear manipulative—an absurdity if anyone asked Ryker. The intent and purpose of marketing was to manipulate and influence others.

  Mace Gardner, Timothée’s attorney, had advised Ryker that no on-camera statements should be made at this time. Be seen and not heard. He could work with that. A beautiful specimen like Timothée deserved admiring.

  Ryker’s cock grew hard as he thought about him, then twitched against his fly. He allowed his hand to slide down his abdomen to the crotch of his sweatpants and palmed his erection through the soft cotton. How good would it feel to have Timothée’s luscious lips wrapped around his dick? Sucking on his balls? Instinctively, his hips thrust forward as he massaged his bulge, and a small wet spot appeared on the fabric.

  No, keep this professional. He snatched his hand away and shifted to get comfortable. Didn’t help. No, he couldn’t allow himself to carry on with a fantasy of reality never to be. Hopping in the sack with clients would get him sacked. Besides, Timothée was straight as any arrow molded. Hell, he’d probably beat the shit out of me just for looking. And even if Timothée wasn’t straight, he had a penchant for high-maintenance toys. Ryker couldn’t begin to stick his toe in that world. He wasn’t sure he would want to, either. Being basic satisfied him.

  All the rationale sounded good, but none of it stopped his dick from throbbing like a metronome.

  The image of Timothée cropped back in his head. Ryker’s gaze floated back to the computer screen and watched as Timothée maneuvered a bouncing puck in the front zone. The wide camera angle zoomed in and highlighted the determination in his face as he accelerated around the boards to line up a shot. Instead, a defenseman clobbered him, and he took a bite of plexiglass, which wiped him out. Within seconds, he rebounded to his feet as if attached to a bungee cord and chased the pack.

  Hot. If he can do that on ice, imagine what he could do in bed.

  Closing his eyes, Ryker gave in and slid his hand beneath the elastic of his sweats. Wrapping his long fingers around his shaft, he swept his thumb across the head and smeared the bead of cum over the taunt skin. Mm. This wouldn’t take long.

  Ring.

  Not now.

  Ring.

  Ryker’s eyes flew open, and he glared at the discarded phone on the side table. Seeing Lesley’s name made his erection go limp, and he withdrew his hand.

  Fuck!

  “What’s up?” he answered.

  “I was wondering what progress you’ve made.”

  “Not much. It’s only been a few hours since you last checked up on me”—like I’m two years old—“but I’m working on it. I’ll have some ideas before I meet with Timothée tomorrow.”

  “You’ve already scheduled a meeting? Without consulting me first?”

  Damn, how short is my leash? “Lesley, you told me to compile a list. Well, there’s nothing documented anywhere to compile. I have no choice but to go to the source.”

  “Don’t bark at me.”

  “I’m not barking.”

  “Yes, you are. And you sound weird, like you’re out of breath. What were you doing?”

  Oh, that conversation isn’t happening. “Do you want me to get this done or chitchat all night? I’ll talk to you later.” He disconnected before she responded. He needed a shower.

  5

  Timothée

  It took several minutes for Timothée to comprehend that the banging resonating in his head was coming from his door. What the hell time is it? He peeled his eyes open and reached for his smartwatch on the nightstand, knocking it on the floor. Retrieving his cell phone, he repositioned it at different distances until his vision unblurred enough to decipher the numbers—7:03 a.m.

  Groaning, he rolled from his stomach to his back. He lay there another moment before gathering his wits—or as many of them as he could without coffee—that he needed to move if he wanted the banging to cease. Without grabbing a robe, he trudged across the suite in nothing but boxers that did the minimum to conceal his morning wood and jerked the door open.

  Ryker emitted a soft gasp but quickly composed himself and flashed a wide smile. “Good morning, Timothée.”

  God, he’s so chipper. “What?” Timothée asked through pursed lips, his voice rough with sleep.

  “We have a meeting this morning. It was supposed to begin at seven. It’s—” He glanced at his watch. “—five after.”

