by RJ Scott
From there it was onto Vancouver, then all the way back to Toronto. Eight days away from Tucson, the Canadian road trip early in the season was going to be a wakeup call for the team.
I packed my bag efficiently, left it by the door, rolled my shoulders, then took my phone to bed with me. It was cold comfort, considering I could have been having sex with a hot Russian, but I scanned Twitter and it wasn’t long before I found my first mention of Colorado.
“Hockey Player Holds Exotic Pet Emu Hostage,” I read out loud, and followed links to discover that Animal Control, backed up by Tucson’s finest, had liberated the emu from a very sad-looking Colorado. The way the scene was lit it was obvious that there were arc lights from above, possibly a helicopter? As the emu was led from the scene, I switched to the local television channel.
Colorado was on his doorstep, remonstrating at length with a cop, and then I saw Vlad, well, I saw his hand, as Colorado was yanked back into his house. Cops went in as well, and the feed ended, although both Colorado and Kricker were trending on Twitter when I went to sleep.
It remained in the news the next morning. Lots of codes were mentioned regarding prohibited wild animals, and it didn’t seem to matter that Colorado’s claim that he’d rescued the bird from a drug dealer sounded reasonable. Mainly because the words drug dealer were anywhere near his name or the team, and also that with his long hair and tattoos and his rangy body he could pass for a bad guy in a cop procedural. They interviewed management on breakfast news, and then Vlad, and he was stony-faced, but reassuring, firm, but sincere, as he explained it was all nothing and just a huge misunderstanding.
By the time I was ready to leave for the small private airport we flew from, the whole event had become a joke, with ten new memes in the past hour. Only I didn’t think it really was over, because when I arrived at Flying Diamond Airport, Colorado was nowhere to be seen, and our backup goalie, Andre, was onboard with everyone huddled around him, chatting about the incident.
“He’s off the team for sure.”
“Tell me again about the naked bit—”
“Was the emu naked?”
“Not the emu, idiot, all emus are naked, I mean the girls—”
“I bet management is pissed—”
“If we lose him though—”
“How did he not know that—?”
Everyone fell silent and I glanced over my shoulder to see Vlad had arrived and behind him was a contrite Colorado. Well, as contrite as a smirking Colorado could get.
“There will be no talking about emus on this flight,” Vlad ordered.
We all nodded, and behind his back, Colorado was biting his lip. He wasn’t taking the not-to-be-spoken-about-incident seriously, but I doubt there was anything that would make him take things seriously in any kind of genuine way. Music, sex, and hockey, that was his life, and I didn’t know how he was even still alive. I did know his drug tests always came back clean and he was sober, but if all you have to live for were hockey, music and sex, then what kind of future did you have?
Vlad glanced around the cabin and our gazes locked for a millisecond, nowhere near long enough for me to send him a reassuring smile, or to do anything to make him feel better.
“Sit!” he ordered Colorado, and pointed at the seat next to him.
“Iceman, hell no, I need to be in my lucky seat.”
Vlad reared up over him, and then shoved him none too gently into the seat before taking the one next to him. “You don’t need luck if you’re not playing,” he snapped. I’m not sure he meant for the entire plane to hear him, but we did.
Were we really going to face Calgary with Andre in goal, who was barely out of diapers in a hockey-goalie sense, when we could have had Colorado and maybe pulled a win out of our asses?
“We’re fucked,” Andre groaned under his breath, but Ryker elbowed him in the side.
“Dude, we got this,” he reassured him.
We so hadn’t got this.
Four goals against and we’d fought back, but their goalie was better than ours and that was just in the first period. When the horn sounded after that first twenty minutes I’d never been so relieved. The JAR line had tried, my line had tried, our third and fourth lines had pushed hard, but we couldn’t get anything by the big Czech in the Calgary net, and Vlad’s defense pair were on the ice so much he was exhausted. Getting back into the locker room, we wore a defeated air, going through the motions and living up to our label of worst team in the whole freaking league.
