Chapter 17 #2
The rest of the team had left the locker room.
“Yes,” Bash said. “Sorry.”
He typed back a hurried reply.
Bash: About to play a game. Will call after. Thank you for the update.
He threw his phone back in his cubby and hurriedly followed Kurtzman out to the ice.
——
It was a brutal game. Ashwell played well, but Bellford played better.
Every player on the Bellford roster was at the top of their game. Even Bash, whose shoulder ached and whose mind threatened to go a dozen different places, threw himself completely into the plays.
Cort, unsurprisingly, led the team in goals scored, an honor that used to be Bash’s, almost every game. He tried not to begrudge the rookie his success. After all, Cort’s success was the team’s success.
When they ended up on the bench together, a different player from their line on the ice, Bash bumped his fist against Cort’s.
“Good work out there,” he said.
Cort was flushed and breathing heavily. “Thanks, boss,” he said. His eyes were wild. “Fucking transcendent.”
Bash frowned and watched the ice.
In the end, they beat Ashwell four to two, and the celebration in the locker room was positively primal. The players hooted and hollered, shouting out their friend’s plays and goals, heaping praise on Marco, the goalie, for his incredible saves.
The freshmen gathered around Cort, cheering his name—the way the team used to cheer “Basher.”
Kurtzman said a few words about not getting sloppy even after a good win, then cracked a smile and told them to have a good Thanksgiving break.
Later, in the shower, Bash massaged his sore shoulder. The few times he’d gotten out on the ice tonight, he’d played hard, with little thought for his shoulder.
He heard Lotte’s voice in his head, a snarky internal monologue informing him that if he kept on doing that, he’d be no better than their father.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Robbie, at the neighboring shower head, looked over at Bash. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Bash said. “Just in my head about something.”
“You played well,” Robbie said. “I’m glad Kurtzman’s getting you back out there more.”
Bash fought the urge to scoff. More, yes. But not enough.
He dressed in black sweatpants, a Bellford Ravens sweatshirt, and a knee-length puffer coat, the kind that all the athletes got. His hockey bag slung over his shoulder, he left the Rink and stepped into the bitterly cold Massachusetts night.
Rather than walking back to his apartment, he turned left and took the path that ran adjacent to the Rink. He’d do a lap, he decided, while he called Lotte.
She picked up on the fourth ring, after he thought she was going to send him to voicemail.
“Update me,” he said instead of hello.
Lotte sounded tired. It was late in Groningen, but she rarely slept the requisite eight hours. Bash gave her as much shit for that as she gave him for overworking himself on the ice.
“Okay,” Lotte said. “He got sick last week. He thought it was a cold, and then we thought maybe the flu. It got bad enough that Mom convinced him to see Dr. VanHoeken. You should’ve seen the way she had to argue with him.
Shit, I felt bad for her. Well, Dr. VanHoeken doesn’t have good news.
All this stress Dad’s been putting himself through?
It hasn’t caused a heart attack yet, but it caused that thing I texted you.
You could think of it as heart attack-adjacent.
Or maybe a mini heart attack. An appetizer for a heart attack. An amuse bouche for cardiac arrest.”
“Lotte.”
“Right. Sorry. VanHoeken said that Dad needed to basically cut his activity in half, stop working so much, eat better, cut out alcohol—not to mention drugs—and start thinking about his health seriously if he didn’t want another heart attack.”
Bash sighed. It was very cold. He wished he were still inside. “What did Dad say?”
“What do you expect? He told VanHoeken that the last heart attacks didn’t get him, so why would another one?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yep. Mom was furious, and Dad was mad that she was mad.”
“How are you?”
“Just glad I’m in Groningen. Are you sure you can’t visit?”
“I’ll be home in December.”
“Ugh. Fine. Well, I have to go. I’m meeting Gustav for a drink.”
Bash almost dropped his phone. “The fucking prince?”
“Yes, him.”
Bash was grateful for the chance to chuckle. “I knew if anyone could do it, it’d be you. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He’d almost completed his lap around the Rink and was about back to where he started when he saw movement in the shadows of the building.
Bash stopped in his tracks. He could see the figures, but from where he was positioned, they couldn’t see him.
There were two.
One was obviously Cort. Moonlight fell on his blonde hair and caught on his cheekbones. A smug, bruised face Bash would always recognize.
The other boy was hidden in the shadows, but he wore a Bellford Hockey sweatshirt. Based on his shape and build, Bash could safely guess it was either Conrad or Thaddeus. Conrad was a freshman and a good pal of Cort’s. Thaddeus was a sophomore who’d fallen into the flock of Cort disciples.
