13. Brody
13 /
brody
By November the trees were nearly bare, and sunny afternoons had surrendered to gray skies and heavier coats. The night before we left Buffalo for our latest roadie, Gabe and I spread a blanket in front of my fireplace. We cuddled, enjoying the warm glow cast by the fire until the kisses and caresses were nowhere near enough; then we moved to my bed, where we traded blow jobs and fell asleep in each other’s arms. The next morning, we exchanged handies in the shower before driving separately to the airport, where we gave each other a quick nod. Gabe “happened” to take the seat beside me on the plane to Detroit, and while we kept our conversation within the bounds of teammate banter, it felt good to be near him.
That had been yesterday morning. After beating the Huskies 3–2 in last night’s game, we flew to Toronto. Sticking to our plan to keep things low-key around the team, we sat apart on the plane and bus, and like everyone else, we slept in separate hotel rooms. This morning, after our skate at the arena, we had lunch with Harpy and Paquette before heading to our separate rooms for pregame naps.
By the time we left for the game, my stomach was in knots. It’s only a game, I kept telling myself. The problem was never Toronto. The most fateful game of my life had happened in Toronto, but my own team—the Beanies—had been the problem.
Only a game , I repeated, stepping onto the team bus. Why hadn’t I said yes when Gabe asked if he should sneak into my room for the afternoon? Would I ever learn that no one could always be the tough guy, even me?
I slid into an empty seat and popped in my earbuds. It wasn’t far from the hotel to Chill Zone Arena, but Toronto traffic might stretch the ten-minute drive into half an hour. I was scrolling through my music app, looking for my pregame playlist, when a hand tapped my shoulder.
“Shit,” I muttered, nearly dropping the phone. A low chuckle made me look up and see Gabe grinning at me. I pulled out my earbuds as a smile tugged at my lips.
“Hey, stranger,” he said.
My chest lightened at the words. “Hey, stranger” was a phrase I’d only heard him use with me, and I liked that it was ours.
“Hi, Gabe,” I said, sounding far too breathless for a guy who spent most of his life dodging slapshots.
He nodded at the seat beside me. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Go for it.” Though I tried to sound casual, I heard the surprise in my own voice. At home, we spent most of our time together, but on the road, we were usually apart.
When he sank into the seat, I brushed my hand against his leg. His eyes widened, and before I could pull back, he put his hand on top of mine.
“Nervous about playing the Beavers tonight?” he asked.
“A little.” He raised an eyebrow, and that simple acknowledgment of my feelings almost made me cry. “Okay, a lot.”
He patted my hand. “It’ll be fine. Take some deep breaths.”
The bus started moving, and my mind locked into a loop of thoughts: sneaking around with Wes; getting beaten up in my own condo; Newsome breaking my jaw here in Toronto; having the shit beaten out of me again; career… lawyers… league… trade.
Fuck me. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing like Gabe had said. In the small seat, his bulk was an anchor.
He squeezed my hand, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. “You’ll be fine tonight.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Look at me,” he whispered. “I’m not trying to downplay what happened, but it’s behind you. Focus on being here with us tonight, and let’s write a new chapter in your history of playing in Toronto.”
I took another long breath, and Gabe’s clean musk and spicy cologne were like a tonic. “Thank you,” I said, turning my hand over to lace our fingers together. “I needed to hear that.”
He gave me a nod and squeezed my hand while we waited for the bus to cover another block. “Is Otto doing okay with Emma? She’s staying at your place this time, right?”
Emma was Otto’s caretaker while we were on roadies. Sometimes she stayed at my place, and other times, she took him to her condo. She’d been at work when we left Buffalo.
“She’s staying at my house, and they do well together. You know he’s always glad to see me when I get home, but he doesn’t sit around pining when I’m gone. He loves Em.”
The bus was stopped in traffic, so Gabe asked how Em and I had met.
“We got to know each other freshman year at Michigan. We had two classes together with lunch in between, so we’d go to the food court and hang out. It was amazing how much we had in common, so it didn’t take long for us to become besties. We’re both bi, but since we weren’t into each other, we were a perfect friend fit.”
“And you’ve stayed in touch ever since? That’s impressive.”
I twisted my lips into a smart-ass grin. “Remember, I left Michigan after my sophomore year to play for the Beanies. That was three years ago. Not all of us are getting old like you.”
He jabbed me with his elbow. “Fuck you. I’m not old, and I’m ready to prove it in a way you won’t forget.”
Adrenaline rushed through me. We were at the back of the bus, and though the seat in front of us was unoccupied, I glanced around to be sure no one had overheard. “I’m looking forward to that when the time comes,” I mumbled. “And I was only joking.”
