Chapter 11
11
GERARD
I can’t speak for all guys, but I know that whenever I’m bored out of my mind, I jerk off.
Due to the excessive rain we’ve been having lately, classes have been canceled for the day. The puddles all over campus have turned into lakes, and the only ones who can get to class are the rowing and swim teams.
Some of the guys have been up since dawn playing NHL 16 in the living room, but I’m not in the mood. We have practice later today, and I’d rather play real hockey than virtual hockey.
I toss the covers down to my feet and spread my bare legs wide. I’m wearing nothing—not even underwear—because my body temperature is as hot as an oven. Has been ever since I started puberty. If I wear clothes to bed, I sweat more than a pig in a sauna.
It’s a Gunnarson trait. My father suffers the same fate. My male cousins, too. Sleepovers were interesting growing up, to say the least. At least we’re all athletes. Nothing none of us hadn’t seen before.
I grab the bottle of lube from under my bed, squirt a dollop into my hand and go to town on my dick. I prefer to take my time whenever I jerk off. Some guys rush through it, trying to set a new world record, but not me. Sometimes, I’ll watch porn, but today, it’s me and my imagination.
Pretty Susie, a girl I dated back in high school, is bringing me down to the basement at her parents’ house. She’s wearing a red dress, the same one she wore to homecoming, and my hands are all over her. Her tiny hand wraps itself around mine and drags my finger up her leg to?—
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I scowl. While it could be something important that requires my immediate attention—maybe Coach is canceling practice or one of the guys needs a ride somewhere—I’m in the middle of making love to my fist.
Letting go of my throbbing and angry dick, I wipe my hand on a tissue before grabbing my phone. I tap the screen and see that I have an email from the Ice Queen. I read it several times to be sure I understand it correctly.
She wants to write a blog post about my hands. That’s a new one. I’ve never thought of my hands as particularly sexy before. I mean, they’re hands. Do people even have hand fetishes? Is that a real thing?
My hands are massive, easily twice the size of most guys’. My fingers are thick and long, and the knuckles are dusted with fine blond hair—I’ve broken a few of them over the years, but you’d never know it now. My nails are short and neatly trimmed, a habit drilled into me by countless coaches over the years.
“Long nails and hockey gloves don’t mix,” they always said. Truer words have never been spoken.
I turn my hand over and study the lines etched into my palm. I wonder what a palm reader would make of them. Would they see a long life line? Success and fame in my future?
With a shrug, I reply to the Ice Queen’s email with one hand as the other goes back to stroking my dick.
From: gunnarsong@bsu.edu
To: theicequeen@blog.com
Date: October 8, 2015
Subject: RE: Penny for Your Thoughts
Hey, Ice Queen!
I’ve never thought about my hands in that way before. But I guess they are pretty big. Comes with the territory of being 6’5” and a hockey player.
I’m flattered you want to write about them. I say, go for it. I’m curious to see what you can come up with.
Sincerely,
Gerard
I hit send and return to the task at hand—pun intended. Closing my eyes, I put myself back in the basement with Susie. My fingers are deep inside of her, and she’s writhing beneath my beefy frame. But when she reaches into my pants to grab my cock, it’s not her hand anymore.
It’s…Elliot’s.
A gasp escapes me as my eyelids fly open. My cock throbs impossibly harder in my hand at the thought of it being Elliot stroking me.
I try to return to the safety of my fantasy with Susie, but it’s too late. I’m completely lost in this new vision. A moan rips from my throat as I picture Elliot kneeling between my spread legs with his slender fingers wrapped around my thick shaft.
His lips part to say something sexy to me, but all that comes out is his warm breath. It scorches my skin, even though I’m already on fire.
I stroke faster as I imagine his hand gliding up and down my considerable length. Somehow, his long fingers know the right amount of pressure to apply to make my toes curl in my socks.
Elliot gazes up at me with raw hunger in his brown eyes. His hair falls across his forehead as he works me with a single-minded focus. I groan his name, and the sound of it on my lips only heightens my arousal. I thrust into the tight circle of my fist, matching the rhythm I imagine him setting.
