Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
TREY
If he’d asked me that in the kitchen, I would’ve probably dropped to my knees for him again even though I knew he probably wouldn’t take me up on the offer a second time. I blitz attacked the man the first time with his defenses down.
“Depends on what you want.”
“I want you to explain what the hell happened last night.”
“Couldn’t tell you. I was too drunk, remember?” Too drunk to fuck, according to the sexy beast behind me.
“Don’t give me that shit, boy. You know what I’m talking about. You were flirty, funny, and just passed slightly tipsy all night. Then it felt like someone flipped the self-destruct asshole switch when we walked outside the doors downstairs. You changed, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or some shit.”
Silky strands ghosted my palms as I shoved my hands through my hair before scrubbing them over my head and face. The texts from my dad the night before became a living image in my mind. The screen of my phone lit up the dark entrance to the club as if present me got dropped into past me’s body.
DAD
[IMAGE]
What the hell are you doing in fucking Nashville?
You realize New York is watching your every move, right?
Are you trying to fuck up your life?
Or just my motherfucking legacy?
Once the texts came in, I turned off my phone and still hadn’t bothered to check it since shutting it down. I could only imagine what awaited me when I powered it on.
“I fucking hate how this is gonna sound.”
“Just say it. Don’t worry about how things sound. I’m not judging.”
I scoffed and rolled my eyes so hard tears blurred the stars I saw. “You’d be the fucking first in my whole fucking miserable goddamn life.” Sighing, I held my hand up to stop him from mouthing whatever platitude was about to come out of his mouth. “Do you know who I am?”
“Trey Malachek,” he said after a moment. Then he said, “I know you’re an incredible hockey player and an amazing skater—”
“Yes. I am also the grandson of Victor Petrov and Donald Malachek. And the son of Donnie Malachek and Oksana Petrova. My old man and grandfathers were NHL superstars. My mother has more World Championship and Olympic medals than all three of them combined. I’m the only descendant of four legendary champions. ”
“Okay, so that explains why they called you the Prince of Hockey last night. Although that’s dismissive of your mom, to be honest,” he responded.
The way his ‘okay’ trailed off blew me away.
Everyone, once they realized who I was, went starstruck and tongue-tied.
But that didn’t happen. Not even when he added the title the media hung around my neck as a kid.
And I agreed with him. So did my mother.
A pissy mood and a half-day Russian rant muttered under her breath about me being an even better figure skater.
“My mother would agree with you if she were here.”
He smirked and said, “That would’ve been awkward given you were on your knees sucking my dick as soon as your eyes opened this morning.”
Ignoring that because, eww, I said, “I’m also an Olympic gold medalist and a number one draft pick.”
“Impressive pedigree, but what’s that matter in relation to the question I asked? What’s it got to do with your Jekyll and Hyde routine?”
I stared at him. He had to be fucking joking, right?
Instead, I continued, determined to make him respond the way everyone I’d ever met responded initially.
“The team my father and grandfather played for their entire careers, the team that retired their numbers, the team they both lifted Stanley Cups for, five times between them…” I paused, sucked in a deep breath, and said, “Drafted me, but haven’t signed me. ”
The space between his brows disappeared as one dark blond brow dropped while the other lifted.
“My draft class was a couple of years ago, and instead of offering me a contract, they’ve risked letting me get injured playing for The U.”
“Okay, so that makes some of the commentary I’ve heard about you make sense, but it still doesn’t explain the switch.”
“I don’t act that way because I want to.”
Sharing about this shit wasn’t something I did. So why was I doing it now? With him? I wanted him to want to fuck me, not be my therapist.
“So you need to…?”
“I don’t know what the fuck I need, if I’m being honest. My dad is certain me being a ‘cocksucking faggot whore’ is why New York hasn’t signed me yet.”
“First of all, if he called you that, I sincerely hope he and I never meet. Secondly, and you’d know better than me, but that seems weird since you’re not the only out gay—”
“I’m pan.”
“What?”
“I’m pansexual. Not gay. I’m an equal sexual opportunity kinda guy. Even if I am more attracted to cisgender males who look like me and you than anyone else, but on occasion someone outside that finds their way in my bed or me in theirs.”
“Okay, thank you for explaining, but all that changes is the language. Not the meaning. You’re not the only out queer player, and New York is historically LGBTQIA+ friendly.”
