by RJ Scott
“No, I was married. He died. I was feeling…” I leaned back to let the bartender place my drink in front of me. I paid, and the barkeep left. “I’m not sure what I was feeling.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He sounded sincere. I nodded, picked up my drink, and met his gaze. “You sure you’re into this?”
I drained my glass. “I thought we could maybe talk. Get to know each other.”
“If that’s really what you want? I mean, if that’s what you came here for, then I’m happy to shoot the shit, but what I’m feeling simmering between us hasn’t got much to do with talking.”
A shiver of want skittered over my flesh. He was right. He was wrong. He was too damn masculine to be real.
I slid out of the long seat, my gaze locked with his. He followed me out the door, neither of us saying a thing until we stood by my Cherokee. Then I turned to look at him.
“I thought we could maybe talk out here. See, there’s this spark…”
He reached for me, massive hand latching onto the back of my neck. The kiss was rough, hungry, fierce. Kind of like how he played hockey. It stole my breath, and my senses as well it seemed, because somehow, as tongues tangled and teeth scraped, we managed to fall into my car. There was no way we had enough room. We were behind a damn bar. People could walk out and see us. Didn’t stop us. I guess neither of us had much sense.
“Shut the door,” I panted as we broke apart in the mad rush to touch each other. He did, thankfully not on anyone’s leg. Max was under me, his hands now pushing at my shirt, shoving it up to bare my chest. As his mouth settled over my left nipple, I found the lever and the seat slammed back as far as it would go.
“You taste like pure sin,” he murmured, then tugged soundly on my nipple. My spine tightened. I rotated my hips after my legs settled on either side of him. Stiff cock moved over stiff cock. He inhaled, pulling cooler air over my already sensitive nipple. “Turn around.”
“No. What? Oh shit.” He was shoving at me roughly. Our legs were far too long for this shit, but we managed to untangle ourselves. I leaned in to suckle on his mouth before facing forward. He was hot single malt whisky on my tongue. His thick beard scratched my face. Kissing. I’d not done this since Liam had been alive. The hookups? No, no kissing for them. That made things too personal, I guessed. I’d missed the taste and pressure of a man’s mouth on mine.
He was forceful but gentle, if that makes sense. Pushing and pulling, wild to get me how he wanted me yet never making me feel caged. “Get these down.”
Hands on my hips, he yanked my pants down, taking my best boxer briefs down with them. God above, it was getting stuffy in this car. His hands roamed over my ass, fondling the tight orbs, his skin calloused and scratchy. Perfect.
“Need a condom.” He lifted himself as if reaching into a back pocket.
I jerked and pulled until I had one leg free, then I leaned up, arms over the dash, ass open and needy. Hearing him rip open a condom packet then spit onto his hand had me whimpering.
“Yes…hell fire, yes,” I mewled, fingers grasping at the dashboard while he eased me back into position. He spat again. My eyes rolled back into my head. Sweat beaded on my brow and upper lip.
“Sit back on me, Ben. Easy. Fuck. Oh fuck, you should see this…”
It took all I had not to faint from the sheer delight of a man’s fat cock breaching me.
“Your ass is perfect. Yeah, good, sit down now. Easy, easy. So hot.” He thrust upward, driving his cock so far into me I yelped, then groaned. “Ride me. Hard. Yeah, good man. Fuck yeah. Good man.”
With his fingers biting into my hips, we fucked like beasts, my chest thumping into the dash when he drove up into me, his knee slapping the door each time I dropped to impale myself. We paused a few times for him to spit on his hand and spread the spittle on his cock, then I was back on him, eager as hell for the stretch and burn.
“You close?”
“Yeah,” I huffed while rolling my ass in circles, his dick deeply embedded in me. Max made this guttural sound every time I did that. I did too.
He slid a sweaty arm around me, hoisting me up. My head slammed into the roof, then I arched back to lie on him, arms locked overhead, hands splayed on the headliner fabric.