My hand soon becomes a frenzied blur, flying up and down my shaft and filling my room with obscene wet noises from the mix of lube and precome oozing out of me. Every muscle in my body locks up tight as Elliot’s eyes lock on mine. For a second, time freezes.
And then I explode without warning.
White-hot pleasure pulses through me in long, drawn-out waves, and it’s the most wonderful sensation ever.
With a hoarse cry, I spill my load over my hand and onto my abs. I work myself through it, drawing out every last shudder of my release.
As the aftershocks fade, I collapse back against the pillows with a weak groan. I’m spent and panting heavily. My heart hammers against my ribs as I try to process what happened. I’ve never gotten off thinking about another guy before. I’m not gay…am I?
No, it has to be a fluke. A weird one-time thing.
After cleaning myself up, I stare at the ceiling, my mind awhirl. I can’t deny that was the hottest orgasm I’ve had in ages. But what does it mean? And what the heck am I supposed to do about it?
The rain relentlessly pounds against the windows, while downstairs, the guys are lost in another heated argument over their video game. The racket snaps me out of my thoughts and reminds me that I can’t hide out all day psychoanalyzing myself.
I get out of bed and walk to the window while stretching out my arms. The Hockey House has the advantage of being on the outskirts of the BSU campus, giving us some distance from the main student body. From where my room sits on the third floor, I can see all the way to the quad. It’s completely deserted and waterlogged, like a giant kiddie pool after a hurricane. The usually bustling pathways are now rivers, and the grass is a soggy green sponge.
A bolt of lightning streaks down from the sky, splitting a cloud in two. I flinch, even though it’s way off in the distance. The thunder rumbles through a few seconds later, making the windows vibrate. Weather can be terrifying sometimes.
So can jerking off to thoughts of a guy.
I run a hand through my hair and let out a long sigh. I have no idea what to do about my fantasy. Do I tell someone? Do I keep it to myself?
As much as I want to kid myself that it’s a fluke, I know it’s not. This was different than accidentally clicking on a gay porn video and being too horny to find something else. This was raw, unfiltered desire. I wanted his hands on my body, on my dick. I wanted his mouth to close the gap and?—
Nope. Not going there again.
I turn away from the window and look around my room. It’s a typical jock’s room, I guess. Posters of NHL teams and players cover the walls, along with a few framed pictures of the Barracudas from the past two seasons. My desk is cluttered with textbooks and papers—stuff for my business major—and my bed is an unmade heap of blankets and pillows.
On top of my dresser sits a small collection of trophies and medals from high school. They’re mostly from playing hockey, but there’s also a lone track medal in there. My eyes linger on it for a moment, and I remember how proud I was to win that 5K during my senior year. Running was never my thing, but Dad convinced me to give it a shot as cross-training for hockey. He was right, as usual.
I miss my family. It’s been tough not seeing them as much since coming to BSU. Luckily, Thanksgiving break is right around the corner, and I’ll get to spend some quality time with them soon .
My phone buzzes again on the nightstand, breaking my nostalgia trip. For a split second, I worry it’s Elliot with some sixth sense telling him what I’ve just done. But then it hits me that we haven’t exchanged numbers, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.
I pick up my phone and tap on the notification.
Drew
Come downstairs u hermit
I roll my eyes and put the phone back on the nightstand. Drew means well, but sometimes I need space. Especially right now, with everything swirling around in my head.
Still naked, I walk to my closet and pull out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. The guys will give me crap for going commando, but I don’t care. I’m finding that ever since the Ice Queen put my butt on the map, I’ve gotten even more comfortable with my body being on display.
Once dressed, I reach for the doorknob, only for the door to nearly clip me in the face. I stagger back, arms pinwheeling wildly as Drew saunters in.
He scrunches his nose and narrows his eyes at me. “Why does it smell like semen in here?”
I shrug. “Probably because I jerked off.”
Drew’s eyes light up with amusement and approval. “No shit! Nice.”
He plops down on my bed and leans back on his elbows. “That’s where I did it.”
I laugh as he springs up, face twisting in disgust. “Fucking gross, dude!”
“What do you want, Drew?”
He wipes his hands on his shorts and crosses his arms. “You didn’t text back. Wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? It’s almost noon, and you’re up here choking your chicken.”