He laid his hand back on mine. “I know, but there is a ten-year difference. Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. How about you?”
He glanced down meaningfully, and I followed his gaze. Goddamn, he was sporting wood right there on the team bus.
Our eyes locked. “Obviously not, Goldilocks.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and asked, “Have you thought about when?—”
“Gabe!”
“What?”
“Later, okay? Maybe we can talk about it back at the hotel.”
He sighed and put on a small grin. “I guess I can wait until tonight.”
“To talk , Gabe. Make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Right, but a guy can hope.”
My heart fluttered, and despite my nervousness about having this conversation with the team practically right on top of us, my dick showed up for the party.
Gabe, who had a sixth sense for such things, looked down, and his smile broadened as he raised his head. “I thought?—”
“We’ll talk about it, okay?”
He looked around, moved his hand to my lap, and squeezed.
“Fuck!” My voice was way too loud, and Holcomb—sitting a few rows ahead—cranked his head around.
“Is Gabe being a nuisance?”
Unbelievably, Gabe eased the zipper of my pants down while Holky was peering over the back of his seat. I wasn’t wearing a belt, and I struggled to keep a steady expression as Gabe slipped his hand inside my boxers. I couldn’t stifle a grunt when he wrapped it around my dick.
Holky tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow. “You okay, Tanner?”
I couldn’t say anything because Gabe squeezed me, making me gasp.
“Brody?” Holky asked.
“I’m okay. Just… you know. When isn’t Gabe a nuisance?”
Holky held my eyes for a few seconds, twitching his lips into an amused smile. It was more than that, actually; his expression seemed loaded with knowing suspicion. There’s no fucking way he knows what Gabe’s doing to me.
Snickering, Holky shook his head. “That’s the truth. It’s not far to the arena, boys.”
He turned around to face the front again, but the encounter had left my pulse racing. Gabe was squeezing my dick in a steady rhythm, and my mind somersaulted. It felt so good it was all I could do not to moan.
Gabe leaned close to my ear. “If you think I’m a nuisance now, wait till you shoot all over my hand and make a big mess in your underwear.”
“Please,” I whispered.
He glanced around again before licking my ear. “Please what?” His voice was feathery, barely loud enough for me to hear. He moved his hand faster, half squeezing and half jerking me inside my boxers. “Please make you shoot?” he asked. “Or please stop?”
“Ungh.” I kept it soft, but there was a desperate edge in my moan. He might be playing around, but I really was going to come soon. I had to tell him to stop. Everyone would be getting naked as soon as we got to the locker room, and I’d have nowhere to— “Agh!”
“Want me to stop, baby?” He increased his pace again. “Just say the word.”
Heat seared my cheeks and crept around the back of my neck. My balls tingled while my heart pounded like a drum.
Gabe’s breath gusted over my ear again. “I wish I could stick my finger up your ass. You’d clench so hard.”
“Fuck yes,” I whispered.
“I’d play with you inside, make you start moaning like my little slut.”
“Damn it,” I whispered. Gabe’s voice was barely more than air, but it was doing its job very well. I was about a minute from coming all over the bus. I have to make him stop. Imagine my surprise when I mumbled, “Please, don’t stop.”
“There we go.” This time he nibbled my earlobe, squeeze-jacking hard and fast.
“Shit,” I muttered, unable to sit still. I used my glutes to push myself off the seat, fucking his hand the best I could. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Come for me, baby.” His breath warmed my throat, as smooth as his whisper. “Gonna come for me?”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s it. Let go, babe. Shoot your load.”
One minute I was fighting to hold on and stay quiet; the next, I couldn’t breathe. I whisper-grunted when I fired my first shot. The pleasure was sharp and intense, and my ass clenched as surely as it would have with Gabe’s finger inside. Somehow, I kept from crying out, but when a strangled groan escaped me, I looked around in a panic. No one moved, and I slumped back in the seat.
Gabe kept jerking me through my orgasm. I’d never wanted to kiss anyone more, but there was no way I could do that here.
“Was it good, baby?” he whispered, pulling his fingers free of my pants.
“You have to ask?” My hand was over his dick, and he was hard as a rock. “Want me to do you?”
“No time.” He nodded toward the window. “We’re here.”
The bus was pulling into the arena parking lot while I zipped and buttoned my pants. Gabe licked my cum off his hand, and when he swallowed loudly, I couldn’t help moaning. Our eyes locked, and when he licked his lips, I would have given anything to be able to kiss him.