Colorado was suited up, our backup, benched, and I genuinely thought that even with the whole emu incident that he would be put in goal. I think he’d expected it too.
Coach Carmichael paced around the logo in the center of the locker room, thin-lipped and tight with tension.
“Okay,” he began, and exchanged glances with Assistant Coach Anderson, who leaned back against the wall and nodded before he continued. “I actually saw some good work out there.”
I could feel the surprise in the room. Next to me Alex huffed.
“Four goals Andre let in,” he continued, and I felt so damn sorry for the kid who looked wiped out. “The first one, yeah, that was on him, he was too far out of his crease, and he knows it.” He glanced at Andre.
“Yes, Coach.” Andre sounded broken, as if it was all too much for him.
“Goal two, what the hell were you even doing that far back Alex?”
Alex blinked up at Coach, “I was—”
“Goal three, Vlad, Eli, you were screening so badly that Andre couldn’t get line of sight. Why was that?”
Vlad stiffened. “With respect—”
“And four, well, our penalty kill team, I mean, what the fuck, Ryker? Eli? Tate? Do we not run enough drills?”
By now we’d all come to realize he wasn’t actually looking for answers at all.
“Let Andre do his job,” He held up a board, a complicated mess of Os and Xs that made sense to all of us. “Vlad, the D, I want you away from him, stop blocking him, he doesn’t need your help with that, I want you chasing down their forwards, got it?”
“Coach,” All of the D-men replied as one. Captain or not, if Vlad had fucked up then he was happy to be told.
“JAR line, Tate, your line, they have a solid defense blocking your way, I’m switching you up, confusing the shit out of them, I’m putting Tate, Alex and Ryker out first, with the remaining fifty-two seconds of this penalty kill. I want to see speed, accuracy, and I want any penalty they might get, made deader than an emu.”
“I think you meant dodo,” Colorado piped up and deflated when Coach glared at him.
“Vlad?” he prompted.
Then it was Vlad’s turn to talk. I was sure he’d say something inspiring in as few words as he could. That was his way; he knew what to say and when to say it, that was why he was the captain and that was why we all listened to him. My eyes slipped south to the floor and back up again as I recalled the way he’d held me against the refrigerator, and I was instantly getting hard, which in a cup was damn uncomfortable.
“Do we want to finish at the bottom of the league this year?”
Silence, and then a soft chorus of noes, including me.
“Do we want to make it to the Stanley Cup Finals?”
This time the confirmations came faster, but I sensed doubt in the tone, and Coach frowned at Vlad. The Raptors making it halfway up the table would be something to aim for. I was good, Ryker was good, Alex, Sebastian, Colorado when he wasn’t being a complete asshole, we could get up there, we just needed faith.
“Do you want to beat this team?”
“Hell, yes,” Ryker snapped next to me, a little louder than everyone else.
Vlad nodded at him. “Clean. Play the game. Keep your eyes open. Do not crowd Andre. And most of all, get some shots on goal. Got me?”
The reply was a chorus of “Yes Captain!” and it was loud and purposeful. We knew what we were doing wrong, and it was time to go out and beat Calgary.
Of course, we didn’t make it easy on ourselves. We managed to cut their four-goal lead, two from me, two from Ryker, and a beautiful slapshot from Eli. We tied at five each, took it to overtime, but we all knew that Andre would be out of his element in goal. He tried so damn hard, but Calgary got that decisive goal and won the two points. Still, we left with a point for tying the game, and you bet it was the best feeling in the entire damn world. With all the high-fiving going on I thought I’d be able to do the same to Vlad, but he’d given a speech telling us we rocked, before making his excuses and tugging Colorado out of the locker room.
We were staying at the Regency, a twenty-minute coach ride to the arena, and by the time we reached our rooms we’d dissected every penalty, every goal, each tiny play, and even Vlad had joined us, although he never once looked at me or talked to me directly.