I take a deep breath. “Drew, can I ask you something?”
He tilts his head, curious. “Shoot.”
“Have you ever…fantasized about someone you shouldn’t have?”
Drew snorts. “All the time.” He takes a step closer and smirks. “Why? Are you fantasizing about someone, G-man?”
In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. “Yeah. But I shouldn’t be. It’s a friend, or I hope that’s what we are. It’s hard to tell with him.”
Drew’s eyes widen marginally at the pronoun slip, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Look, man, there’s nothing wrong with thinking about someone you know when you’re jerking off.”
“So, you think it’s normal?”
“Normal?” Drew laughs. “Who the fuck cares about normal? We’re all horny bastards with weird kinks and fantasies.” He pauses, then adds, “Why do you think I’m bi? Twice the options to fantasize about.”
I chew on that for a moment. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s nothing more than a phase or a curiosity. “Who was it for you?”
“What?”
“The person you shouldn’t have fantasized about.”
“Oh, lots of people. But if we’re talking recently…” A sly grin creeps across his face, and he leans in to share the juiciest secret ever. “You.”
My heart stops dead, and I point at myself. “Me?!”
Drew laughs at the expression on my face. “Relax, big guy. I’m fucking with you. But if you ever need to talk—or anything else—you know where to find me.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving me more confused than ever. I sink onto my bed and run a hand through my hair. It’s becoming a nervous tic of mine. Drew’s nonchalance makes it sound easy, but can it really be that simple? Just another fantasy to file away and forget?
The thought of Elliot’s hands comes back to me unasked, and I know the answer isn’t as clear-cut as I want it to be when my dick twitches.
Practice is brutal. My legs are filled with lead, and my lungs are on fire. Coach Donovan has us running drill after drill, and the guys are starting to mutter under their breath about his latest tyrant streak. I keep my head down and push through, trying to drown out the thoughts that have been plaguing me all day.
We set up for a scrimmage, and I’m on the ice with Oliver, Nathan Paisley, and a few other freshmen. The puck drops, and we’re off to the races.
Oliver feeds me a perfect pass right in the slot, and I wind up for a one-timer. In my head, I see the puck exploding off my stick, ripping past the goalie’s glove hand and into the top corner of the net.
Instead, I whiff it completely. My stick clatters against the ice, and I lose my balance, crashing down in an ungraceful heap. The puck trickles harmlessly into the corner as the other guys burst out on a breakaway.
I hear Oliver groan and Nathan curse. Embarrassment washes over me as I scramble to my feet. This is not me. I’m usually solid in practice, if not spectacular . But today, my body isn’t responding to what my brain says.
The scrimmage winds down, and I skate to the bench. My mind replays the missed shot nonstop, and each time is more painful than the last. I can’t afford to be this sloppy…ever. Not if I want to get into the NHL someday.
“Gunnarson.” Coach Donovan’s bark slices through the ambient noise of the rink. “A word.”
I gulp. This can’t be good.
I step onto the rubber matting and make my way toward him. His arms are crossed over his chest, and a whistle dangles around his thick neck. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, but I know they’re shooting daggers at me. “Yes, Coach?”
“You’ve been completely out of sync all afternoon.”
“I’m just”— Tired? Distracted? Questioning my entire identity? —“off my game, Coach. I promise I’ll get it together.”
He doesn’t say anything, and sweat trickles down my neck, soaking into my shoulder pads as time slows to a crawl.
“Come with me,” he finally says, turning on his heel and striding toward the locker room entrance.
I hesitate for a split second before following him. The sound of my skates on the concrete flooring echoes ominously. My stomach churns with a mix of fear and anticipation. What if he benches me? Or worse—what if he cuts me from the team?
We reach his office, and he opens the door with a swipe of his keycard. The small room is cluttered with stacks of papers, old trophies, and various pieces of hockey memorabilia. A framed jersey hangs on the wall behind his desk—number fourteen, Donovan—with a slew of signatures scrawled across it.
He shuts the door behind us and gestures to the small seat in front of his desk. “Sit.”
