by R J Scott
Ten wanted to high-five me, then do this complicated fist bump thing and explain to me how I needed to get a Pokémon tattoo.
Jared just shook my hand and nodded.
By the time I got back to my room I was a mess wanting to know what Ben had texted me. As soon as the door shut, I opened the phone and saw just two words.
Call me.
I stripped off my jacket, my belt, my tie and pants, and sat on my bed, pressing his number and not quite knowing what to say when Ben answered on the first ring.
“Fuck me,” he said, uncharacteristically cursing, “That was intense,” he added. “Congratulations.”
I’d known I would love whatever he said, I just hadn’t known by how much. It wasn’t the words; it was the breathlessness of the delivery, as if the game, or maybe me, had really blown him away.
“It was a good game—”
“Good? It was amazing. The way that you took Vleck out, oh my God, I’ve never seen him fall so fast, and then Ten, the way he took… Look, I’m officially a Railers fan for the rest of the Cup run.”
I let him ramble on about Corsi scores, and twine, and lights, and the way Ten in his opinion would one day be captain, and how we missed Arvy but that it was okay because Dieter was a brilliant two-way forward. It went on and on, and I realized I was listening to a fanboy, and it made me smile. I was pulling Ben over from the dark side of supporting Washington, and if I had my way I would keep him.
Not for myself.
As a fan.
Of course.
He finally ran out of steam, and his voice dropped. “You know what I liked the most?”
I thought we’d covered everything, talking at length about my hit on Vleck, so it wasn’t something to do with me, which left me a little disappointed until he started talking again.
“They showed the room post-game on Twitter. That bit when the Railers hand that blue hat to the MVP of the game? I know they gave it to Stan, but that should have gone to you, and then you went over to congratulate Stan…and…” He went quiet for a little while. “You’d taken your shirt off, and you stopped right in front of the camera, sweaty, your hair like you’d run your hands through it, and I’ve never seen anything so sexy.”
Jeez. I was so hard, and I pushed my hand into my jersey shorts, wrapping my fingers around my aching cock. My man’s voice was like fine whiskey, a burn and then a smooth warmth that flooded my system. I heard his breath hitch and I knew what he was doing.
“Are you getting yourself off?” I asked.
“When you turned to the camera and realized they’d caught you on camera, you flexed, I saw you, and the sweat, and…guh…”
I pushed at my shorts and tucked up my shirt, wishing I had more time—I wanted to prolong this—and I put him on speaker phone.
“What would you do?” I asked as I shuffled back on the bed, bending my legs and letting them fall to the sides. I set up a rhythm on my cock and closed my eyes.
“I’d just make you stand there,” he said, his voice hitching again, “and I’d go to my knees, right there, and I’d suck you down so far…”
“Go on,” I encouraged as he stopped.
“What would you do?” he said, throwing my question back at me.
God, how was I supposed to think? “I wouldn’t let you move. I’d hold your head still and I would fuck your mouth so hard…”
Silence, and then he groaned, and I knew that sound—it was him coming—and in seconds I was there with him, curling up into my fist then falling back on the bed, spent.
We were both quiet, and I don’t know how long it lasted, but it was Ben who broke the silence.
“I’ve never done this before,” he murmured, “but seeing you on the screen, and you winning…”
It sounded to me as if he was apologizing, what for I didn’t know. Was it because it was a first for him? Or because he’d got turned on by a game?
“I’ve never had phone sex either, but hockey fights make me horny,” I admitted, and I wasn’t lying. I’d never made enough of a connection with a man to do something so incredibly intimate, but I was the first to admit I’d gotten off on a game before.
More silence, and I was just at the point of saying something stupid when he began to talk.
“It’s not that I didn’t have a healthy sex life with Liam; I did.”
Do I want to hear this?
“It’s just we were always with each other. We worked together, lived together, and I loved him so much, I didn’t want to be away from him.”
What does he want me to say to that?
“Uh-huh,” I offered, because it was all I could think of. Part of me needed to hear him talk about his husband, because then he would see that what we had wasn’t the same. It was just sex.