  “So you just show up? Here?” Looking delicious.

  “We didn’t designate a specific location.”

  Too happy. Too early.

  Timothée didn’t respond, allowing the air around them to grow thick with tension in the hopes that Ryker would leave. No such luck. Several moments passed, yet Ryker remained in the doorway, grinning that preposterous kilowatt, Cheshire-cat smile and waiting. Finally, Timothée pivoted and returned inside the suite, leaving the door open for Ryker to follow.

  Ryker entered, closing the door behind him, and made himself comfortable on a sofa. He set his computer bag on the floor and removed his laptop.

  “I need a shower.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have time for that. Your schedule is tight, and we’re running behind.”

  “You mean to say I can’t take a five-minute shower when you were five minutes late?”

  “No, I was on time. You didn’t answer the door.”

  Timothée rushed his fingers through his rumpled hair. “You could have called first.”

  Ryker’s lips twitched before lifting into a knowing smile, as if he knew Timothée had set his ringer to mute before going to bed.

  Irritating as all get-out. He despised being chastised.

  Gritting his teeth, Timothée headed to the bathroom. “Fine, but I have to take a leak.”

  True, he needed to relieve himself, but that wasn’t his main reason for stalling. He needed to prepare for the meeting, specifically for sharing a space with Ryker without being distracted. No way would he be able to tolerate Ryker with a full bladder. Timothée didn’t know what it was about the man that stirred something in him, made something move that usually didn’t. A something he was unsure if he needed to be disturbed, like in Egyptian pyramid documentaries. Indiana Jones types would unbury century-old tombs, fiddle with ancient artifacts, and then develop mysterious illnesses with no cure. What type of illness would tampering with Ryker unleash? Timothée didn’t enjoy those types of documentaries, but he could envision that Ryker would. Yes, that would be just the thing to get a rise out of a man like Ryker… maybe. But he also looked like a man who would enjoy slapstick comedy.

  “Everything all right in there?” Ryker called from the outer room.

  Aw hell. Timothée didn’t realize how long he’d been standing in front of the toilet with nothing happening. More than one act of nature was calling. Thinking of Ryker was interfering with him handling bodily business. His morning wood had intensified to glorious.

  Bump this.

  Timothée stepped away from the toilet and turned on the shower to the coldest water temperature. He stepped in, flexed his head forward into the stream, and shivered as the water flowed over him. Any remaining drowsiness bounded out of him as the pelts of water stung his skin. His fingers trembled as he reached for and fumbled the eucalyptus goat milk soap. He’d special-ordered it. He’d read somewhere that eucalyptus alleviated muscle soreness. Although he was used to brutal workouts, brawls, and rigorous physical play, the ache happening between his thighs had been almost a constant since meeting Ryker. Every time he thought about him, he experienced swelling issues, and he needed that ache to vanish.

  Lathering his hands, he rubbed his soapy palms across his arms, chest, and abdomen. As he worked the suds through his dark pubic hair, he was careful to avoid his arousal and cleared his mind. How in tarnation did he manage a hard-on with e
verything occurring in his life? He damn sure couldn’t show up to morning skate with this kind of tomfoolery happening. Then again, did he even want to show up to morning skate? He could already imagine the stares and whispering. It wasn’t as if his current teammates actually talked to him. But he couldn’t be hypocritical about it, because he didn’t exactly talk to them, either. They communicated plays, and that was the extent of it. And actually, he preferred it that way. In his experience, most people only wanted something from him—under the pretense they were being sociable, of course—and usually it wasn’t something he was willing to give. It had taken years for him to obtain the few friends he had, and most of those friendships he had formed during his childhood and adolescence. He didn’t have time for new people in his life.

  But you just had to die, didn’t you, Bub? You just had to die and stick me with all this catawampus manure.

  Okay, to be fair, he couldn’t blame Bub for the police suspecting him of murder, but he sure as hell could—and did—blame him for Ryker… who was waiting for him in the next room.

  Timothée grunted. Let him wait.

