by Van Barrett
The Washington Capitals were the NHL parent club of the Hershey Bears—the team that Rustin and Clay played for. The Bears were the Capitals' farm team, where young prospects go to toil in hopes of rounding out their game and making a name for themselves.
… Although, some cynical part of Rustin thought, calling Clay 'young' might be a bit of a stretch. Young for a man, absolutely. Young for a hockey player? Not so much—Clay was already a couple years past that point.
Clay was quickly approaching a fork in the road: did he have an NHL future or not?
Yes, Clay was the Bears' captain. Yes, he was a solid, hard-nosed defenseman. But in his seven years as a Hershey Bear, Clay had only a precious few call-ups to play for Washington, and all were fill-ins due to injuries.
He had played twenty-two NHL games, to be exact. In limited ice time, Clay had recorded zero goals, seven assists, and a career minus-three rating. Those stats weren't great, but they weren't a tire fire, either. He was a defenseman like Rustin, after all. Their job was to stop the other team from scoring. Clay could retire tomorrow and still be proud of the fact that he'd played more than a handful of games in the god-damned NHL.
But Rustin knew Clay would never be satisfied with that. He was a hockey player and he'd set his sights on the NHL. And Rustin didn't dare say it, but he knew as well as Clay did that the clock was ticking on the captain's hopes and dreams of being a full-time NHL player.
Because surely Clay had read the quotes from Washington's anonymous team officials. They always seemed to compliment Clay in one breath—and then trash him with the next:
Clay was 'hard-working' but 'had very limited upside.'
Clay was a 'strong player' who 'didn't have NHL quality skating.'
Clay was a 'dependable leader' who 'is probably best suited to using that leadership to help develop Washington's other prospects in Hershey.'
It was a scary thing for Rustin—to watch Clay's window of opportunity slam shut, in real time.
As far as Rustin was concerned, Clay had to get to the NHL. Because he and Clay were such good friends that got along so well. They had mind-blowing chemistry—in more than one sense. And they knew in their hearts that they were going to be a defensive pairing someday in the NHL, just as they had been in Hershey.
All they had to do was get their chance and prove it. They had to prove that the sum was greater than its parts.
Rustin and Clay crumpled up their empty beer cans, stuck their arms out the window, and tossed the cans backward into the truck's bed. They had just popped a second round of beers open when the play-by-play's voice suddenly went high-pitched and urgent.
“Johnson gets the puck at the point. He winds up! Big shot and oh! Blocked by the Capitals defenseman, Bergman! Bergman goes down! Oh, he's hurt, he's thrashing around, face-down on the ice! The officials blow the play dead, as Johnson's slapshot hits Bergman in the throat. The trainer is now rushing over to help him. Scary moment here in Washington as Bergman goes down, and the crowd falls silent …”
Rustin and Clay fell silent, too. They looked at each other, both with heavy expressions, and both let out a deep, guilty sigh, as they waited for the announcer to give some kind of update.
You never wished injury on a guy. Especially Bergman, one of their former Bears teammates, and a guy who was the epitome of a class act.
So they hoped like hell he was okay. But, at the same time, Rustin felt a snag in his heart. A bittersweet feeling of excited torment. Because an injury call-up was one of the few ways a minor league player could prove himself.
Sadly, realistically, an injury was exactly what it took for a minor leaguer to get a mid-season look in the 'big show.'
Someone had to get hurt.
It sucked, it sucked like hell, but it was an all-too common story and a fact of the business. If you wanted to make it to the pros, you had to have some amazingly good luck. Right place, right time, all the stars align perfectly. And for the other guy, who was almost always some guy you had played with in the past, and you knew and respected—he had to have his stars align in the most catastrophic way before you got your shot.
One career goes up, another goes down. It wasn't anything personal, it was just business. A cold, heartless business, maybe—but business just the same.
“Fuck,” Rustin snarled at last. “A slapshot to the fucking throat? Ugh. Hope he's okay. Bergie's a great guy.”