The other part of me ached for him, felt sorry for him, to have experienced such incredible, heartbreaking loss.
“I’m sorry he died,” I added to my simple uh-huh; I think he needed to hear that.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “I don’t… I need…” He was clearly searching hard for the right words. “I’m sorry I ruined this,” he finally said.
My stock response would be something crass about getting off to the sound of his voice, and to thank him for the fun. That was old Max. The Max that existed before I met Ben before he made me rethink what I was doing with myself.
Yes, I was retiring in a few weeks, yes, I was living with the fear of death hanging over me, but somehow Ben was reaching inside me, past all those knotted fears, and he was touching something icy and turning it hot.
So I rethought what I was going to say.
“You didn’t ruin anything, Ben. I want you to talk to me. I need to know you.”
Where those words came from, I didn’t know. I just knew they were true.
We had a few days off until our next game. Our opponents hadn’t been decided; their games went to the full seven needed, and that meant when they met us in the next round they would be tired.
At least, that was what Coach Benton said, plainly, clearly, and without any hint of emotion. You’d think the man would be excited about getting this far in the playoffs, but he was calmly rational about the whole thing. Today he had us working on defending against Ten, which was an education in itself. The kid wasn’t just fast, he had this way of looking at the ice, an awareness that had Westy and me dancing all over the place, not to mention Stan, who spent a lot of time patting his pipes in apology. The only time I actually stopped Ten was when I was catching a breather. He didn’t realize I’d stopped and he ran into my motionless stance. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“My bad,” he said, and broke off in the opposite direction.
“You think Jared puts speed in Ten’s Wheaties?” Westy groused from next to me.
I tapped his shin with my stick. “Nah, we’re just getting old.”
“I’m twenty-four, asshole.”
I leveled him a look. “Then yeah, you’re just slow.”
Westy huffed a laugh, and we took our positions, watching a grinning Ten stick-handling the puck in front of us. Damn kid was going to take us the whole way to the final, I knew it in my bones.
“Come take try goal,” Stan shouted, his words even more jumbled than usual. I admired the big guy, with his vocab out of a Russian spy film and his love of all things Erik.
“I’m two up,” Ten yelled back.
Stan growled; I could hear it from there. “I let score. Make big ego.” he said, determined, and took a stance.
And then Ten moved, from a standing start he flew; left, a wraparound, catching my stick with his, lifting it, driving the puck between Westy’s legs, and he shot on the goal. Luckily, Stan was more observant and a lot faster than me and Westy, and he caught the puck, patting his pipes as he held it close to his chest like a kitten, hugging it protectively.
“You suck like Roomba suck rug!” he shouted at Ten.
I watched him and Ten chirping at each other, waited for the next D-
pair to take their turn, then glanced up at the rafters. There were no retired jerseys there yet, and I doubted I would ever have my number retired after only being there a few months. Still, I would be part of this history-making team, and we were through to the next damn round.
Arvy skated over, still in the no-contact jersey. If he’d been healthy, then we would have had a formidable first line, unstoppable.
“How long now?” Westy asked, looking down at the injured leg as though he might be able to discern how the injury was. Then I realized I was doing the same thing.
Arvy shrugged. “Might get some ice time soon.”
Ten snowed to a stop next to us. “You back for the next round?” He sounded hopeful, but Arvy didn’t have anything to tell us.
Apart from one interesting thing.
“You’re looking at Mister April,” he said, and flexed his muscles. “I’ve still got it.”
“July,” Ten said. “They wanted me shirtless; Jared wasn’t impressed.”
I had no idea what they were talking about, but when Westy joined in to announce he was November and they wanted him to sit in fake snow, I was intrigued.
“It’s the calendar for the shelter, the one where we’re posing with the puppies as a fund-raiser. Ben is organizing it.” Ten slid me a sly look as he said that.
Arvy piped up. “What month are you?”