  Ryker

  Is that…? Ryker’s ears perked, and he cocked his head like a hound hearing a whistle. He strained to hear on the other side of the closed door.

  Water.

  He clenched his jaw as he checked his watch. I know he didn’t hop his ass in the shower after I told him we didn’t have time. Obviously, the “kill him with kindness” approach had been wasted on Timothée.

  Ryker marched to the bedroom, snatched the door open, stormed across the room to the bathroom, and snatched that door open as well.

  “Timothée!” he snapped at the figure twisting behind the frosted glass door.

  No response.

  He yelled again; this time louder. I can’t believe he’s making me go into “oh no you didn’t, bitch” mode before 8:00 fucking a.m.

  Still no response.

  He yanked the shower door open, and Timothée’s head whirled around.

  Timothée jumped, almost losing his footing, and then froze after regaining his balance. His eyes widened to the size of a basin. However, within seconds, he steadied his emotions and his eyes tapered to slits. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ryker’s voice caught in the back of his throat as he watched suds slide from Timothée’s ripped torso inked with a circular “savage” tattoo, down his muscular legs, and pool at his feet. Being a high school athlete himself, employed in the sports industry, and a gay man, Ryker had witnessed plenty of nude men. Some had even been wet. But Timothée…. Perfection. Soapy gods’ heaven. Thank you, Jesus. And he stood posed, as if positioned by Michelangelo, while Ryker gawked like an awestruck virgin. In fact, Ryker would gamble Timothée could be the reincarnation of David, except his schlong was bigger and his hair straight.

  When Timothée finally moved, he turned, exuding confidence and giving Ryker a full-frontal view, and folded his arms across his chest. The puff of air that seeped through Ryker’s lips at that moment wrenched him back to reality. Look away. Don’t dare look there. However, his eyes remained fixated on anatomy parts that they shouldn’t have. He shifted uncomfortably to obscure the reemergence of his own predicament from the previous night.

  Motherf….

  “W-We have matters to discuss,” Ryker stuttered, dragging his gaze up only to get snagged on the octopus tattoo across Timothée’s right shoulder that extended to his bicep. The tentacles held playing cards—a spade royal flush.

  “While I’m in the shower?”

  Something insolent with a dash of what sounded like amusement in Timothée’s voice caused Ryker’s eyes to dart up and meet the other man’s. “Yes, if necessary.” Ryker’s self-composure returned. “As I said, we are pressed for time.”

  “Is this what you call being professional?”

  “It’s called being efficient.”

  For another moment, they stared at each other in silence. Finally, Timothée spoke.

  “Fine.” He twisted the knob, shutting off the water, and stepped out of the shower, brushing past Ryker, his elbow leaving a wet streak across Ryker’s shirt. He grabbed a towel as he exited.

  Ryker nodded, following. “Fine.” Then he mumbled, “Asshole.”

  Instead of covering himself, Timothée dried his hair with the towel, and Ryker concluded it to be an attempt to make him uncomfortable. Well, it wasn’t going to happen, or rather he wouldn’t allow Timothée to know he’d succeeded. But why—other than being a complete and utter ass—Ryker wondered, was Timothée making the situation difficult when all Ryker wanted to do was help? However, getting an answer to that would have to wait. They’d already wasted seventeen minutes.

  “Let’s cut to the chase. I’ve consulted with your attorney, and he thinks it would be in your best interest to improve your public image.”

  Timothée raised a brow. “How do you know who my attorney is? I just hired him.”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Bribed someone else? Who was it this time? My dentist?”

  “If you must know, the concierge overheard you speaking with your driver in the lobby.”

  “Can’t trust anyone,” Timothée grumbled.

  “He knows I’m your agent. Now, as I was saying, we both agree the best way to undertake that is through philanthropy and strategic community events demonstrating your humanitarian side.” Ryker faltered over the last part of the sentence. “I’ve assembled a list of organizations that are willing to work with you.” He fought hard not to allow his gaze to wash over Timothée’s nude body again. “When you’re dressed, we can discuss it in the other room.” There. Professional. He exited to the sitting area before Timothée replied and reclaimed the seat where he’d sat previously.

