Chapter 14 #2
The line grows quiet, and I expect either myself or Eric to end the call for the night. Eric has his own playoff preparations to worry about and sleep he needs to catch up on. I should let him go, but I can’t. Little does Eric know, he’s an anchor keeping me tethered to solid ground.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, James, but do you blame yourself for every loss?”
I shift uncomfortably atop my bed, his question striking right to the heart of the matter. “I’m being paid to stop pucks.”
“Okay, but it’s your team’s job to play in front of you. It doesn’t matter how many pucks you stop if your offense doesn’t score.”
“But whenever the other team—”
“No,” he says with more force, cutting me off. His tone leaves no room for debate. “Are you the only person on your team’s roster, James? Are you the playmaker who carries the puck to the other end of the ice? Are you some goaltender unicorn who can stop shots and score points?”
“Well, no…”
“Then why would you think a loss solely rests on your shoulders? You’re a talented goaltender, James. Your stats and achievements prove it.”
“Tell that to my team,” I mutter.
“I’m telling it to you.”
“Eric, you’re just saying all this because we’re friends. You don’t—”
“I do understand, and I’m not just saying this because we’re friends.” Eric takes a deep breath. “Repeat after me: I’m a talented goaltender.”
“Eric, come on. Be serious.”
“Trust me. Just say it, James. ”
In the middle of my bed, I sit there, fingers fidgeting against my knee. I could hang up on him just to avoid having to say it, but something about the sound of his voice compels me to stay on the call. Repeating the words after him, however, is a different matter.
“Well? I’m waiting.”
I drag a hand along the side of my face and shake my head. “Fine… I’m a talented goaltender. Happy?”
“Not hardly. Try again.”
My nose wrinkles in embarrassment, and I grit my teeth. “I’m a talented goaltender.”
“You’re muttering. Say it again,” he orders.
This time, my face flushes hot, and I tremble. The severity of Eric’s voice pulls me under, and suddenly I’m tumbling through waves of something I’m too afraid to define.
“I’m…” I press a hand to my chest and catch my heart thudding beneath my palm. “I’m a talented goaltender?”
“Come on. You can do better, James.” I hear him take a breath on the other end, and when he speaks again, his voice is deeper, darker. “Prove it to me. Make me believe. You’ll feel better.”
Something about the way he’s talking sets me on edge.
I should be annoyed with him for treating me like this…
but I’m not. I’m flustered, burning up in the middle of my bedroom, affected by his tone and intent.
Somewhere along the way, our conversation took a sharp detour—one I would have never expected in a million years.
Whenever I’m having a bad day and my phone pings, I clamor for it like a dog answering a bell for dinner, desperate to find out if it’s Eric.
Every time Eric messages me, he lights up my world, he makes all the noise and nonsense in my head disappear.
He’s asked me to trust him, to surrender to his judgment, his experience, as if only he can provide the cure to my worries.
And deep down, he’s right. Who am I trying to convince? I want Eric to make it all better.
It’s just me, my body, and Eric, a disembodied voice in my ear. He can’t see me, and I can’t see him. There’s no one else in my apartment, and there’s no one overhearing our conversation.
“I’m a talented goaltender…”
“Louder,” he demands, pushing me to give more of myself.
“I’m… I’m a talented goaltender!”
“You’re doing better,” Eric says into the phone, his voice draping around me like smooth velvet.
Acting with a mind of its own, my hand slips under my shirt and drags up my chest, wandering to my stiff nipple. My thumb catches on it, and I gently flick and pinch at it. I tug harder, imagining teeth—his teeth.
“Repeat again after me: I’m a talented, extraordinary goaltender who isn’t ruled by his fears.”
I lick my lips, hesitating to repeat the expanded self-affirmation for more reasons than just a negative outlook on life. Sparing a glance downward, I’m pitching a damning tent through my shorts.
“James?” he asks, breaking the spell to make sure I’m still here. His question happened to catch me right as my fingers were starting to toy with the waistband of my shorts. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I am,” I say, voice breaking on the last word.
“Good. I need you to stay with me. Listen closely...”
I’ve never listened to ASMR videos, but I could get off right here, right now to the sound of Eric’s firm voice telling me what to do, making me squirm. It’s like he’s reaching through the phone, closing the distance through some kind of dark magic.
