13. Riley
CHAPTER 13
RILEY
Six Weeks Later
The Hornets are having a fire season. I’ve never seen the team gel this well together, and I’ve been with them for nearly five years.
Mashburn and Rory are always a match made in heaven when they hit the ice, and Hawks has found a rhythm with nearly every player on the starting lineup.
Griffin? I called him a brick wall when he first joined, but I’d dare to call him a damn brick fortress these days. It could have something to do with him taking up extra goalie training when I’m in physical therapy, or maybe his passion for the sport has been reignited.
Whatever the reason, these guys are giving it all they have, and it’s paying off.
We have a home game tonight, so I’m at the team facility with Nash doing some rather boring stretches with my knee. He says at this point we’re focusing on pain reduction and range of motion, and that once I hit my one hundred and twenty degree mark, then we’ll move up to strength building.
Which means slightly less boring movement exercises.
“I do more than this with my knee at home, doc.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Nash says as he walks over to the wall of resistance bands and brings back a yellow one.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Still, he hands it to me, and I roll my eyes while lifting my leg enough to fit the middle at the sole of my foot. “I should be able to handle a green.”
“We start off easy, Easton. You wanna be the one to tell the surgeon you busted this perfectly good knee pushing too hard?”
No, but I’m starting to get antsy just sitting around the house and hotel rooms waiting for Griff to tell me about practice or watching him at games. Coach and I have talked about retirement, but I never realized how much I’d miss playing when permanence was directly on the table.
The only thing that’s truly kept me sane is reviewing plays and lineups with Coach. Sometimes during practice he’ll have me rotate with our assistant coaches and go over what my teammates can improve. Not something I thought I’d enjoy, but the analytical side of hockey is almost as enticing as the physical one.
When I feel the first bit of pressure on my knee, I stop bearing weight on the band and take a breath. Count to ten. Start again. When the discomfort starts, I take a break. Repeat.
Thirty counts later and sweat is starting to pool at my temples and beneath the fabric brace on my knee. Nash takes the band and comes back with a bottle of water.
“You’re improving well, Riley. Don’t rush it.”
I already know I’m out for the season. I’d have to be cleared by my surgeon and our entire PT team, and I don’t see anyone signing off on that anytime soon. Besides, it’s clear the team doesn’t need me. They’re having the season of their careers.
We wrap up, but before I can hit the showers, Coach Pickman comes through the doors with one of his folders like a man on a mission. Beelining straight for me.
“I need you to do me a favor, Easton.”
As he gets closer, I can see a label on the back of the folder that clearly says Foster, Griffin in big, bold letters.
“That’s only mildly concerning.”
He sits beside me on the bench and holds the folder out to me. I hesitate, because I normally focus on the D-men and some of the forwards and leave the goalie coach to his own devices, but Coach drops it in my lap with such casual decisiveness that I grip onto it purely so I don’t lose its contents all over the floor.
“I need you to look at Coach Dickens’ notes for this season and tell me if you have any suggestions.”
Looking through it, the guy is thorough and actually pretty fucking strict, but I already knew that from Griff’s bitching and the amount of ice baths he’s been indulging in lately.
“Nah. I think he’s got most of Griff’s weak points nailed down. It might help to break up some of the monotony, though. Maybe get him in a shooting practice with some of the lower line guys. Hell, do a pit against Roman, and see if that gets him going a little. Make him actually run the ice.”
I make a couple of notes in the margins and then hand the folder back to Coach. “You worried about him? I heard whispers of switching him and Roman around on the roster.”
Coach scoffs in the way that old people do when you say something completely reasonable that they think is ridiculous.
“For a while there he was playing like absolute dog shit, and we all know it. I don’t know who pulled his head out of his ass, but I’m damn thankful for it.”
It doesn’t feel right taking credit for his sudden good mood, but the way we fucked the night I promised to tell my family about him was sure a good indication things were looking up.
“Why the sudden interest in his games? Something come up?”
Coach fiddles with the brim of his cap and flicks his thumb across his nose. “You could say that. There’s some talk of the Rippers calling him up to be backup for a few games.”
Elation and terror flood my brain in the same instant.
“You’re trying to prepare him if they go through with it.”
He nods. “The kid has gone through teams like a teenage boy goes through condoms. He’s stuck it out here longer than anywhere else, and I’m damn proud to have him, but I think he deserves this shot.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“And psych him out? Hell no. I’m supposed to hear back from the GM before we hit the road again. Give me time to make sure I’ve got all the players I need.”
That’s a week away. We’ve got two home games before traveling out to play against Iowa. So, that’s a week for upper management to decide if Griff is good enough to warm the Rippers’ bench.
“That means no telling him yourself, son. I know the two of you are close, but I need his head in the next few games and not off in dreamland.”
I’m happy for him, proud of him, but I definitely wouldn’t want to be the one breaking that news to him. My time in the NAPH feels like a lifetime ago, but it still stings.
If the doctors in the majors had given me a chance, given me a little more time to heal, I could have gotten back on the horse and proven myself. Instead they sent me down as a ‘temporary’ measure and abandoned me here.