Clay nodded. “Yeah. Jesus. Can't even imagine.”
A burst of applause popped over the radio as the crowd cheered. That was at least a good sign that Bergman wasn't hurt too bad.
“And the trainer helps Bergman off the ice and down the tunnel to be examined.”
The two men listened to the rest of the period, quietly drinking their beers and anxiously awaiting an update. Towards the end of the second period, it came.
“Team officials say Bergman is fine, but he won't be returning for the third period, due to the collapsed trachea he's suffered. All we know now is that he's expected to miss several games. The Capitals plan to make an emergency call-up from their minor league team, the Hershey Bears.”
Rustin and Clay caught each other's eyes, exchanged grave expressions, and silently nodded. Looked like Clay's five-game vacation was about to be cut short. Not that he'd complain about it.
“Whew. I'm glad he's only going to miss a few games,” Clay said.
That was the best case scenario for both players. Bergman would be back in a week or so, and Clay would get a few games to show off what he's got. A chance to stay relevant in management's eyes.
Maybe his last chance.
“Me too,” Rustin agreed.
After a long pause, Clay pointed into the distance. “Hey. Look. The Sun's about to set.”
The brilliant amber-orange disc shimmered like a mirage as it hung over the horizon. Puffy clouds, lit with swirls of blue and purple, lingered in the sky like cotton candy.
“Yeah. Sure is pretty.”
Clay popped his door open, climbed onto the truck's hood and clutched a cold can of beer against his bare sternum.
Guess he needs some fresh air, Rustin thought, climbing out of the truck after him.
The two laid back and watched the sunset with their heads propped up on the windshield, their backs on the truck's hood, and their feet resting on the front bumper.
A cool breeze picked up, rustled through the budding trees and the eagerly-growing spring grass. Rustin and Clay still didn't have their shirts on, and the air felt a touch nippy. But the truck's hood was pleasantly warm, and they laid on that hood like lizards on a heat rock, soaking up the engine's heat until it warmed their blood.
They drank their beers and watched the Sun slowly begin its crawl behind the hills on the horizon.
“Well, it sucks for Bergie, and it's going to suck not having you around here,” Rustin said at last. “But dude, I'm so pumped for you, Tex!”
Clay laughed softly, took a sip of his beer, and gave a dismissive shake of his head.
“What? What is it?” Rustin asked.
“I've learned not to celebrate anything until it actually happens.”
“Oh, c'mon Clay, loosen up. You heard the radio guys. The Caps have to make an emergency call-up. Who else would they want? You're the most reliable defender on the team.”
“Until you actually get that call, Rusty, it doesn't mean anything. Anything could happen.”
“Okay. You don't want to jinx it. I get it.”
Clay nodded, and the two watched as the last sliver of the Sun disappeared.
Lying next to Clay in the twilight, Rustin knew this might be his last chance, too. He wanted to make it count. He wasn't sure that he was truly ready himself, let alone if Clay was ready. But he couldn't just let Clay go without doing or saying something first. Who knew when he'd see him next? Like Clay said: anything could happen.
Rustin swallowed heavily and slowly, gently, scooted across the hood. Closer to Clay. Until their feet brushed togethe
r and their shoulders touched.
Clay didn't move away immediately: that was the first good sign.
“And sure, I understand not wanting to jinx it, Clay. But let's be real. You're going to kill it in Washington. I know you are.”
Clay didn't answer; he only stared at where the Sun had been a few minutes ago instead.
“You're going to go up there and blow their minds. It's been what, two years since they've last seen you? Your game is so much more rounded out now. You're so complete now. You're bigger and stronger than ever. You're going to stick with the big club, and soon I'll work my way up there, too.”
Clay's eyebrows arched, and he stifled a cynical laugh. Rustin knew that, to Clay's ear, he probably sounded like a kid drunk on childish fantasies. But that didn't change the fact that he believed every word of what he said—and if Clay just believed those words too, deep in his heart, they would come true. That's how things worked.