He was right. I wasn’t the only out hockey player, and not only because of Aiden and Gavin.
Other than them, there was a veteran from LA who got outed for sucking face with a dude who turned out to be the third for the player and his wife.
The way my father and grandfather raged about the disgustingness of the situation felt like a physical attack.
Each word stripped flesh from my bones, leaving me scared and feeling exposed.
I was still in the closet at the time, newly drafted, fresh off the Olympic victory tour.
Sitting on the sidelines watching the maelstrom of craziness that the throuple went through, I made a decision.
I wouldn’t chance dealing with that shit.
So, I stepped out of the closet. And by stepping out, I mean I kicked the fucking door down.
My mantra became “Pucks, Sucks, and Fucks.” I started fucking who I wanted, when I wanted, and fuck anyone who didn’t like it.
“You’re right. It’s one of the friendliest cities for the queer community even if the league isn’t exactly waving the ally flag.”
“Okay, so that leads me to wonder what the team has said to you?”
“I’m not ready.”
“You’re not ready? To what? Play? You do that and go to school full-time.”
“That’s what they’ve said. That I’m not ready. At least, that’s what New York’s coach told Storm.”
“I’ve fucking seen you play. Granted it’s not my sport, but you’re a fucking phenomenal player.”
A warmth bloomed across my chest and crept up my neck to my face.
He leaned forward, and his hand cupped my cheek.
Calluses brushed over my cheek, softly twisting something up in my chest. A deep shuddering breath filled my lungs.
The tears that accompanied it forced me to look away from his gaze.
The penetrating look drilled through my skull as if laser-guided to the parts of me I hid from everyone.
“Thanks. I was born to skate.” And I was. I like to think I would’ve still found my way to the ice even if I hadn’t been born into the legacies I was.
He nodded. “You can tell, and not because of the genetics. It’s the passion you bring to the ice. When you’re in your groove, you get this look on your face.”
“I do?”
“Yes. It’s like you’re…I don’t know how to describe it. Free? Flying? Happy? At peace? Especially during warm-ups when you really fall into the music and let go. The first time I saw you skate, you were in full hockey gear, and you did some crazy ass figure skating shit.”
“I did it for you.”
The volume knob on the blush broke off as my words cranked it past max volume. He brought that up not knowing, then I just had to go and blurt it out.
His mouth dropped open, his eyes grew round, and his brows shot up his forehead. “You…umm…what?”
Smacking myself in the face with both hands, I bent in half, burying my face in my thighs, and groaned, “I did it for you.”
“We didn’t…”
My cheek pressed against my quad when I turned to look him in the eye. “No, I know. I caught sight of you in the stands that night. It looked as if you were watching me.”
“I was. You were having so much fucking fun with the team, hamming it up, dancing to the music.”
I nodded and shrugged at the same time. Hopefully the actions weren’t as awkward as they felt. “I was. And then I saw you, and I wanted to impress you,” I said.
A cross between a laugh and a scoff screwed his face up and furrowed his brow. “What?”
“You’re fucking hot. So, I showed off.”
Pink tinged his cheeks. With a grunt, his hand shot out, gripped the back of my neck, lifting my mouth to his.
He devoured me. And I let him. Let him guide the pace, the intensity, me onto his lap, straddling his hard cock.
We broke apart, both of us sucking air like we’d just played through two full shifts down by two.
Our foreheads touched, the gasping breaths we drew feathering over our faces.
“Further proof that you’re hot as fuck,” I groaned when our cocks twitched and rubbed together through the fabric we wore.
“Do you mean because you’re rutting against me like you’re in heat or something else?” he asked, his head tilting to rest against the back of the sofa, his gaze burning into mine.
His hands gripped my hips, not encouraging or discouraging my movements.
Just there, making their presence known.
Cupping his neck, my thumbs stroked the hollows of his cheeks through his beard.
Leaning in, I kissed him again, keeping it slow and soft, sipping and nipping at his mouth and lips with my teeth and tongue.
The need to deepen it clawed at me, but I held back.
“Trey?”
“Hmm?”
“What did you mean about proof?”
“I don’t like dominant men.”
His body sunk further into the cushions as he pulled away from me, at least as much as he possibly could with me sitting on his dick. “In bed or…”