Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CALLAN
I jog up the stairs to Diego’s apartment with a big, heavy bag of equipment strapped to my back.
I thought I’d have to buzz to get inside, but I was lucky enough to catch someone coming out, and it turns out that even in rich-people buildings, if you give someone a friendly enough smile and act like you belong there, they’ll hold the door open for you.
It probably helped that I’m carrying a hockey stick.
I’m sure they know Diego lives in this building and probably assumed I’m with him.
I’ll get the fun of pounding on his door directly now and finding out whether he’s already up or planning on lazing around in bed all morning until he’s supposed to come in for his scheduled training session.
It’s been a week since he may or may not have stayed to watch me jerk off in the shower, and if he did see it, he’s being pretty chill about it.
He’s seemed a little more relaxed during our training sessions this week, and I don’t know what brought it on, but I’m happy to take the credit for it.
Maybe all he really needed was to take that shit out on a punching bag so he could get focused on moving forward.
Obviously, we haven’t fooled around again, but I keep waiting for him to ask or at least give me some kind of sign that he wants it. Maybe he really did just want a one-time blowjob to scratch an itch during a dry spell. Sucks, but I’ll get over it. I always do.
I shift the hockey stick to my other hand and raise my fist to rap my knuckles against the door.
It takes a few seconds before I hear the skitter of toenails and a wheezy, high-pitched bark as Slapshot does his best to defend the apartment.
I chuckle to myself and wait. After another minute, I still don’t hear any human-sized footsteps, so I try again, knocking harder this time.
That does it. Slapshot yaps again and then I hear the shuffle-stomp that can only be Diego coming to the door.
It swings open and I’m even more glad that I got in without having to buzz him, because if he’d had any warning, I wouldn’t have gotten to enjoy the sight of him with a bad case of bed head, wearing nothing but a pair of tight-fitting boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to hide the shape of his soft bulge.
I really shouldn’t stare, but I’m only human, so I give myself to the count of five to appreciate the cut of his abs, his powerful, hairy thighs, and the visible shift of his cock in his briefs that gives me the tiniest bit of hope that even if he hasn’t asked again, that one blowjob is still on his mind.
Once my grace period is up, I drag my gaze up to his face, which honestly isn’t a hardship either.
His expression is all sleepy confusion as he slowly blinks like he’s trying to do an incredibly difficult math problem that no one prepared him for.
“What are you doing? What time is it?”
“Five-something, I think. I managed to book some ice time for us this morning so I can see how you’re moving and tailor some of your workout plan if needed.”
His face spasms with the flicker of a smile that quickly morphs into a frown, then a twisted, scrunched expression.
“Right now? Shouldn’t I build up to getting back on the ice?”
“That’s what you’ve been doing, man. I promise, I won’t slam you into the boards or anything. We’ll take it easy. I might even let you win a game of one-on-one.” I tease.
Diego snorts a laugh. “I don’t believe for a second that you’ve purposely lost at anything in your entire life.”
I bristle at the thought. “Of course not.”
He chuckles again, drags his fingers through his messy hair, then jerks his chin to beckon me inside as he takes a step back.
“Come on in and let me get dressed.”
He nudges Slapshot back with his foot so I can set my borrowed hockey gear down without crushing the little guy.
Then I bend over and give him some scritches behind the ears, trying hard not to notice Diego’s bare legs a few inches away in my peripheral.
I don’t know what the big deal is; I see his bare legs every damn day.
But bare legs in briefs just hits different than bare legs in shorts.
“I’m guessing you haven’t had any breakfast yet?” I stand up and call after him as he starts down the hallway away from me.
“No, dude, I was sleeping.”
“Want me to make you something? I can’t have you passing out on me during our session this morning.
It wouldn’t reflect well on me as a trainer.
” I’m already heading towards the kitchen, listening for his answer.
It’s a big apartment, but it’s still an apartment, so it’s easy to shout from one end to the other and hear each other just fine.
“There should be a carton of eggs and some leftover smoked salmon from my dinner last night if you want to scramble that up for me.”
“I don’t even get a ‘please’?” I open the refrigerator and immediately find what he asked for while Slapshot eagerly wags his tail and snorts, clearly trying to convince me to drop a little bit of salmon for him. Since I’m not a monster, I do exactly that.
“I’m not going to beg for eggs, bro,” he shouts back.
A chuckle vibrates in my chest, and my skin heats a few degrees. Fuck, I’d love to make him beg for something again.
I’ve only cooked here once, but it’s well organized enough that everything is easy to find, and in no time at all the kitchen is filling with the mouthwatering scent of salmon and eggs.
I’m sure I’m not going to impress him with a quick scramble, but I watch it carefully anyway and make sure I pull it off the burner while the eggs are still a little wet for optimal taste.
I have his breakfast plated by the time he reappears, dressed in a pair of tight black pants that leave about as much to the imagination as his briefs did, and a tank top, with his equipment bag slung over his shoulder and his stick in one hand.
The tape on the blade is worn down, so I offer him the plate with one hand and reach for his stick with the other. “Let me re-tape that for you while you eat.”
He raises an eyebrow at me and pulls the stick back half an inch. “I don’t know… I’m pretty particular about my tape.”
“Really? You don’t trust me to peel tape off and wrap it around again? Is it some superstitious thing? You think I won’t tape it right?”
Diego grimaces. “Don’t you know that everything is superstitious with hockey players?”