  Fortunately, Timothée didn’t keep him waiting long and ambled in wearing a scarlet designer tracksuit and matching running shoes.

  Ryker winced at Timothée’s outfit. Oh boy. He’d address that shortly, but they needed to get through the list first. Ryker removed a manila folder from a side pocket of the computer case, opened it, selected the top sheet, and extended the paper to Timothée.

  Accepting, Timothée studied the list. “What? All of this? There must be fifty listed.”

  An exaggerator. Hockey divas! Ryker shook his head. “Twenty-one, and no, you won’t be able to do each. Some have time conflicts.”

  The lines in Timothée’s forehead bunched. “Pre-K Puppet Parade?” He poked his index finger at the paper.

  “Yeah, it’s a great program—a collaboration with the local theater and library. It’s thirty minutes on Wednesday mornings. You grab a puppet, do some voices, and that’s that. Simple.”

  “Are you snorting meth? No, ma’am, no ham, no turkey. I’m not doing that.”

  Keep it together. Don’t lose it. “It’ll be great exposure. The press will gobble it up.”

  “I don’t give a flying fig nugget. I’m not doing it.”

  “It’s for the kids.”

  “I don’t have kids.”

  “Do you want them?”

  Timothée’s brows bunched more. “What?”

  “Do you want kids?” Ryker hadn’t intended to ask that question. It just slipped out. But since he’d tossed it out there, he wanted to know the answer.

  “What does that have to do with anything?

  So he’s going to evade. Surprise, surprise. “It’ll make good practice for when you do.”

  “Then I’ll deal with it then.”

  Ryker shook his head. “You didn’t begin preparing for the majors the day before tryouts.”

  “No, cos I was drafted.”

  Smart-ass. “You know what I mean. You trained for years in mite, peewee, and junior.”

  “People don’t train to have children.”

  “Maybe some of them should. There’s a lot of lousy parents on the planet.” Shit. Was that insensitive to say to someone who just lost both his parents?

  Timothée’s eyes c
louded with a glare Ryker couldn’t decipher before he dropped the paper on the table, walked to the window, and stared outside. “I’m not doing it.”

  Oh, you’re doing it. They’d argue about it later. No way was Ryker allowing a golden opportunity to go to pot. Besides, he’d practically had to beg the director to give Timothée a chance. In fact, that had been the case for nearly all the organizations he’d contacted. Timothée’s reputation amounted to garbage. “We’ll come back to it. Did you see anything that interested you?”

  “No.”

  Of course not. “Okay, since you don’t want to discuss the list, can we discuss your attire?”

  Timothée glanced at his clothes. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Can you not wear scarlet red today?”

  “This was tailor-made by—”

  “And it’s lovely. But you’re in mourning.”

  Timothée stared with a blank expression.

  “It means no festive clothes,” Ryker explained. “I’m sure you have a wardrobe to rival several emperors. Surely you have something more toned down.”

  Timothée continued staring, speechless.

  “Black. Navy. At least a dark gray.”

  Crickets.

  This is going to be a long morning.

  6

  Timothée

  Timothée glazed at the pirate-Davy Crockett hybrid called a mascot and sighed. It hung as the marquee on the side of the 24,000-square-foot Tchoutacabouffa Arena. In one hand, the mascot held a trident, a lantern in the other. The clothing was that of a pioneer, complete with moccasins. However, it wore a bicorn hat, an eye patch, and had a horseshoe mustache. What the hodgepodge represented confused Timothée, and he doubted the designers understood, either. He suspected the root of the problem was that no one knew what a mutineer should look like. Therefore, a subcommittee threw some shit together and called it a day, hoping no one would notice. Well, Timothée noticed. He noticed it every time he entered the arena, and it never became more appealing. He’d had foot fungus that had grown on him faster than the mascot.