“Just sit there and move your hips as you do.” His voice was even grittier now. He fisted my cock. “Fuck but you’re juicy,” he murmured into my skin as he worked precum over the head of my prick. “Come for me now. Sit still. Come for me and let your sweet ass sucking and grabbing me pull me over. Do it. Let go, Ben. Yeah, that’s it, baby. Fuck yeah. Shit. Ah, shit.”
The orgasm came quickly. I shot hot and violently, garbled sounds that were barely human burbling out of me. He held me tight to him with his left hand, his hold slightly painful, which made the release that much better.
His teeth found the nape of my neck, and he latched on as he came. Writhing, slick with sweat and covered with my own cum, I squeezed tightly, grabbing his kicking cock internally, milking him wantonly.
“Ah hell,” I gasped, spent and soaked with sweat and semen, my muscles contracting then loosening over and over.
“Fucking beautiful man,” Max growled beside my ear as the mating frenzy abated.
There I sat—lay, whatever—my back on his chest, his cock so far inside me that drawing deep breaths was hard, eyes closed, blissed out.
“I think I came on the dash,” I finally blurted out. Max chuckled. It was a dirty little laugh that made me smile. Fuck, but that had been fantastic. Messy. Messy. Oh fuck. So messy and sweaty and rough, just as sex should be. “We never talked about our status.”
That kind of cut through the rosy afterglow. Max muttered something against my shoulder, licked a hot path up my sweaty neck, then eased me up off him.
“Sorry, yeah, things kind of got stupid.”
I fell into the driver’s side, my pants dangling off one leg, my ass over the console. I tensed for a second when I felt his fingers slipping down the crack of my ass. He rubbed at my hole with two fat fingers, working them into me. I shuddered and pushed back against those digits, begging for more of him in me. Fingers, dick, tongue—didn’t matter. As long as he got inside me again.
“I’m negative. Always careful,” he said.
“Mm, mmm.” I couldn’t speak while he was fingering me so gently.
“Like that?”
“Yeah, so much. Me too. Negative. Use another finger.”
I got that raunchy chuckle again, then, sadly, he pulled out and gave my ass a loving little pat.
“Let’s go somewhere private. With some air.”
“I can do air.” I wiggled into the seat, rolled this way and that until I had my pants up over my ass and was sitting up facing the wheel. Max leaned over the console and kissed me, his hand falling to my cock still out in the air. “Need keys.”
“My place is close. I have stuff. Lube. Condoms. Toys. I’m easy. I just need more of you.”
“Where are my keys?!” I dug into my front pockets. My phone slid to the floor and started ringing. “Oh man, no…” I groaned as the familiar ringtone of a friend of mine—a fine member of the Harrisburg Police Department—filled the car. “I have to take that.’
“Okay, take it.” He flopped back into his seat, his hand still cradling my cock.
I placed the phone to my ear. “Dwayne, if my aunts are in lockup tell them I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Make it three,” Max said, hand still stroking my cock back to life.
“Three hours. Tell them I’ll be there in three—”
“Ben, it’s not your aunts. It’s the shelter. It’s been vandalized. The glass in the front door is busted in. Someone passing by saw it and called it in the same time the alarm from the security system rang through. We need you down here to tell us if anything has been stolen.”
“Dammit!” I threw a look at Max, who decided things weren’t going as we would have liked, so he dropped my cock. “Okay, I’ll be there in t
hirty. Thanks, Dwayne.”
“Any time, man.”
I hung up on the cop who’d adopted two of my older dogs for his kids.
“Trouble?”
Keys now in hand, I cranked the Jeep over, eager for the rush of stale but cool air.
“Shelter issues. Vandals. I have to go.” I looked to the right, sure he’d be pissed, but he seemed cool. Sweaty, and still with his big soft dick out, but cool.
“You want to do this again?” he asked.
“Can we make it to a bed next time?”
“Yeah, we can do that.”
We tucked and zipped, and then I reached for him. My mouth took his, and he responded with passion. When we parted, his gaze was smoldering again.