“I have no idea.” I doubted I would have been allocated anything. I was there for the Cup run, giving some depth and force, but after that I doubted the Railers would keep me on even if I wasn’t going to retire anyway.
“He’ll be October," Arvy said. “Give him some horns and he can be a devil.”
“We should get them to paint him red," Westy added.
“I hate you all.”
But at least the banter took the focus away from why I hadn’t been given a month to pose for. I didn’t want to talk about all that right now; my single-mindedness had to be on getting the Cup. As I showered, I thought about the rest of my day and felt peaceful.
Post-practice I was going to the shelter to catch up with Ben, we might even have an overnight stay where we actually managed to make love instead of falling asleep.
Life rocked.
And then, as I considered what I wanted out of tonight, I realized I hadn’t thought about having sex with Ben. I’d thought about making love.
My head hurt.
Chapter Nine
Ben
“Benton, if you don’t mind the hot dogs, they’ll be char dogs.”
I jumped a bit at Aunt Glenna’s voice at my side. “Sorry, I was watching the kids playing street hockey.”
I hurried to turn the wieners with my barbecue tongs as people milled around in my front yard, sipping lemonade and snacking on potato chips.
“Mmm-hmm. I’m sure it was the kids playing street hockey that had you all googly-eyed and dreamy.”
My gaze flitted back to Max surrounded by a pack of inner-city kids playing hockey in the middle of the street. He was sweaty and tired, yet he laughed as loud as any of the poor children on that blacktop. Hardly any of them knew how to play hockey, but they were quick learners. Max had incredible patience and endless good humor. He was so different from the man who cruised the ice just looking for someone to knock ass-over-tin-cups. He filled my heart with things I’d thought I would never feel again. Things that made me giddy and hard and scared and kind of forgetful.
“Benton, the dogs?”
“Oh hell, right, sorry.” I felt the blush creep up my neck. Aunt Glenna clucked her tongue, then fell into amused laughter. “Okay, fine, I might have been watching Max out there.”
“He does look good in shorts and a tank top, but Lord the man needs some sun.” She pattered off to check on the guests at this impromptu cookout. “Guests” meaning everyone in the neighborhood and “impromptu cookout” meaning block party to celebrate the Railers moving on to the conference championship against Florida. One more round, and they’d be playing for the Stanley Cup. I was so proud of Max, and his team. It was so exciting to be a part of the inner clique, even if I did make for one funny sort of WAG.
Aunt Carol appeared on my left, chewing on a carrot stick. “Don’t leave them on too long, Benton. No one likes them burned.”
I looked down at the old woman beside me. “Who exactly is wearing the apron that reads B-B-Q KING on it?” I tapped the apron tied around my waist with my tongs. “Yeah, that’s right. Me. So go worry over something else.”
“You’re a sassy-ass today.” She snorted and poked me with her carrot before wandering off to socialize.
I loved those two old women. They’d set this whole thing up and never once let it slip to me. That was impressive stuff, because there was nothing my aunts liked better than gossiping. Well, aside from sticking it to the man, that is.
“How are the hot dogs coming along?” I was ready to snap at whomever was asking about the dogs. I was the barbecue king. I knew how to roast a wiener. “Or is that a bad thing to ask?”
“No, sir, it’s a fine thing to ask.” I smiled at my pastor and hoped thinking bad thoughts about him wouldn’t get me on the wrong side of the Lord. Pastor Bert—and yes, Bert is his last name; his first name is Alabaster—was a tall man, lean, gray-haired, and always smiling. He’d lost his wife of forty-nine years two years ago, and so now everyone who attended the Rose of Beulah Baptist Church was trying to find him a girlfriend. Kind of how they’d tried to find me a boyfriend after Liam had died.
“I take it everyone is worried about the hot dogs?” he asked, mischief in his eyes.
“You could say that.” I chuckled and rolled the dogs over.
“People do like to nose around,” he commented as his gaze went to the kids and Max playing on the blocked-off street. “I was glad to see your new friend at services. He seems a fine man.”
“Yes, sir, he is that.”