I was exhausted, elated, concerned that Vlad and I had been nothing but a one-night stand, and now I was in my tiny hotel room, and thank God the whole sharing-rooms thing from my college days had been and gone. I showered, paced, checked for any news on emus, watched the replays of the game that were beginning to show up, checked the Tate Collins hashtag for any more Lacey news, and that was it.
There was nothing for it, but to go to bed, and think about how maybe, just maybe, messing around with Vlad in his kitchen had been a very bad thing.
Chapter Eight
Vlad
Sensible: A course of action chosen with prudence.
That was how the dictionary explained the one word that I’d always tried to base my actions on. I was not one to be rash or rush into things. That was more my brother Dimi. I was the cool one, the levelheaded twin, the man who approached a problem systematically and with control. If you lost restraint you did foolish things. Things that could harm you in ways you never imagined when you were being a moron. My brother Dimi and the farm pond incident when we were twelve sprang to mind.
He had insisted that the ice on the small farm pond we played pick-up games on was thick enough after one or two cold nights. Papa had warned us off the pond just the day before. So, being bullheaded, Dimi skated out, turned to look at me and gave me the shish, an old Russian hand gesture with the thumb between the middle and index finger. It was a childish gesture that we always used when we were arguing. No sooner had he finished lifting his hand had the ice broken under him. He’d lost his new skates and had to slop home soaking wet with chattering teeth and explain to Papa where his skates were. Not a sensible lad my brother.
Now, it seemed, I was beginning to act like my reckless twin. Even as I made the call I knew I was being careless, but the drive to see him was too strong to be ignored.
Tate picked up on the fifth ring as I placed a dress shoe between the door and the frame to keep it from closing and locking immediately.
“Hey there,” he said, my ear instantly pleased with the sound of Texas caressing it.
“Hello. Come to my room. Bring your digital playbook.”
“I…uhm…what?”
“Come to my room. Bring a digital playbook. Be here within ten minutes. The door is propped open. Bring the shoe inside with you.”
I ended the call, leaned back in the short-backed gray chair by the standard hotel room desk, and picked up my drink. Three fingers of Stoli with a twist of orange over two cubes. Hotel mini bars were a marvel. The heater clicked on, stirring up the dry air. I sipped my vodka. Would he come? Would he not? I hoped so. The past two days babysitting an out-of-control rock star/goalie had worn on my jagged nerves. I wanted to spend time with Tate. See where he was mentally, feel out how far he was willing to go in this slow dance of dominance and submission. He would have to bend to my wishes if he wanted in my bed. God knows I desired him as my lover, as stupid as that was. A sharp rap on the door made me smile. I glanced at the silver Rolex on my wrist. Seven minutes. Impressive. I called for him to enter.
My pulse kicked up. There was a short hallway he had to come down, passing the bathroom to gain access to the room and bed. When he cleared the corner, I smiled at him over my drink. He was in lounge pants and a tank top with a clam on the front, his feet in sneakers. In his hands was an iPad and my black dress shoe. He gave the room a once over, found me in the corner by the drawn draperies, and flashed that sweet-as-apple-pie smile. It made my already hard cock ache.
“So I brought the tablet, but don’t you have one of your own?” He took a few steps closer. I held up my left hand to stop him.
“Take off your clothes,” I said, surprised at the timbre of my voice. His brown eyes flared. “Take off your clothes.” He looked around as if expecting Colorado or Ryker to jump out and yell “Gotcha!” but no one was here but us. “Take. Off. Your. Clothes.”
I saw the giddy nervousness creep into his gaze. “You’re serious?”
“I am always serious. I do not want to ask again. Take off your clothes. Slowly,” I added when he tossed the tablet and shoe to the bedside table and yanked at his tank top. “Slowly. Strip for me. Make me want you.”
“What are we doing, an LGBT remake of True Lies or what?” He joked nervously.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolled his eyes. “Watch a movie sometime. True Lies? Arnold and Jamie Lee? She does that sexy strip tease for Arnold who’s sitting in a chair and—never mind. I don’t know…you want me to like shake my ass or just get naked?”