“Why’re you checking with me anyway? It’s not like I really know much about the position.”
Coach tucks the folder under his arm and gets to his feet. “You have a good eye for the details. I’ve watched you run extra drills with some of the players in your off time to help them work things out. They respect your input, and I figured while you’re in recovery, you could use something to pass the time.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
He walks off, pulling Nash alongside him and probably going over my recovery notes.
Anyone who says that you can’t work up a sweat sitting on your ass has clearly never endured an hour of PT with Nash riding them. He sets a strict, no-bullshit type of regimen, and he makes damn sure you stick to it.
That means I’m tired, sore, and in dire need of a nice hot shower before gunning back to my apartment with my tail between my legs and hoping Griff is home to ease the ache in my body caving inward toward my chest.
Griffin is blasting Taylor Swift through the apartment when I walk through the door—sans crutches because I've been cleared for low-range movement without them—and nothing makes me smile brighter than walking in on him in goalie mode.
Most times when we're home, Griff is unwinding from spending all day obsessing over his job, but sometimes he takes that work home, and it makes him look like one sexy fucker. A weird, sexy fucker, but sexy none-the-less.
He's standing at our kitchen counter scrolling through his phone with one hand while munching on a slice of pizza with the other. All with one leg stretched and propped on the counter like it's the most natural stance in the world.
“Hey there, frat boy,” I call out between the melancholy piano keys filling our apartment.
He looks up with a smile to match my own and discards the rest of his food on the table to return his attention to the stretch that looks like it would break much more than my reconstructed knee. How he gets into those positions, much less out of them, is a wonder to me.
Griff braces one hand around the ankle on the counter and bends to do the same with his leg on the ground.
“Think you can stay like that with my dick in your ass?”
I peer around the edge of the counter to see the lifted brow expression on his grinning face. “You looking for an invitation?”
I'm hit with a shock of familiarity. Not just from seeing Griffin's warm up routines throughout the years but from watching Matty turn our space into his makeshift studio. Music and dancing would light the place up until the moment he was too tired to keep his eyes open, and now a similar liveliness has taken root.
Griff stands up straight but doesn't break position, and he grabs the front of my shirt to drag me into a kiss.
It’s meant to be a short kiss in greeting, but the moment I taste him something flickers to life inside me. I haul an arm around his waist and pull him into my body, the leg on the counter hooking around my hip and ending with my hand on his ass and all of his weight in my arms.
It’s only for a brief moment as I drop him onto the counter next to the fridge and deposit him there. My hands are free to roam his broad chest covered in only one of his workout tanks cut all the way down the sides, and he leans back against the cabinets to give me room to duck my head to his neck and start trailing my tongue down his skin.
While I lick my way through his salty perspiration, his hands slink under my shirt and yank me closer, forcing my hips to his so I can feel the hard on trapped in his track pants.
“You gonna give me my pregame pounding?” He groans into my ear as I lift his shirt and scrape my teeth over a pebbled nipple.
It wasn’t a purposeful routine we picked up, but with our own buckets of frustrations to deal with, it’s one that we found ourselves falling into. Usually one where Griff pushes me on whatever hotel room bed we’re shacking up in and riding me until he’s sufficiently ‘warmed up’ for the game.
I’ve been testing my leg strength for the last few days, and god would it feel good to fuck him proper again.
“Think you can take it? Looks like you worked up quite a sweat without me.”
He grins and grips a hand in my hair to tug me to his lips. “Fuck me up, baby.” His tongue swipes into my mouth, and what little reservations I have slip away.
The two of us work together to toss his tight ass pants to the floor, leaving him in a jock that is definitely not one of his usuals. In fact, if I knew he were wearing that under his gear, I’d probably break my ‘no fucking in the locker room’ rule because goddamn .
“Something you want to tell me, frat boy?”
Griffin huffs a laugh into my neck and plants his hands on his thighs, spreading them wide and giving me a good look at the dark red lace encasing his cock.
“It was a gag gift from Rory. A little tight, but I thought you might appreciate it.”
Appreciate might be putting it lightly.
“Change of plans.”
I break away to admire the way he looks all splayed out for me, and then I slap his thigh and steal a quick, rough kiss from his lips.
“Bedroom. Keep that on and get comfortable.”
His megawatt smile lights up the whole damn room as he hops down, smacks my ass in return and jogs off down the hall while I take his phone and turn off the workout music still blaring through the room.
Griff is all kinds of relaxed laid across my bed. He’s got an arm tucked under the pillow resting at the headboard, and his thick thighs are spread as wide as he can get them with his legs rucked up and a hand kneading his straining dick.
He’s a fucking dream.
Hazel eyes track me across the room as I take off my shoes, slip my pants and boxers to the floor in one quick motion, and crawl up the bed to situate myself over his body.
That wrecked expression mimics what I feel in my chest: an unbridled need to be a part of him.
“I’m fucking you with that on,” I say, licking my lips and bracing my hands on his thighs. “Neither one of us is touching your dick. I want to see your cum soak it, baby.”