“You do realize he’s welcome in our house of worship any time?”
“Yes, sir, I do. And thank you for always being open to me and others in the LGBTQ community.”
Pastor Bert smiled at me, and you could see the love for his work right there in his eyes.
“Benton, the Lord loves all his children. As his servant, it would be an affront not to love them all as well.” He patted my shoulder then leaned in. “Besides, I’m hoping to maybe get a few tickets for the youth group for a game next season.”
That made me laugh out loud. “I’ll have Max tell someone to call you.”
“Thank you. Don’t be late for choir practice next week. I’m off to check out the baked goods. Clara Miller said she was bringing her famous chocolate cake. I am a weak man in the face of chocolate cake.”
I hoped he kept that weakness to himself. Clara was a widow and a prime candidate for new girlfriend material.
Max and the kids all whooped. Someone must have scored. His gaze found me across the yard and among all the neighbors. There was fire in those stunning eyes of his. I stared at him for the longest time, until someone shouted that the hot dogs were on fire. Then I attended to the cooking and not my man. I’d have to attend to him later.
As soon as the door to my house was shut, I was attending to my man. And Max, it seemed, was all about being attended to.
I pressed his back to the wall, the fridge kicking on beside us. “Sitting there all night and looking at you and not being able to crawl all over you was torture.” I shoved that sexy damn tank top up to his chin, my fingers slipping through the curls on his chest while my lips settled over his mouth. Max was hard and ready, his hands coming up to cradle my head as I ground my dick against his. I plucked at his nipples as he sucked on my tongue.
“Thank goodness DK asked to spend the night with Carol and Glenna,” he panted between hot, wet kisses.
“I paid him five bucks to stay the night.” I shoved my hand into his shorts.
“I gave him twenty.”
We both softly laughed, then broke apart long enough to rus
h to the bedroom. Bucky had gone to bed in his crate all by himself. He lay there, head on his paws, tail gently thumping his thick cushion.
“You’re a good boy,” I whispered. I gave him a treat, then closed and locked the crate. Max was waiting for me by the stairs, wearing a tender smile. He offered me his hand. I took it and led him to my bed.
Once we stepped into my room, things sort of changed. The air around us shifted, or maybe it was a subtle change in our auras. Hell, I don’t know what it was, but there was a softness about the way we touched and tasted each other that I’d not felt before. His hands reverently moved over my skin, his mouth brushed my neck.
“What do you want from me tonight, Ben?” Max slipped between my legs, caging me, hands on either side of my head, his cock like a branding iron resting beside mine. “Tell me what you want from me.”
There were a million things I could have said…perhaps should have said. I could have told him I wanted him to love me and not just fuck me. I should have told him that I wanted him to care about me as much as I had grown to care about him.
“Wake up with me.” That was all I dared to say.
He kissed me breathless, then folded my legs up and across my chest, hooking my ankles, allowing his cock to slip down over my balls.
“I’d love to wake up with you,” he replied, the words thick with desire. I let my eyes drift shut as he tore open a condom packet then pumped some lube into his hand. Hearing him coat his cock sent a ripple of white-hot lust through me. “You ready for me?”
“Lord, yes,” I panted as I clawed at his sides.
He slid into me in one long, smooth thrust. When he was as deep as he could go, he pressed my legs more firmly to my chest and began moving. He flicked his hips quickly—short, deep drives that stole my breath while pushing me far too rapidly to a climax. Damn the man, he knew just how to move, how to pump those hips of his, how to fondle my balls and stroke my cock.
“Is this what you need from me, Ben?”
“Yes…yes…yes.”
My orgasm hit me hard. I arched up, fell back, and shouted his name. His right hand held my kicking cock, his left kept my legs pinned to my chest. I came all over my lower abdomen and calves. Max ground into me. I yelped at the depth and the pressure. Then he tumbled over his own summit, his growls of completion making me shudder. He dropped my cock and fell beside me on the bed, his cock sliding out of me. Straightening my legs was painful yet glorious.