“Seriously? Okay, how about you tape it, and I’ll feed you breakfast so your hands are free?” I tease.
A light blush creeps into his cheeks and he rolls his eyes. “Fine, tape it. It’s not like it’s a game or anything. We’re just going to skate around a bit, right?”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
He hands me the stick and then puts his bag down and rummages in one of the pockets for a roll of tape.
Then he sits down at one of the high stools in front of the counter and digs into his eggs while I work on re-taping for him, and we fall into a casual discussion about the news of a few other trades that were announced yesterday.
None of them were on his team, but I’m sure it made him nervous anyway.
There’s something surprisingly domestic about the whole scene, and it makes me a hell of a lot more nervous than a blowjob ever could because it makes me wonder what it would be like to be Diego’s man, the guy making his breakfast and helping him get ready for his games.
I don’t need to tie myself up in those kinds of knots.
They won’t lead anywhere good; they never do.
DIEGO
I don’t suit up fully since we’re not going to play a real game, but once we get to the rink, I pull on my padded hockey shorts, my jersey—no padding—and my gloves.
Callan does the same, and it’s obvious he either borrowed his stuff from someone else, or he’s grown since he last put it on, because it takes him some wriggling to get into the shorts and there’s no room for pads under his jersey, even if he wanted them.
I catch my eyes lingering on the tight fit of his sleeves around his muscles for just a minute as he ties his skates.
Since I had that chat with my sister I feel like I’ve been waiting for the right moment to bring it up to Callan again, or for him to bring it up to me.
I just can’t seem to figure out the right way to ask if he wants to fool around again.
I barely asked the first time, I just kept blurting stuff until he figured it out and cut through all the bullshit.
Maybe I’m hoping to stumble on that exact scenario again, but something tells me he’s waiting for me to come out and say it myself this time if I want anything else to happen.
“Ready?” he asks, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah.” I nod and grab the puck, placing it on my blade and flipping it a few times to warm up my agility and speed. Maybe I’m showing off just a little bit too, or maybe I’m distracting myself from the nerves fluttering in my gut.
We’re not at the arena where the Huskies play, just a local neighborhood rink where Callan managed to rent some time this morning.
But my body can’t seem to decide between excitement about getting back onto the ice and a cold kind of dread that something terrible is going to happen as soon as I step out there.
“You okay?” he asks, and I nod again.
“Great,” I lie, clearing my throat and forcing a smile.
“It’s normal to feel nervous after an injury. It’s almost like a form of PTSD. The last thing your body remembers about being on the ice is pain, and it wants to avoid that.”
I swallow past the dryness in my mouth and clench my fingers around my stick.
I get what he’s saying, but I hate it. It sounds weak as fuck.
It’s hockey; we all get hurt all the time.
If I start having panic attacks every time I take an elbow or get slammed into the boards, my career might as well be over.
“How do I tell it to fuck off?” I ask with a rough laugh. Maybe he’s got some kind of trainer voodoo mind trick I can use to convince myself that I’m not going to end up in the hospital again if I step out onto the ice.
He claps my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. “Just re-wiring. If your last memory is pain, you override that by getting out there and not getting hurt. Do it enough times and you’ll be right as rain.”
“Right,” I mutter.
“Come on.” Callan bumps my shoulder playfully with his and steps out onto the ice before me.
He’s steady on his feet, even if he’s obviously stiffer than someone who skates every day.
He smirks at me and skates backward a few feet, then stops and waits.
I look down at the ice, my heart still hammering with conflicting bursts of adrenaline.
The ice has been home for as long as I can remember, I can’t let one injury ruin that for me.
I take a deep breath and step out. My muscles tighten and my heart beats even faster.
Callan’s grin widens and he skates backward another few feet, then spins around and really starts to move.
He’s loosening up and relaxing now, his movements more fluid than when he started, and I can see the power in every motion as he flies around in a circle, doing his best to tempt me to forget, let go, and just have some fun.
Yeah. Hell yeah. Before this was my job and came with all kinds of baggage, it was just a sport I fucking loved.
I need to remember that if I’m going to get back into the right headspace for the upcoming season.
I close my eyes for a second and force myself to let go of all the what-ifs about my career, all the resentment I’m carrying about my team, everything except for the chill against my exposed skin and the scent of the arena in my nose.
I push myself forward and start to glide, and as soon as I do, it feels like all of the bullshit gets left behind. It feels fucking incredible to stop thinking and just do what comes so naturally, propelling myself across the ice like it’s exactly where I belong.
“Damn, look at that power.” Callan whistles as I do a few fast laps around him in a circle, switching effortlessly between forward motion and backward, letting my muscle memory take over just as easily as if I were walking down the street.
“Are we going to play or what?” I ask now that my blood is pumping and the tension has melted out of my muscles.
“Alright, but you already said you don’t want me to let you win.” He tosses the puck onto the ice between us.
“Good.” I surge forward to slap it out of reach of his stick, shouldering him for good measure.
“I’m never going to be ready for game day if you keep babying me.
” I shoot him a wink over my shoulder and go after the puck, getting myself low to reduce wind resistance and increase my speed as I chase it down the ice.
I can hear the glide and slice of his skates against the ice a few paces behind me. Not bad for someone who likely hasn’t played any hockey in at least a decade. Obviously, I’m going to whoop his ass, but it won’t be any fun if he doesn’t put up a good fight.