“Take off your clothes slowly then come to me on your hands and knees.”
His eyes went wider, but he liked what I was suggesting. I could see it in the way he wet his lips and began moving, lifting his shirt up inch by inch, baring his abs then his chest. His tiny nipples were hard. My tongue ached to flick them. I took another sip of vodka and watched the show. He wasn’t going to win any awards for sensual movements, but then again he was a big, muscular hockey player, not a lithe dancer.
When he stood there nude, I ran my gaze over him, lingering on his thighs and hard cock then moving up over his stomach to his face. His pupils were blown already. Oh yes, he liked this sort of dynamic.
“Come to me. Crawl over. Put your cheek on my groin, resting your nose against my dick.” I was surprised at how smooth my voice sounded. My heart was thumping. Tate went down with more grace than he’d shown during his impromptu striptease. Eyes locked on me, Tate made his way to me on his hands and knees. I spread my legs for him when he drew close. He never hesitated as he wiggled between my thighs and put his cheek on my erection. I placed my left hand to his head, pushed gently, and rubbed my cock against his nose and lips. He gasped, turning his head just so to nibble at my length. I rocked up more, pushing against his lips. His tongue darted out and I came close to dropping my drink. “Enough. Pick up your head.”
He did. I slid my free hand around the back of his neck and lifted him upward, pulling him over me, his bare chest lying against my clothed one. He opened for me the moment my lips touched his. God above, he was made for me. His mouth tasted sweet, like soda pop. I swept in deep. He met me stroke for stroke, soft little moans of pleasure sneaking out of his mouth when I’d tip his head this way or that.
“Vlad,” he gasped, the sound of my name on that hot exhalation nearly had me coming in my pants. That was not happening. Tonight, I was coming inside him.
“Mm, such a beautiful man you are,” I purred, nipping down his jaw to his neck where I sucked and bit until he was whimpering. “Get on the bed.”
I released him, hoping to gain a little lost control when he left me. That never happened. Seeing Tate spreading himself across the massive king-sized bed, ass in the air, was more than I could take. I tossed back my vodka, reached for my small toiletry bag that held shaving supplies, my toothbrush, and comb, as well as condoms and lube, and was resting by my chair, and got to my feet.
His ragged breaths filled the room. I reached out with a finger, trailing it down the crack of his ass. He jerked and whined, muttering something about losing his mind.
“Do y
ou want me to take you like this, from behind?” I cupped his balls. He pulled in a long breath between his teeth. “Is it what you want?”
“I…yeah… maybe. It’s on the gay porn that I’ve seen.”
Smiling, I rolled his heavy sac. “Did you always watch gay porn?”
“Maybe.”
That confession made me smile even wider. Of course he did. “I do too when I feel the itch. Do you jerk off to it?”
“Sometimes.” He moved his hips side to side. I patted a cheek, kneaded the bubble butt that was so like mine and every other hockey player I knew. “God, can we…do something?”
“We are. You’re telling me things that are pleasing me and I’m pleasing you. So, are you sure you want your first time from behind?” His tiny little hole was tempting me, so I ran a finger around the edges. He gasped and jerked. “If I take you this way it will feel deeper.”
“Okay deep, yeah, deep is good. Yeah? Or no, I…fuck I don’t know.” He pushed back against my finger, eager, or so he thought. “I want you in me.”
A shudder of want raced down my spine. I flicked open the lube and coated his ass crack, working the slick down over his entrance, over his balls, and slathering his leaky cock. He groaned long and low when I worked the lube over his prick. As I stroked with my left hand I began working a finger into him. His moans were like hymns, sweet and heavenly. He never once pulled away; if anything he was too greedy for the penetration.
“More,” he huffed after I had my middle finger all the way in. I bent down to nip at his ass cheek, then worked another finger in, all the while tugging on his prick. Pre-cum ran out of him, adding to the slip and slide. “More, fuck. Oh, shit…I…shit!”