“Give me your phone.”
I didn’t argue and watched as he typed in some numbers, took a selfie as the contact picture, sent himself a message, and handed it back to me.
“Now we have each other’s numbers. I’ll call when we’re back from Philly, beautiful man.” He patted my face, softly, then left the Jeep, closing the door and disappearing.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” I whispered, taking just a moment to try to work on a face that wouldn’t show the cops I’d just been fucked senseless in a parking lot. I needed more AC. Stat.
Chapter Four
Max
Coach Benton wasn’t moving. He didn’t walk up and down the locker room like my last head coach. He didn’t curse at us like the one I had before that, even. After twelve years in the league and seven different teams, I’d seen coaches pace, scream, throw things, and even cry. But Coach Benton was a whole new ballgame.
“So, we lost,” he summarized, quietly, controlled, his hands loose at his sides.
Yep. Too right we fucking lost.
All tied at three goals each, then the Flyers had got one past us twenty-three seconds into overtime. I’d been on the damn ice. It was me they’d got a goal past.
Now Coach would lose it, and I glanced at Mads, the defensive coach, who stood, arms crossed over his chest, just watching the room. I couldn’t get a fix on him either. I’d have thought he’d be consoling Ten, who was slumped in his stall looking as if someone had stolen all his toys and burned them in front of him.
“This is game one,” Coach continued. "We’re here again in two days, and we can win. We played a good game tonight; I saw a lot of smart moves out there.”
And then he left, and Mads followed him, as did the other assistants, and Julio the equipment guy, who exchanged looks with me as he went out.
I’d spent time on the plane yesterday talking to Julio. After all this time in the NHL, with my experience on varied teams, I knew the first person you made friends with was the guy in charge of the equipment. Leave coffees, Danishes, gifts, and leave them at the skate-sharpening altar, and they will respect that you respect them.
Julio was retiring this year; he’d seen as much as I had, but he was in his mid-sixties, and gray. I was only thirty, yet retirement was only the remainder of the season away.
If I made it that far.
Our captain stood up. Connor was not only a brilliant player, but he had this way about him that commanded respect. He didn’t take any shit and he wouldn't let us leave this room until we’d talked this through.
“That was bad luck,” he said, and everyone nodded. We all knew we’d played well, and apart from one lucky bounce we could have battled back up the ice to their goal and maybe it would have been us with the win. His glance landed on me, then on my defensive partner, Westy. “This is not on you two,” he said. Then he looked deliberately at Ten, Ads and Larson, in turn. “Nor you. Just because the goal went in on your shift, this is not your shit to carry.”
Ten nodded, and I was nodding as well.
“Now, let’s get back to the hotel, get some food and sleep, and we’re back here tomorrow for practice.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dieter raise his hand, as if he was in school. I heard a couple of people groan at the move.
“Lola is here with Trent.”
“You’re joking,” Ten said with an exaggerated groan to end. “Not Lola. Last time she sat with us, I couldn’t feel my cheek for a week where she pinched it. And I don’t mean the cheek on my face.”
Everyone else laughed. This was clearly some kind of long-running joke I hadn’t been part of— before I’d been traded in.
“I can't help it,” Dieter defended himself, and looked aggrieved. “She’s part of the package.”
“Who is?” I asked Westy.
“Trent’s grandmother. She came up with Trent for the game.”
“Why is that a problem?”
Westy side-eyed me. “You’ll see.”
We showered, changed, and were back on the coach in good time. Traveling to the hotel took maybe fifteen minutes, and it was one hell of a place. All polished marble and glass, it was a million miles away from some of the holes I’d stayed in on the road. Guess that was what you got when you were Stanley Cup wannabes.
Management hustled us to a private dining room and shut the door, and we sat down. I noticed how the D-men sat together, the forwards as well, and then the two goalies—Stan and his backup, who apparently was moving on at the end of this season if you believed the rumors—had a table all to themselves.