Rustin knew he had to do something to make Clay believe in their future together. He walked his hand slowly, surely, over his own belly, and to Clay's. His breath was shallow and fast. His heart pounded with the excitement, the fear, and the thrill that comes when a man decides to climb out on a limb and face rejection.
Clay blinked, as if suddenly waking from a trance. His eyes ticked down, and he noticed Rustin's finger-tips marching across his tight, toned abdomen. The sight of another man's fingers, caressing his abs, made Clay's neck muscles tense.
“Rusty,” he growled, his voice gritty and winded.
“Mm?” Rustin sang in response.
But he didn't stop the advance. Rustin rubbed his finger-tips over Clay's waist with small, smooth circles, teasing Clay until goose-bumps speckled his skin. His mouth gaping, Clay struggled for breath.
Rustin smiled at the sight—this was it. He was really doing it.
He was really about to seduce Clay.
Rustin's hand went lower. Clay always had a bulge in the crotch of his gym shorts, but Rustin thought it looked bigger, rounder, more mouth-watering than normal.
Sure enough, as Rustin's hand neared, he saw the growing package swell and throb.
“Oh!” Rustin chuckled.
Clay took a long pull from his can of beer. He gulped it down, one swallow after another, with a slightly troubled look on his face.
“Rusty,” he tried to say again, but no words seemed to follow.
“Shh.”
Rustin's fingers had traced all around Clay's cock—nearing dangerously close, but never touching. Clay's manhood had gone wild with the tease. It was obvious! He hadn't merely grown longer and fatter—although he was long and fat. Deliciously so.
But Clay had grown so hard that the head of his cock, purple and throbbing, emerged from the bottom hem of his gym shorts.
“Oh!” Rustin said, delighted. He started to reach for it.
But before he could grab it, a strong hand wrapped firmly around Rustin's wrist. Rustin glanced up. Clay had a serious look in his eye.
“Rusty. Whoa. What're you doing.”
Clay could protest all he wanted, but it was obvious the guy was secretly into it.
Rustin smirked. “It's nothing we haven't already done, Clay.”
Clay swallowed so loudly in response, Rustin heard it.
Rustin struggled and pried his wrist free from Clay. And then his fist wrapped around Clay's hot, pulsing erection again.
Clay took a few more swigs of beer.
“Yeah. I guess. But …”
Rustin set his finger at Clay's soft, full set of lips.
“Shhh.”
At last, Rustin snuck his hand up the leg of Clay's gym shorts. He wrapped his fingers around Clay's hard, steamy flesh, and began to gingerly stroke him.
Clay's whole body weakened—every part of him went limp, except, of course, the part that mattered most. Rustin felt like he had all of Clay in his hand, every bit of his essence in those hard eight inches.
Rustin let Clay's pleasured gasps, pants and moans guide his pace. When Clay's shallow breath quickened, Rustin tightened his grip and jerked his teammate off faster.
Clay's cock pulsated with deep, longing throbs that made his entire body tense up. The tension in his body ratcheted tighter and tighter until, at last, one jolt after another unleashed over his whole body. Clay, gasping helplessly, thrashed and pounded his limbs against that warm truck hood.
Rustin hadn't even set his lips on Clay's cock yet, but he had him yelping and panting like he was cumming—without even ejaculating! It was amazing. Rustin had seen this kind of multi-orgasmic thing before, but only with girls. Some girls could cum again and again like that … but guys? Well, apparently guys could, too, if you touched them the right way.
Without saying a word, Rustin climbed over Clay and settled between his massive thighs. He was ready to take it to the next level. He pulled Clay's gym shorts down and off his legs, until they were reduced to a small, crumpled up ball of sweat-soaked fabric. Clay's hefty cock sprung free, slapping against his firm belly with a fleshy thud.
Rustin neared Clay's cock, wetting his lips with anticipation. Clay's earthy scent flooded his senses—his masculine smell, his intimate taste.
And he wanted to taste more. He wanted Clay in his mouth. For once, he wanted Clay all to himself.
