Chapter 18
Beau
“Protecting your boyfriend, Benny?” Erickson taunts, spitting onto the ice and shoving into me. “I always knew you were fucking queer, you fag.” I see red. I never got along swimmingly with Erickson, but jesus christ. The guy never said anything like that to me before.
We skate around each other, circling like hungry sharks. I smell blood in the water.
Gloves hit the ice, and we crash together, all fists. I shove into Erickson again, grabbing at his jersey. He’s easily got a few inches on me, but I drive my helmeted head toward him anyway. I throw punch after punch, catching his temple, his jaw. Just pounding into him.
“Benny!” I hear the familiar voice of my former teammate and best friend, but I can’t stop myself.
I feel Davis’s hands digging into my jersey as he tries to pull me off of Erickson.
“That’s enough, man…” he says, but I turn, fueled by adrenaline and lost to tunnel vision, and I deck him.
It’s a clean punch, straight across the jaw.
I feel bad, sure, but I mostly feel rage.
I turn back and keep wailing into Erickson’s face.
Whistles are blowing all around me, the crowd rife with cheers, jeers, and boos.
I’m so lost in my rage, I can barely register them as more hands grab for me.
The linesmen pile on, trying to yank me off him.
He’s on the ground, his face bloodied and swelling in an odd way.
It’s very possible I knocked a tooth loose.
I’m finally yanked away from Erickson, a linesman using a solid, firm grip on my collar to maneuver me back. Fuck, when did I punch Davey? I see my best friend—former best friend now, I guess—clutching his nose as it gushes blood. Fuck, I did that?
I don’t feel regret, per se.
But I feel…
I feel not great about it.
The ref is down at center ice, calling the penalty and calling for my ejection.
Fuck.
Yeah, I should have expected that. Or at least, I would have if I’d been able to see anything beyond red rage. Watching Erickson rough up Milo the way he had…
I skate toward the tunnel, a scream building in my throat.
I can’t protect him from here. I can’t do anything from here.
The roar of the crowd fades to a dull hum as I push through the gate. Each step down the tunnel feels heavier than the last.
I feel all the rage drain out of me with each step. I head to the locker room where Mia is waiting.
“Beau, what happened?” she asks, shaking her head. She eyes me warily, her arms crossed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I reply grumpily.
“You’re going to have to get over that real quick, buddy,” she says, pushing my face down into the massage table’s face hole.
“We were tied 0-0 with the number two team in the country. Your coach is going to have some words with you, and they’re going to be loud and they’re going to demand something. ”
She’s right, and the rubdown she gives is the least relaxing massage I’ve ever had because all I can think about is the reaming I’m going to get when Coach comes back here.
Fuck, the last thing I want to think about is how mad Coach is going to be when he gets back here.
I can already hear his voice. Not yelling, never yelling, but that disappointed tone that somehow feels worse.
When she’s done, I rush back to the shower, ready to just enjoy the steaming hot water and some time alone for once.
The water cascades down my sore body, hot and red against my skin. I push my face under the stream and groan. It feels incredible. My body aches from the fight, muscles tight and rippling under the stream.
My mind wanders as I stand there. My hand wanders, too, dragging soap and suds down my abs and stopping just short of… No, I can’t do that here.
My hands slide the suds back up my abdomen, enjoying the slick glide of my wet skin.
But then there he is. I can practically see him, a stunning vision. My mind paints a vivid picture of him. I see his pretty pink lips part on a gasp. I can perfectly envision him laid out on his bed, the sheets a rumpled mess beneath him. His blond curls fall wild around his flushed face.
The look on his face when I pushed his knees up, the gorgeous sounds he made as I worked him open with my tongue.
I have no control of my body. My hand grips and squeezes my aching dick. I give it a slow, languid stroke as my mind continues to wander.
Fuck.
Suddenly, I can see it, him, almost perfectly, on his knees here in this shower with me.
The hot water turns his pale, freckled skin a heated pink.
He looks up at me with those wide, princess-green eyes.
His pretty pink lips are parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with each stuttered breath.
I reach out and would swear I can feel his face, those wet curls beneath my fingers.
For a moment, I let myself believe it. That he’s really here.
I hold my dick out for him, painting those plump lips with my precome. His tongue slips out to lick it clean before the water can wash it away. We didn’t get to do this the other night, but it’s all I can think about.
Milo.
On his knees for me.
Ready and desperate for my cock to slide down his throat.
Ready and desperate to swallow my come.
I bet he’d be just as eager to take my cock in his mouth as he was to take it in his pretty little ass. I bet he’d have a smile on his face, his eyes hungry as I slide past those luscious lips.
My grip around my dick tightens, almost punishing. When I let go, it bobs and jerks like it has a mind of its own. It feels possessed as I think about Milo.
I shake my head, trying to break free from the pretty vision of him on his knees, but I can’t.
I can practically feel the tiny, featherlight kisses he presses all over my hip bones, my pelvis, and my balls. They tighten, and my hand pulls back. I want this to last. I want this dream to never end.
Just like I never wanted it to end when I sank into him that night. I haven’t even been looking for an apartment the entire time I’ve been staying with him. Not once have I even browsed the list that Paxton gave me when I first moved here. I’ve never called a real estate agent. I have no plans to.
Dream Milo meets my eyes as he finally flicks the tip of his tongue out, connecting with my slit, licking up the bead of precome.
“That’s it, baby,” I say to my fantasy, “don’t waste a drop.”
Gripping my cock in one hand, I tap it against his lips again, loving the feel of that lush flesh. They part, and I push into the red-hot heat of his mouth. My hand tightens as my imagination runs wild. Fuck, I can practically feel his eyes on me as I start to fuck his face.
I look down, and sure enough, he’s watching me through his lashes.
Fuck, why does this feel so real?
His tongue swirls around the tip, licking and sucking at the head before taking me deep, all the way to the back of his throat.
I know my time here is limited. The game is almost over. None of this is real. I can’t have it, even if I want to. Even if I’m desperate for him. Even if I’m so desperate for him that I’m conjuring him in the locker room shower for one of the best blow jobs of my life.
Is that sad? That the best blow job I’ve ever had exists only in my imagination?
That I can almost perfectly feel his mouth wrapped tight around my cock?
Fuck, but I want him…
I want him so bad.
I know I can’t have him.
I know, I know, I know.
But why can’t I? Why can’t this moment be real? Why can’t every little moment with him be real and mean something?
I mean…
It does mean something.
It means something to me.
Does it mean anything to him?
The rule. The team. The fear of ruining this the way I ruined things with Axel. There are a thousand reasons. But right now, in the steam and the silence, none of them feel heavy enough.
I push my cock all the way into his mouth and I swear I can feel it hit the back of his throat. I swear I can feel that.
That this is real.
That he is real.
As my hand slides over my drenched cock, over and over, I get closer and closer to the edge. As I get closer, my fantasy becomes less and less tangible. His mouth becomes my hand. And as I spill over the locker room shower floor, I know that I would give absolutely anything to make this real.
I stand there, water spilling over my head, my curls drenched and my skin flushed from the heat. I watch as my come slides down the drain.
I can’t believe I actually did that in here. I walk toward the bench and dry myself off, getting dressed in my suit. My hair is still sopping wet, soaking the collar of my shirt. I can’t hear the cheers and jeers from the crowd all the way in here, so I sit and imagine the worst.
I left my team in a tricky spot against one of the best teams in the league. They’re going to be so mad at me.
Milo is going to be so mad at me.
I drop my head into my hands and sigh.
What have I done?