With my eyes closed, I can pretend he’s right here beside me, his hot breath on my skin, his teeth grazing my collarbone, his hand splayed over my chest, pinning me to the bed to stay still, forcing me to listen, to take everything he has to offer.
With both hands free, I run them up and down my torso, displacing the bottom of my shirt, exposing my stomach.
“I’ve watched you in the crease. When you surrender yourself to the game, you stand taller.
I’ve seen you smile beneath your helmet when you’re having fun.
The spark in your eyes. You can’t hide your feelings behind a mask, not from me.
Not even from yourself. That’s the goaltender every team should fear. ”
More, a voice inside me begs, praise me more.
I can’t form the words. When Eric told me I would need to rewire my brain, I didn’t think he would be the one to do it personally.
His compliments burrow deep, slipping through the cracks and crevasses, penetrating into my subconscious, finding a home there.
“Underneath your helmet, your pads, your underarmor, stripped bare of everything but your inner self, you know you’re a talented goaltender.”
My legs spread atop the bed, imagining him nudging them apart, keen to take in the sight of me beneath him. Without the gear, stripped of everything like he said, I would look smaller, but our physique is the same. We’re nearly the same height, the same weight.
“I know what you’re capable of. I picked you for my team, remember? You were the first. When we were a tandem, I trusted you.”
We’ve only grown closer since All-Star Weekend. We’ve talked constantly through texting and phone calls. We’ve sent each other photos and selfies. I’ve watched his games, and he’s watched mine, studying each other, but for me, it’s always been so much more.
“If I could make you see what I see what I do when I look at you, I would do it in a heartbeat.”
Then show me. Show me what you would do, Eric.
Ever since I fell in love with his goaltending, I wanted to be just like Eric, a marvel on the ice, but in the bedroom…
in the bedroom, I’d worship him in whatever way he would let me.
I’d let him take charge of my desire and unravel me until I was mindless, craving his satisfaction with every fiber of my being.
“You need to believe these affirmations. Not for my sake. You need to believe them for yourself.” With each word spoken at an even, steady pace, it’s like he’s plucking all the right chords, manipulating my mind and body like a long-distance marionette.
“Say the words: I’m a talented, extraordinary goaltender who isn’t ruled by his fears. ”
I can’t form the words, too busy palming myself through my shorts, tracing my fingers along the outline of my leaking length. I desperately need more than the friction of fabric to sate this desire.
“Come on, James,” he teases, “would it really be so bad to give in?”
I’m too far gone to process what he’s actually encouraging me to do because my hand slides under the waistband and grabs a hold of my hard cock, causing me to clamp down on my lip to refrain from moaning aloud.
Even the barest touch threatens fireworks.
God, imagine if it was Eric’s big, strong hand moving up and down in complete control of the pace and pressure instead of my own.
Eric’s voice pierces my vivid fantasy. “Repeat what I told you to recite.”
“Tell it to me again,” I all but whimper, even though I perfectly remember what he said.
With more patience than I deserve, Eric reminds me: “I’m a talented, extraordinary goaltender who isn’t ruled by his fears.”
Yet upon hearing those words again, I’m not sure if I can follow through. I’m floating on another plane of existence, chasing a new end goal.
I raise my hand to my lips and lick my palm, tasting myself.
My fingers wrap around my cock again, the mix of spit and precum slicking the way.
It’s all too easy to imagine it’s Eric sucking me off instead, the tip of his tongue tracing wherever my thumb strokes, his mouth a tight, wet heat I could lose myself in.
My hand moves in a blur around my cock, stroking with a mad ferocity.
I’m on the cusp of coming, but something inside me holds back, as if I’m waiting for permission—his permission—even though it will never come.
“Say it like you mean it, it’ll feel good,” he says, egging me on with a playful lilt.
Yes, yes, yes, I want to feel good. I need to be good. Let me be good for you.
My pulse thunders in my ears, and I struggle to catch my breath. What is happening to me? It’s like he’s cast a spell on my body, bidding me to partake in some long-distance ritual.
“I need to hear it,” he reminds me. “I can’t let you hang up until I hear you say it.”
“I’m… I’m a talented, extraordinary,” I rasp, arching my back off the bed as I chase after the building sensations by fucking into my curled hand, “I’m a talented, and ah, extraordinary…”
“Stop.”
My hand freezes, and I let out a soft groan.
“Slower,” Eric growls, as if grinding the word against my trembling frame. “You’re rushing.”