Chapter 10
DEVON
The elation of winning that game carried us through the flight the next day to Montreal.
Which was good because, despite the fact we were flying from Abbotsford Airport, we had to stop in Calgary for a layover.
Two hours wasn’t bad. Watching Coach as he and Amy conferred?
Still not bad. Wanting to follow him when he went to the bathroom so we could join the mile-high club?
Ridiculous. I’d never wanted that experience with any guy I’d ever met.
I wasn’t adventurous. Probably helped the bathrooms on West Jet planes were so tiny that I could barely turn around in the fucking things.
Two people would be absolutely impossible. Let alone two D-men.
Stop perving on Coach. He got the message. He stopped texting.
Oh, and someone must’ve truly wanted to fuck with me—after we’d landed and checked into our hotel, I was in the room next to his.
God save me.
Seriously.
Someone also had the worst sense of humor ever.
I’d been paired up with Hairs.
Not Gards. Not Claus. Not Kulie.
Nope. They stuck me with the third line douchebag left winger with a massive attitude.
Whatever.
At best, I could hope it was a one-time thing and I’d be with someone else after we landed in Toronto. Somehow, I didn’t see him giving me any privacy if I met up with old teammates or coaches or anybody.
The guy was a pig. Somehow, within forty minutes after hitting the room, his stuff was strewn everywhere, there was a wet towel on the bathroom floor, and a drop of toothpaste in the sink.
Before I knew what was happening, he was gone.
Fled to places unknown. Likely a bar. He was legal—by a few months.
Legal to drink and do pot in Canada was nineteen.
Many an American nineteen- or twenty-year-old had come up here and thought they’d died and gone to heaven.
Just because alcohol and pot were legal for them.
All the eighteen-year-olds pouted. Some went to bars anyway and got in because of who they were.
I didn’t like that. I was a rule-follower through-and-through. Rules existed to keep people safe. If people didn’t deviate, then bad things wouldn’t happen.
Right, like ALS had anything to do with that.
As I sat on my bed, with my back against the headboard, that thought circled my mind.
Mom had followed all the rules. Well, except getting knocked up by some asshole who abandoned her.
Aside from that one moment of poor judgement, she’d done everything anyone ever asked of her.
She’d played by the rules. She’d been diligent in everything.
She’d done a fucking amazing job of raising me.
Then she’d been struck down in her prime by a disease almost too cruel for words.
I did my best, as I promised her, not to think of all the bad shit.
Instead, I remembered all the early mornings she’d frozen her ass off in the rink watching me skate.
I’d think about how she managed to get gear for me even when she could barely put food on the table.
How she put me first every fricking time she had to make a choice.
She lived her life so that mine would be better.
She’d died hoping I would have a good life.
And I did. I was this close to making it to the big leagues.
She wouldn’t care about that. Well, she would’ve been proud.
For sure. But to her, if I put in my best effort, that was enough.
The accolades were nice—but being kind to someone less well-off was more important.
Trophies were lovely—but had I thanked the equipment manager?
Being the best was laudable—but had I done everything I could to ensure the rest of the team had the same chances as I’d been gifted?
I picked up the remote. If I wanted to watch something, I was better off trying to do it now before Hairs came back.
I powered on the television, and after a couple of clicks, was on the news desk.
Radio-Canada was the French-language channel financially supported by the government.
But not run by them, thank God. Nope. Radio-Canada and the Canadian Broadcast Corporation might get money from the federal government, but they also did brutal stories on said government and politicians.
I loved that no one got spared—if they were up to no good, a strong chance existed that some intrepid journalist would ferret them out.
The words washed over me as I enjoyed the language—and accent—of my childhood.
Being the child of a Quebecois woman living in Toronto always made life interesting for me.
Straddling two worlds. I underwent a lot of teasing.
Well, until my hockey talent became clear.
Then everyone pretty much left me alone.
After Mom died? No one said anything bad again.
Well, unless they were on the opposing team on the ice.
Then they didn’t give a shit if you’d buried your mother at the age of twelve.
A story about Montreal caught my notice. The goalie was being sent down.
Shit. If he’s tending tomorrow night, we’re fucked.
Except…why’s he being sent down?
Yeah, Montreal sucked this season. Hell, even Toronto was kicking their asses.
Deca being sent to Laval? Sucked donkey balls. He wasn’t the reason Montreal was doing badly. Nope, that was a top offensive line who couldn’t score on an empty net if their lives depended on it. They sucked. If anyone should’ve been sent down, it was those three.
I turned off the television.
Silence descended.
Which felt weird because hotels often had some ambient noise. Something to remind me I wasn’t alone in the world—even if I sometimes felt like it.
I flipped off the lamp and let the light pollution of the city filter through the drapes where they didn’t quite meet in the middle.
After letting out the longest sigh in the entire history of the world, I texted him. Even though I knew I shouldn’t…I did.
You hear about Deca?
I held my breath as I waited. He probably had heard. Might be discussing it with Amy as I sent the text. Hell, she might see my name and—
Yeah. His name’s on the roster for tomorrow night’s game.
Lots of bubbles followed, but no words.
So I waited.
And waited.
I considered ordering room service. I ran my fingers up and down the remote.
Still lots of bubbles. Still no words.
Finally, a ping.
He’s unfortunate.
What the fuck? He’d been typing for a good two minutes. I knew this. I’d watched the time on my phone as I kept tapping it to stay awake.
So…?
Are you alone?
Amy just left. Are you alone? Who is your roommate?
You don’t know? Fucking Hairs.
Then I reconsidered the wisdom of putting my animosity toward the guy in writing.
I mean, he’s a nice guy.
He had not, after all, insulted me. Others, though?