Since we’d been in the back of the bus, we were the last ones off. I hurried into the arena, a man on a mission. It wasn’t the first time in my life I’d walked around with loaded pants, but it had never been because of anything this risky.
As soon as we got inside, I rushed toward the bathroom. I needed a stall where I could take off my underwear and clean up before the stuff seeped through and made me look like I’d… well, come in my pants.
“Where are you racing off to?” Holky’s voice was laced with something snide. Did he suspect, or was it his usual sarcastic humor?
I didn’t even look back. “Have to use the bathroom. I’m about to bust.”
About to bust? Holy fuck, I’d already busted big.
“It’s been a rough game, boys, but you’re holding your own.” Coach Criswell’s voice carried the weight of expectation as he stood in the center of the locker room. “2–1 isn’t where we want to be, but one good shot ties it, and two puts us on top. It’s up to you to make the Beavers regret we came to town.” He turned his focus to Blanton and Holcomb. “You two are our drivers. Keep the energy high and lead the way.”
“Got it, Coach,” Harpy said, holding his hand up for a high-five from Holky.
Criswell scanned the room, his eyes pausing on each of us. “The rest of you, back them up. Play smart. Play tough. Watch your checks and stay out of the bin. No excuses. We’re better than the Beavers, so prove it.”
“Goddamn right,” Logan called out, and a few of the guys banged their fists against the benches in agreement.
Criswell nodded, his expression tough as steel. “Right, men?”
A roar of “Hell yeah!” echoed through the room, followed by Jax standing and pumping a fist in the air. “We’ll do it because we’re the toughest fucking Warriors this game has ever seen!”
That was the spark we needed. A bloodcurdling scream erupted from somewhere in the back, the kind of sound that turned your blood cold but fired you up all the same. It bounced off the walls, and within seconds, the whole room was alive with yells and cheers. The Warriors’ battle cry—haunting and fierce—still gave me chills.
As the chaos died down, Criswell made his way over to my stall. His expression softened, but his tone didn’t lose its edge. “Tanner, you good? No shame in sitting this one out if you’re off tonight. Happens to everyone.”
My gut twisted. “I’m fine, Coach. Give me another chance, and I’ll make it count.”
He studied me for a long moment before giving a single nod. “All right. Show me something out there.”
As he walked away, I let out the breath I’d been holding. The need to redeem myself was strong. Nelson and I had been backing up the first line, but the game had been cursed for me from the start. My missed shot in the first period—a clean chance I should have buried—was bad enough, but cutting Paquette off after he captured the runaway puck, robbing him of a chance to make good on my missed attempt? That was unforgivable.
And then there was Kip Murphy, Wes’s old roommate. The Beanies had traded him to Toronto, and he played D for the Beavers now. He had a big axe to grind, and tonight, he’d decided to make me his personal punching bag. His cross-check came out of nowhere, knocking the wind out of me. The linesman blew his whistle, and I should have let it go.
But Murphy spat out the slur, loud enough for half the ice to hear. “Goddamn f?—”
Rage hit like a sledgehammer, destroying every ounce of common sense I’d been holding on to. I turned and locked eyes with Murph. “Yeah? And you couldn’t satisfy your girlfriend if you had a diagram and a how-to video.”
Murphy lunged, and in seconds, we were on the ice, punching each other like crazy men. We were both bleeding by the time the refs pulled us apart. They gave us both five-minute majors; it wasn’t the worst outcome, but the linesman escorting me to the box shook his head. “Should’ve let it slide, Tanner. You’d still be playing, and he’d be the one in the bin.”
I gritted my teeth and muttered, “Thanks for the wisdom. Did you hear what he said? He should’ve had a game misconduct.”
“I heard, but the rules say no racial slurs. Nothing about calling someone gay.”
“He called me a f ? — ”
We reached the box, and after I was inside, the linesman shrugged. “No rules against that, either.”
As the team lined up to go out for the third, I replayed the whole mess in my head, frustration twisting tight in my chest. I’d let my emotions get the better of me, and now I had twenty minutes to make up for it. This time, I couldn’t afford to fuck it up.
Gabe, who’d performed well throughout the game, paused beside me as he made his way to the front of the line. “You’re an amazing defenseman, Brody. Put on blinders to everything but the game, and you’ll be fine.” After an encouraging smile, he slapped my arm like he would any teammate’s. “Good luck out there.”
Twenty game minutes later, Paquette had scored, tying the game at 2–2. I’d done my job and protected our turf and men, but I hadn’t gotten anywhere near the goal. Now, we were in for five minutes of overtime, and I hoped we could score quickly and win the game.