We ordered food, and the door opened and I expected something other than what arrived. A short woman, age undetermined, holding on to a skinny guy’s arm, came into the room. Dressed from head to toe in orange—Flyers orange—she was so damn bright in the sea of men in suits.
“We win!” she cackled and flung her arms wide. I saw the skinny man slink to one side, then realized who it was. The figure skater Trent Hanson, the one who’d done the reality show with the Railers the summer before. He sidled off to sit at the table where Dieter was holding a seat for him.
Right, so Dieter’s boyfriend’s nana was a Flyers fan.
Unfortunate.
“You all garbage,” she added, and looked around for a seat. I saw everyone, to a man, slink down in their seats, but they were lucky—they didn’t have space. Our table did, and I heard Westy curse to my side.
Bright Orange Woman came to our table and sat down opposite me. I’d done my season as a Flyer, I’d worn the orange, and she leveled her best stare at me.
“Lola,” she announced. I guessed that was her name. “You should never have left the Flyers.”
It wasn’t as if I’d had a lot of choice; I was a journeyman, sent to whatever team needed a grinder like me.
“I like it here,” I said defensively.
She huffed and narrowed her eyes. “You’re dangerous to my Flyers.”
I wasn’t going to disagree with that. I knew my worth.
Then she held court. She was outrageously opinionated, rude, vocal in her dislike of the Railers, and I loved her. She was so damn funny, and by the end of the night we had our heads together talking about the glory days of hockey, of which she had seen way more than me. I loved hockey. I could quote stats, team logos, recall that time when Mario did something to Wayne or Clarke deked Favell. I was a walking encyclopedia of crap about hockey.
Halfway through a tirade from Lola about Ten being too fast and how it just wasn’t fair to all the other teams, it hit me with the force of a ton of bricks.
What would I do without hockey? Who was I without the knowledge of the game?
What will happen to me?
Grief curled in my chest and stayed there for the remainder of dinner, and if anyone noticed how quiet I had got, they didn’t say.
Lola hugged me and patted my cheek—the one on my face—then she pressed a kiss to my hand. She didn’t actually say anything, but I was unaccountably moved by it all. All of a sudden, I wanted her to hold me while I cried.
Where the hell had that come from?
Then the fear hit. Was I sad because I was leaving hockey? Or was it because the thing in my brain was changing the way I saw things? I was the hard guy, not the
one who cried. Was something wrong?
I headed for my room, damn pleased I didn’t have to share—thank God, they’d stopped that shit—and stripped off my suit, taking care to hang it up. I made the call, sitting there in my underwear in the warm room, hoping to hell the doc would pick up. I paid him enough to be on call for me, surely.
I got an answering service, but they connected me quickly, and within five minutes of getting the thought of dying right front and center in my head I was talking to the only man who could calm me down.
“What’s wrong?”
Doctor Nolan Warner was a field expert in endovascular neurosurgery. He’d spent some time rooting around in my brain nearly seven years ago, and I had him on speed dial. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d spoken to him. I ignored headaches and dizziness of any kind; I’d decided I’d rather not know a long time ago.
But this was different. This was my last year, and I didn’t want to die before I finished. I had a job to do, a Cup to lift.
“Max, hello,” he said, all conversational and happy.
“I have a headache,” I blurted out.
There was silence. He’d explained the things to look out for—extreme headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, sickness, memory loss. I didn’t have any of those.
“On a scale of one to ten—”
“It’s a one,” I admitted.
Of course to a normal guy that might have been a five, but to a hockey player, pain at the level of one was nothing. Skaters our there played with broken legs—a level one headache was nothing.
He didn’t sigh or call me an idiot for contacting him. The line was quiet for a moment and then I heard him move and close a door.
Had I woken him up? What time was it in Vancouver anyway?
“Talk to me,” he said in that soft, insistent, doctor-like tone.
“When you blocked it, you told me there was a chance it could come back.”
“No, I told you the work I had done on your particular arteriovenous malformation led me to believe there was a ninety percent chance you wouldn’t experience any further issues.”