Did you see that guy’s acne? I would never leave the house.
That girl’s tits were nice, but did you see the rolls of fat?
I would totally bang the chick at the front desk.
Yeah, I should’ve said something. But I didn’t want to rock the boat. I could curse him out in my mind.
Is he there? Is that why you’re being diplomatic?
Alone.
Fuck, I did not need to know that.
You can’t come over.
I know. I’m alone and you can’t come here either.
Fuck it. We shouldn’t even be texting.
I can’t let you go. I just can’t.
I hit FaceTime to call him.
He came onto the screen.
“I want you naked and in your bathroom in two minutes.”
I cut the call. Then I bolted for my bathroom.
I was pretty sure his bathroom would share a wall with mine.
But I wasn’t one hundred percent certain, and banging on the wall just didn’t seem like a good idea.
Well, none of this is a good idea. God, I hated when my inner voice was right.
I locked the door and stripped out of my pajama bottoms and distressed old T-shirt.
At two minutes to the second, he called me back. “Hey.” His gorgeous brown eyes shone in the crappy overhead lighting of the bathroom—identical to mine. Maybe the rest of his suite was more luxurious? Whatever.
“Are you hard?”
“Not yet.”
I cleared my throat.
“Not yet, Sir.”
I nodded my approval. “I want you to prop your phone on the counter and orient it so I can see your cock.”
“Yes, Sir.” With just a heartbeat, he had his phone on the counter with the orientation so I could see the lower part of his abs, his cock, and the upper part of his thighs.
Holy fuck, that’s so yummy.
“Make yourself hard, Jack. Be a good boy and let your Sir see you get excited. You want to make Sir happy, don’t you?”
“Oh God, yes.” He gritted out the words even as he stroked his cock.
I could’ve given him the option to use lube—if he had some—but I preferred a little friction for my bottoms.
Wait.
“Do you have lube handy?”
Three seconds later, a bottle appeared.
“Great. You’re going to do what I say, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Such enthusiasm.
“Keep stroking yourself.”
He put the lube on the counter and continued to do exactly that. In no time, he was hard and even leaking a drop of precum.
God, I want to lick that up so fucking badly.
When his breathing hitched. I spoke sharply. “Stop.”
He stopped.
“Now I want you to lube your left hand. You’re a southpaw, right?”
“You—” He coughed. “You noticed?”
“Jack, I notice everything about you. I could give you a list, but what I really want is for you to face away from me, to lean against the wall, and to finger yourself. Can you do that?” I injected as much command as I could.
“Yes, Sir.”
Even as he coated his fingers with lube, his cock bobbed.
I’d worried he might lose his erection but if anything, he was getting harder.
He turned, leaned against the wall, and reached behind him.
He had to do a bit of contorting, but soon he had two fingers in his ass.
I doubted he could reach his prostate, but this should be enough to get him going.
God, I wish I were there. That I was sticking my fingers in him. To prepare him to take my woefully neglected cock. I grasped the base of my straining shaft and ordered it to hang on. “Can you go deeper, Jack?”
A long pause, then, “I think so?”
“Think about me, Jack. Remember how I drilled you? Do you want that?”
He contorted to push his fingers in farther.
“Grab your cock.” His right hand moved swiftly. I couldn’t see, but the glorious view of his ass had to be enough. As much as I wanted to edge him tonight, I had no idea when Hairs would be back. “Come, Jack. Whenever you want—”
He let out a guttural cry. His fingers stilled, even as his right arm worked frantically.
I squinted as, mere seconds later, jizz slid down the wall. He flopped against said wall, and after a moment, turned. I caught a glimpse of his spent cock as he hit the wall with his back and slid to the floor. From this angle, I could see his flushed face. I grinned. “Good?”
“Holy fuck.” He closed his eyes. “And you?”
“Do you want your Sir to come? All over your face? Your chest? Do you want to be a good boy and lick Sir’s cum?”
“Christ, yes.” He squinted. “Please, Devon.”
I didn’t correct him. Instead, I placed the phone on the counter, positioned myself, and within just a couple of tugs, came hard.
I went to that floaty place even as I struggled to stay upright.
Somehow, I managed not to get any spunk on my screen.
I held the phone to my face. “Shower. Bed. Tomorrow, you think about Deca and the game.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight, you dream of me fucking you into the mattress and you being sore for days.” I smiled. “Goodnight, my good boy.” I cut the connection.
Before long, the pipes rattled.
I grinned and hopped into the shower myself. I didn’t linger because I really needed a good night’s rest. Plus, likely Hairs would wake me up when he got back. I put my pajamas back on, brushed my teeth, and headed out of the bathroom.
To find Hairs standing by the door. He grinned. “Oh good, you’re done. I gotta piss.” He pushed past me and was unzipping before I could blink.
I closed the door because, yeah, gross. I rounded his bed and made my way to mine.
I crawled in, trying not to think of him pissing in the space I now considered sacred.
On a sigh, I pounded my pillow into submission, shut my eyes, and tried not to think of Jack and all the things I would’ve done had we been in the same room.
“Hey, why does the bathroom smell like jizz?”
I didn’t move my head as I was facing away from Hairs. “I have no idea. I’m going to bed. Practice is early. Deca’s been sent down, and he’s minding the net.”
“Yeah, I heard at the bar. Some French chicks. I mean, I heard Deca, and I convinced them to tell me. Those accents? So fucking sexy. Yours just isn’t as good.”
At least we’re no longer discussing my jizz.
“Goodnight, Hairs.”
“You mind if I watch TV?” Without waiting for a response from me, he turned it on.
I pulled my pillow over my head and prayed for oblivion.
It came.
Eventually.