I eye the chair warily. With all my gear on, I’m a human tank, and this seat is more suited for a child’s playroom than a college coach’s office. But the longer I stand here, not moving, the more aggravated Coach will get, so I lower myself slowly, hoping it doesn’t explode under my weight.
Coach Donovan sits in his chair behind the desk and steeples his fingers, waiting for me to settle down. I shift uncomfortably, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me look as ridiculous as I feel. My knees nearly reach my ears, and my poor balls are being squashed between my thighs. The jockstrap and cup are only making matters worse.
“Gunnarson,” Coach starts, then pauses, and my heart does a tap dance in my chest. “I know about the Ice Queen. ”
Cheese on a Ritz cracker. Does he think the blog is distracting me? That I’m letting the attention go to my head?
“My son filled me in,” he continues. “He says she delivered an enlightening commentary about your…rear end.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, she did.”
The silence that follows stretches like taffy, and Coach lets it hang, heavy and sticky-sweet with unspoken accusations.
“Look, Coach, I didn’t ask for any of it,” I blurt out. “The attention, I mean. She just started writing about me, and then?—”
He holds up a beefy hand, and I shut my mouth so fast my teeth click together.
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” he says. “Press like that can be useful. It gets people talking and puts butts in seats.” He leans back in his chair, which creaks under his weight. “What I’m concerned about is how you’re handling it.”
Handling it? Heck, I’m not even sure how to process it. That post about my butt was a bombshell in my life, and the next one—about my hands—is sure to be another direct hit. But I did give her permission, so do I have room to complain? “I’m handling it fine.”
Coach Donovan removes his sunglasses, revealing an intense heat in his hazel eyes. They’re not angry or accusatory. They’re searching. “Are you?”
I fidget in the tiny chair. “I think so.”
He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Gerard, you’re one of the best players we’ve got. Maybe the best this program has ever seen. But talent isn’t enough if your head’s not in the game.”
A knot forms in my stomach. This is worse than him yelling or threatening to bench me. This is him being…concerned. “I’ll get it together, Coach.”
Coach Donovan sets his sunglasses on his desk and leans forward, resting his elbows on the cluttered surface. “Whatever’s going on with you—with school, with girls…” He pauses long enough for me to notice. “…with anything, or anyone else—you need to sort it out. ”
I nod slowly, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than I want them to. Sensing he doesn’t have anything else to say, I rise to my feet. The ache from practice and sitting in that tiny seat shoots through my bones, making me wince.
I stretch my neck and shoulders, trying to loosen the tightness that’s settled in. “I promise, Coach. I’ll do better. I’ll be better.”
Grabbing the door handle, I whip open the door and step out. But I’m not free. Not just yet.
Coach claps a hand on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. We’re nearly the same height; I have an inch or two on him. Our eyes meet, and I’m forced to hold his gaze. “Alex is looking forward to carving pumpkins with you next weekend. He’s been talking about it nonstop. Can I ask that you keep an eye on him and see to it that he doesn’t injure himself? He’s a smart kid, but when it comes to arts and crafts…”
“Yeah, of course. I can do that, Coach.”
Coach Donovan nods, and I don’t miss the relief that flickers in his eyes. The relationship between Coach and his son is something I’ve always admired. They’re a well-oiled machine, each knowing the other’s thoughts and feelings without saying a word. It reminds me of how my dad and I used to be before I left for college. I need to call him. Soon.
I plop down at my locker stall and take off my gloves and skates. My pads follow, hitting the floor with a thud.
Coach Donovan is right. I need to sort this stuff out. But how do I even start? I can’t flip a switch and suddenly know who I am or what I want.
I enjoy being around Elliot. That much I know. He’s different from anyone else in my life—smaller, quieter, smarter. And even though I’m more confused than ever, I breathe easier when we’re together.
That’s never happened with a girl .
I peel off my jersey and undershirt and wipe the sweat off my back with my bare hands. It’s gross but necessary. Standing up, I undo my pants and let them drop around my ankles, along with my cup and jockstrap.
Now that my gear has been removed, I feel lighter. However, my thoughts are still weighing me down, turning me into a mixed bowl of emotions.
There’s attraction and curiosity, which shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise considering my fantasy this morning.
But there’s also fear. A whole heaping load of it.