Whatever was going on seemed, for lack of a better term, utterly suspicious.
Bash inched forward, careful not to make a sound, and careful to stick to the shadows.
The boys were talking. Or rather, Cort was talking. The other boy was nodding.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Cort was saying. “If they found out about—” The other boy cut him off with something too low for Bash to hear. He didn’t dare get any closer, or they’d see him.
“Yeah, I know,” Cort said, sounding frustrated. “Just be smart, okay? I know that’s hard for you, but try.”
Bash caught a “fuck you” from the other boy, but still couldn’t determine his identity.
Something changed hands. Bash squinted. He couldn’t see what the other boy slipped into his pocket.
“I take cash, Venmo, or check,” Cort said, and Bash felt his stomach drop.
——
“Okay, that sounds bad. How sure are you that it was a drug deal?” Adonis said.
The two of them were lying on Bash’s bed, wearing only their underwear.
The plan had been to fuck as soon as they met at the apartment, but Bash had needed to talk about what he saw with someone.
They’d made it through three minutes of making out and touching each other before he’d broken away and said he needed advice.
“Pretty sure,” Bash said. His fingers played idly with Adonis’s hair. Their legs were draped over each other.
“Did you see what Cort gave the other guy?”
“No. I thought about confronting them, but what was I going to say?”
“No, that makes sense.” Adonis rubbed his foot absently against Bash’s calf. “I wouldn’t have confronted them either. They’d deny it, and you don’t have any right to search them or anything. Are you going to tell your coach?”
“I don’t know. What if I’m wrong?”
“Yeah, but what if the team ends up caught in a doping scandal?”
“That would be bad.”
Adonis rolled onto his side, placing a delicate hand on Bash’s stomach. “I’m not saying that it would be your fault,” he clarified. He nuzzled into Bash’s neck, and Bash sighed.
“I know,” he said.
“And whatever you decide to do, I’ll—I’ll support it,” Adonis said. His hand traveled lower.
There it was again. A half-spoken indication that Bash and Adonis meant something more to each other than just buddies who hooked up every now and then. Who needs their fuck buddy’s support in a difficult moral decision?
Certainly not Bash.
But he wanted Adonis’s support.
“Thank you for talking about that with me,” Bash said.
Adonis’s hand slipped below the waistband of Bash’s underwear. Bash sucked in a breath.
“Of course,” Adonis murmured. He offered a wicked smile. “Do I get a reward for being a good sounding board?”
“Yes, you do,” Bash said.
He’d been patient for long enough. It was time to do what they both wanted.
“Come here,” Bash said. He pulled Adonis to him.
Adonis settled in Bash’s lap, straddling him, while Bash gripped him and their mouths met. The first kiss was almost tender. Soon, they were clutching passionately at each other, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths, hands traveling over skin.
Bash grew hard beneath Adonis, whose body was strong and supple beneath his hands. They moved in perfect synchronization, Adonis grinding his ass against Bash, Bash gently thrusting up into him.
Their underwear was the only thing separating them. Bash was determined to remove the barrier immediately.
“Fuck, Bash,” Adonis said as Bash’s hand dipped beneath the back of Adonis’s underwear.
Bash could barely hear him as he grasped the firm roundness of Adonis’s ass.
He was muscular in a different way than Bash.
His strength was lean but still very powerful, the strength of a runner or a dancer. Bash’s strength was brute size.
“You like that?” Bash said, squeezing Adonis’s ass.
Adonis arched his back, his head falling back. “Yes,” he gasped, and Bash couldn’t wait any longer.
“Get on your hands and knees,” he commanded, and Adonis gladly complied. “Ass up.”
Adonis presented his ass to Bash, who pushed the briefs fully down and drank in the view. “Beautiful,” he said. He was ready to taste.
He brought his face down to Adonis with the reverence of a religious supplicant approaching a holy cup. He spat on Adonis’s hole. Something like spit, which could be so offensive in a different context, became almost sacred in this.
He tasted Adonis with his tongue and was thanked by a gasp and a moan from the figure skater.
“Fuck, Bash,” Adonis repeated, his voice hardly more than a breath.
Bash continued licking, kissing, tasting Adonis’s hole. Rimming had always been one of his favorite parts of foreplay. There was something so uninhibited about eating someone’s ass. It was primal. It required a level of trust between the two parties involved.
As Bash nipped at Adonis’s ass cheek, he realized that he did, in fact, trust Adonis completely.
Another moan escaped Adonis when Bash plunged into his hole with his tongue.