He throws his head back and moans my name, “Riley.”
I maneuver his legs to either side of me and raise them to my shoulders. Griff’s face twists with excitement, a grin spreading across it.
The limber ways I can bend him make it easy for me to spread him wide and hook a finger under the pretty red fabric covering his hole. I loop the slip of material around my thumb and spread his cheeks, shooting a glob of spit straight to that puckered rim and pushing it in with my thumb.
He trembles, moans, and reaches for his dick before I smack his hand away and press my whole thumb inside him. His face scrunches, but the more I move it in and out of him, the looser and more accepting he becomes.
After a moment of playing with his hole, Griff pulls a bottle of lube out from under the pillow and sets it beside me on the bed, but I only grin and shake my head.
He’ll get his lube before my dick penetrates him, but I have all intentions of enjoying my gift before I fully unwrap it.
It requires bending him a little more and scooting myself back to have room to lean down.
The first swipe of my tongue over his hole has him crying out with his hand flying to my hair. I don’t fight it; I love the way he tugs and steers me toward his pleasure.
I flatten my tongue over his rim and lap at it, feeling it quiver with the anticipation of more than just a few languid strokes. My path of play leads me up his taint and to his trapped cock. The one fighting the constraints that barely hold it in place.
“That looks painful.” But I smile and wrap my lips around the material, soaking it, tasting his precum but pulling away before he can have much relief.
Then, I’m back at his hole, breathing in the deep, musky scent of his evening workout, and sink my tongue straight through the tight rings of muscle that clench and welcome me inside.
“Fuck yeah,” Griff whines, both hands coming to my head this time as his legs spasm on my shoulders. “Taste me good.”
God, the mouth on this man.
The scratch of my stubble on his ass cheeks is turning the skin an angry red, and I take that as my cue to pull away, to let the saliva drip from my tongue into his open and ready hole until he’s clawing at me for more.
“Fuck me, Riley. Please.”
He’s always so needy and desperate for me.
I drop his legs and yank him toward the edge of the bed, backing myself off to stand on my feet.
I test the weight on my knee and use the bed for support.
Our eyes meet as I grip his thighs and pull them around my hips. “You better hold on, baby. This is gonna be rough.”
Griffin’s grin only widens. “Exactly how I like it.”
Grabbing the lube off the bed, I coat my dick with a generous amount, and then just let it drip between his crack as I hold him there. Open and waiting. Hard, wet cock straining the lace.
Fuck, I won’t last long.
It’s a quick and dirty fuck, me sinking into him only slow enough for him to adjust, and as soon as the worst of the burn wears off, I let loose.
Griff sometimes says I fuck like an animal. Like someone caged who’s only just been given the freedom to explore, and my favorite exploration is his body.
Outside.
Inside.
Every inch of him.
He isn’t wrong.
The blissed out way he whimpers and whines when he’s impaled on my cock are a thing of obsession. Griff is confident and loud, and that translates to the bedroom. But he also innately seeks pleasure. He loves to give it, sure, but if he can taunt me into going at him hard, he’ll do it in a heartbeat.
When he looks up at me, eyes glistening with tears from each powerful thrust, I give him a grin, and then I spit right on his chest.
His eyes widen, flutter, and roll back in his head.
Game over.
Milky white streams coat and leak from the lace material covering him, cock barely visibly twitching with how tight it’s held.
I don’t acknowledge it. I don’t stop. I fuck his oversensitive hole until my own dick pulses with the warning of release.
I drop his legs and pull out, towering over him while my cum and spit mix together on his chest. Once every drop paints his skin, I lean down and swipe my tongue through the mess, offering it to him when his eyes finally open.
Griff smiles, blissed out and satiated, and opens up for my cum-coated tongue to dance with his.
When I collapse beside him on the mattress, sore and spent, all of the endorphins in my brain go off like a broken fireworks display. Griff’s laugh is a throaty, satisfied sound, and he rolls onto his side to drape an arm around my middle.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you these last few weeks, but if you keep fucking me like this, you’ll never get rid of me.”
His smile covers my mouth, and I rest a hand on his nape as our tongues lazily stroke one another.
I didn’t lie to him that night; I want him—us—more than anything, and that’s what scares me. I’m not worried about losing the team or getting back to the sport I’ve spent most of my life dedicated to.
What I want is to focus on where we go from here. What a future for us looks like. How to get there.
It’s terrifying.
All my life hockey has held this huge part of me that needed to be fulfilled. In a blink it’s as if my world and priorities have flipped upside down.
If I’m not a player, how do we fit together?
When I’m out of excuses to slip into his bed on the road, how do I face my teammates and tell them that we’ve had this secret two-year love affair?
Griffin made the house husband joke before, but after hearing what Coach had to say about the Nashville team, I’m not sure if I could sit here day by day and watch his career move forward while mine dies in the water.
I don’t want to resent him; hockey and I were coming to an end anyway, but this whole thing started as a fun exploration.
Now, it’s so much more than we ever planned for.
I don’t know how to keep it alive and myself afloat at the same time.