Instead of going to the locker room, we huddled close to our bench while Criswell gave us instructions. “Keep it clean. We’re dead if we give them an advantage.” He glanced around. “Forwards, we need to control the puck. Don’t force passes, and keep it simple and smart. D-men, stay tight in the defensive zone. Don’t get caught chasing.”
“Got it, Coach,” I said, eager to assure him my head was in the game.
He nodded in my direction, then went on. “Everyone, if you see a shot, take it. No hesitation. Traffic in front of the net. We’ll be on short shifts, so give it everything you’ve got, and then I’ll get fresh legs out there.”
“Pay attention to what Coach said,” Jax threw in. “No saving anything for the next shift, because if the Beavs score, there won’t be a next shift.”
“Jax is right,” Gabe said. “It’s part of my job to always be watching. You’re on gold skates tonight, but so are the Beavs. See your chance, take your shot, hold nothing back.” Goalies usually kept quiet in situations like this, but Gabe was one of the team’s senior players, and everyone looked up to him as much as they did Jax.
We all shifted on our skates, pumped up and nervous.
Criswell looked at his watch. “It’s time, boys. This is where heroes are made. One shot, one goal, one win. Let’s go!”
There was madness from the first faceoff. Toronto’s center took it, and one of the wingers snatched the puck and streaked toward our zone. Nels gave chase, his skates slashing the ice, but the Beavers’ man was fast, racing over the blue line with a direct path to Gabe. Gabe crouched low in the crease and locked his eyes on the looming threat, ready to stop the shot. But Nels—my D-partner—ignited his afterburner and surged forward, poking the puck loose just as the winger was ready to shoot.
“Frostbite!” I yelled, our code for, “Danger, get rid of the puck.” An enemy blueliner was barreling toward Nels, who zipped the puck toward me. I kicked the ice like a kangaroo and sped toward the goal. The red line blurred beneath my skates as I raced into the Beavers’ zone. A quick glance confirmed I was alone—for now. My heart hammered as I closed in on their goalie, who squared up, looking confident.
The rasp of my skates filled the air as I bore down. The goalie’s eyes flickered, a split-second distraction, and I took my shot. The puck rocketed off my stick with a sharp crack, but he snapped his blocker into position and deflected my shot with a brutal thud. My heart sank as Toronto’s center pounced on the rebound and streaked toward our zone.
Our forwards swarmed him, cutting off every escape. Desperate, he tried to pass to one of his blueliners, but Harpy intercepted the pass and jetted away in an incredible burst of speed. He flew down the ice, a missile screaming toward his target, weaving around every man who tried to get in his way. But Toronto’s left winger hurtled toward him at exactly the right angle, delivering a punishing body check that sent Harpy sprawling. The puck spun away, and one of our wingers snagged it, fighting to keep control. He veered toward the goal, but the Beavers’ center forced another turnover and sent the puck flying to his right winger.
The crowd roared as the winger shot off the pass, but Gabe shifted to his left and let the puck bounce off his chest pads. Harpy reclaimed it and bulleted away. I rushed to cover him, struggling to keep up. Count of two and he jinked right, skating straight into the path of an enemy forward. “Frostbite!” I yelled again. Harpy twisted around and fired a perfect pass in my direction.
The puck met my stick as a shadow loomed to my left.
“You’re going down, Tanner!” Murphy’s venomous voice cut through the noise, and he lunged, swiping his stick for the puck. Skating backward, I dangled, moving it out of his reach. He tripped over his skates and went down hard, sliding out of my way. I passed back to Harpy, who immediately sent it to Nels.
“Fuck you, Tanner!”
It was Murphy’s voice again, somewhere to my left. I turned in his direction, hoping to spot him so I could get out of his path. When I was more than halfway through my turn, Nels yelled, “Tanner, chair!”—which meant he was sending me a pass.
Knowing Nels had already sent the puck toward me, I could do nothing but follow through on my turn. I looked in Nels’ direction and saw the puck wobbling toward me in the air, so I extended my stick with my left hand, caught the puck, and immediately dropped it to the ice. As I came around, I shifted my grip on the stick to my usual and prepared to make a shot on goal. The crowd noise was deafening as I wound up and fired. The puck sliced through the chaos, and the Beavs’ goalie raised his glove, but he was too late. The puck blazed past him and slammed into the back of the net.
For a split second, the arena went quiet. Then, as the refs raised their arms, our bench erupted in cheers. The Buffalo fans in the stands roared their approval, drowning out the stunned silence of the home crowd. My teammates swarmed me, their shouts of joy echoing in my ears as my chest swelled with triumph.
I’d done it. The winning goal was mine, and I hoped the mistakes I’d made earlier would be forgotten.