With his open mouth hovering over the tip of Clay's throbbing penis, Rustin took one last look up at his friend and winked.
“Just close your eyes and enjoy it, Clay.”
3
The Beat of the Heart
– Clay Grayson –
Clay, leaning on his elbows on the top of that truck hood, couldn't believe his body was reacting to Rusty's caresses the way it was. If you'd only been with girls, you wouldn't think that another man could touch you, and that you might actually get hard from it.
You'd think that there would be some kind of biological block that was hard-coded into your genes. Surely there was something, some kind of barrier, that prevented a straight guy from getting a boner for another guy, right?
But no. Apparently there wasn't.
Because there it was, plain as day. The embarrassing, shameful hardness that bulged and visibly throbbed in his gym shorts.
There it was, that thick log of flesh, slowly inching down his thigh. Until at last his glans emerged from the bottom of his shorts.
That feeling—that heart-wrenching rush—when your most intimate and sensitive part is revealed. When the cool, crisp air kisses hot, sweltering flesh. At that moment, you know there's no turning back.
Fuck. Is this really happening?
Hell yeah, it was. With the rhythmic beat of his heart—ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum—Clay's cock grew plumper and inched longer.
Rusty looked at the head of Clay's exposed cock with a desire in his eyes. No, not just desire—but something else, something deeper and more primal. Something that hadn't seen the light of day for a very long time. And now that it was finally let loose, he looked like he'd been overcome by a wild hunger.
Whatever it was, it scared Clay. He tried to stop Rusty. He grabbed his wrist, pulled his hand away, asked him what he was doing. But Rusty just wrestled his hand free and said it so simply, almost arrogantly—
“It's nothing we haven't already done, Clay.”
Which, well, was sort of true. But at the same time, technically, it wasn't true at all. Because this wasn't what they'd done in the past … this was—well, something else entirely.
But when he tried to protest, Rusty just put his finger—his thick, salty, male finger—against Clay's bottom lip and shushed him. And whatever fight that was left in Clay's tightening chest was put to rest. Extinguished, like a wet blanket smothering a fire.
Rusty knew it, too. With a light dusting of freckles across his nose and the tops of his cheek-bones, Rusty always looked young, carefree, innocent. But he didn't look so pure now—not with his lustful eyes poring over every detail of Clay's manhood. Instead, Rusty's expression darkened with the gl
eeful knowledge that he was going to wreck Clay.
And so Clay could only helplessly chug his beer and watch as Rusty snuck his hands up the leg of his gym shorts. Rusty wrapped his fist around Clay's big dick. Slowly, with his hand burrowed under Clay's shorts, he tugged Clay up and down, up and down.
Blisteringly hot waves of forbidden pleasure rushed from Clay's cock, up the base of his spine, and flowed all through his body. A growing brightness smoldered in his core. His arms and legs rumbled and shook; his fists pounded at the truck's hood with every turbulent peak of pleasure.
Oh. Oh, God—God damn.
Clay couldn't move. It didn't matter that he didn't know what to make of this moment. All he knew was that it felt good. Damned good. And of course it did— Rusty had a cock too, after all. That meant he knew exactly how to handle one: when to grip it tighter. When to slow down, and when to speed up.
And when Rusty hooked his fingers under Clay's elastic waistband and pulled at his shorts, what did Clay do? He didn't just let them go without a fight—he lifted his ass off the truck hood to help him.
Damn. What the fuck am I doing? Do I actually like this?
Clay watched Rusty size his manhood up, with a twinkle of reverence in his eyes—fuck, he looked like he practically worshiped Clay's throbbing bigness. And Clay knew then that Rusty planned to blow him. And that fact was exciting, yeah, but also deeply troubling.
And Rusty must have seen that trouble in Clay's expression. He looked up, winked, and told him to close his eyes and enjoy it.
And so Clay closed his eyes and wondered how things had ever come to this point.
. . . to be continued!
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Titles By Van Barrett
Novels:
Second Chance
Change of Plans
Break Away
Seven Nights
Linemates