Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CALLAN
I’m not sure how grilling and old movies at Diego’s place became a weekly thing, but I’ll take it.
After salmon and The Mighty Ducks the first week, I came over with pork chops last week and he put The Goonies on.
This week I have a beer in one hand and a couple of chicken breasts on the grill, and my mouth isn’t the only one watering from the smell of the orange marinade AJ gave me the recipe for.
Who knew the guy could cook? When he was giving me the recipe, Slater butted in to tell me that he slathered them in apple butter when he was out of orange marmalade and it still worked out fine, but going by the horrified look on AJ’s face I decided to stick with his instructions and skip any substitutions.
Slapshot whines and a droplet of his drool lands on my bare foot.
“I know it smells good, but we’ve gotta keep our fluids contained, bro.” I laugh and wipe my foot off on his fur.
“Are you wiping drool on my dog?” Diego asks as he steps out onto the patio.
“It’s his drool.” I shrug. “What movie did you pick tonight?”
“The original Karate Kid.”
“Nice. Tell me you tried catching a fly with chopsticks after you watched it as a kid?” I ask, and we both laugh.
“Of course I did. Never manage to sit still long enough though.” He chuckles again, and I nod in solidarity.
“Same. I think I tried it for, like, two minutes, got bored, and went looking for someone to stork kick instead.” We both laugh again, then Diego crowds up close to me from behind to get a look over my shoulder at the grill.
His hot breath dances along my bare shoulder, and I’m tempted to lean back just an inch to feel his body press up against mine for a few seconds.
Surprisingly, I don’t end up having to. He puts one hand on my hip, and his body makes contact with mine in a way that’s casual and fucking maddening at the same time.
He’s been doing this a lot since we hooked up at the ice rink—touching me, getting close to me, teasing the hell out of me without making it clear whether he’s trying to tease me or if he just can’t seem to help himself.
“I think that one needs to be flipped.” He reaches around me to point at one of the chicken breasts.
It’s obviously just an excuse he made up after he started getting handsy with me, because my grilling skills are top-fucking-notch, thank you very much. We could call up Gordon Ramsay right now and I have no doubt that he would agree with the extra sixty seconds I wait to flip the meat.
“If you know your way around a piece of grilled meat so well, why don’t we have a grill-off?” I suggest with a smirk, fighting the urge to protest when he shifts his weight away from me and goes to lean against the railing.
“Is there anything you can’t turn into a competition?” He shakes his head like that’s some kind of character flaw.
“If you’re scared I’ll grill circles around you, just say that. It’s okay, being a grill master isn’t the measure of a man.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Diego chuckles again. “Fine, we can have a grill-off.”
“Hell yeah.” I fist-pump. “We’re going to need unbiased judges though. We can’t just judge each other.”
“Alright, we’ll invite the guys over. I’ve been dying to show off my home gym anyway to impress them.” He smirks.
“Wow, and here I thought I was special, getting exclusive access to all that equipment,” I purr.
Just like I was hoping, a light blush creeps into his cheeks, and he reaches down casually to adjust his cock.
“Tell you what, they can look but they can’t touch.” A flirty smile stretches across his lips.
Fuck, what is he doing to me?
I know he’s just keeping up with the bit, but I wish it was true that I was the only person allowed to touch him.
I’m in full-blown crush territory at this point, and it’s a struggle to keep reminding myself that this is nothing but a fun, horny distraction for him right now when he feels like his life might be falling apart.
Even if he does decide he’s bi or whatever else, that doesn’t mean he’s going to want anything serious with me.
Been there, done that, have the damn t-shirt.
“Why’d your face get all scrunched up and sour all the sudden?” he asks. “You don’t want the guys over here?”
I shake it off and force a neutral expression onto my face.
“No, that sounds cool. Isn’t there anyone you want to have over though? Teammates or friends?”
It’s probably a stupid question considering how eager he was for the two of us to become instant besties, but it’s the only thing I can think to ask while half my thoughts are still stuck on shit I shouldn’t bother getting myself worked up over.
“Nah, not this time,” he mutters, then he pushes himself off of the railing and hovers right behind me again. “Okay, they’re definitely done.”
I swat him playfully with the spatula. “Get the hell out of my kitchen.”
“It’s my patio and my grill.”
I arch an eyebrow and flip the spatula threateningly.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, burn the chicken if that’s how you like it. I’m going to go grab us some plates.”
“You’re going to be eating those words when you taste the most perfectly cooked chicken you’ve ever had,” I call after him as he heads back inside.
“We’ll see.”
DIEGO
The chicken is great, but Callan is too much fun to fuck with, so I ignore the way he keeps glancing over at me, waiting for me to admit that I was wrong, and pretend I’m too focused on the movie to notice.
“Well?” he asks when he finally gets tired of waiting.
“Well, what?” I lick some of the tangy orange sauce off of my fingers.
His eyes follow to the motion of my tongue and his expression smolders with an unmistakable heat.
Huh, I guess he’s not as worried about me stroking his ego about the chicken now that he’s thinking about me stroking other things.
Memories of the sounds he made and the feeling of his hard body up against mine jump right to the front of my mind, and that’s all the encouragement my cock needs to start to swell.
I shift in my seat and lean forward to set my plate on the coffee table.
My fingers are clean now, but I go ahead and make extra sure by licking them again one by one, nice and slowly.
A quiet, needy moan slips from between Callan’s lips.
He puts his plate down too, his food mostly finished, and shifts a few inches closer to me.
He’s trying to play it cool, casually stretching his arms out over the back of the couch and spreading his legs a little bit like he’s making himself comfortable.
Even if he could play it cool after that moan, the thick, stiff bulge in his shorts would be a dead giveaway.
He’s obviously waiting for me to make the first move though, to be the one to nudge things from a couple of bros just hanging out to the other thing.
The sexy thing. The trying-not-to-think-too-hard-about-it thing. The can’t-stop-thinking-about-it thing.
Instead of nervous fluttering in my gut this time, there’s just the electric thrill of knowing that all I have to do is ask and we’ll both be naked. We’ll stop pretending our dicks aren’t hard, and everything will just be easy and fun for a while.
“You know, my hip has been feeling a little tight. I still have the stuff you gave me; maybe we can go into my bedroom and you can give me another massage.” I know I don’t have to play coy, but it’s kind of fun.
He arches an eyebrow at me, seeing right through my ruse. Is he going to call me on it or play along? It doesn’t matter. This is leading to the same place either way. Us sweaty, breathless, and covered in each other’s cum.
My cock jerks eagerly as Callan leans closer, bringing his hand up to my face and slowly dragging his thumb along the stubbled edge of my jaw.
“A massage in your bedroom? That’s highly unprofessional, Fergie.” He tsks, smirking, his nose bumping against mine and his hot breath fluttering over my lips.
“Even if I need it really, really badly, Coach?” I don’t try to hide the husky desperation in my voice. That feeling of power when I held Callan’s cock in my hand was such a turn-on for me, and something tells me it excites him just as much to know I want it, want this… whatever it is.
He rumbles a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a moan and his lips inch closer to mine. Is he going to kiss me? Fuck, I think I want him to. Maybe.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I jump back in surprise.
“Shit. Sorry.” I chuckle, pulling it out so I can ignore the call. My thumb hovers over the button though and my heart thunders, all the heat in my veins suddenly turning to ice. “Shit,” I mutter again.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s my coach.” I stand up from the couch and hit the button to accept the call, squeezing my phone hard to keep myself from shaking. “Hey, Coach Gregors, what can I do for you?”
“Ferguson, glad I caught you. I wanted to set a meeting to sit down with you next week. What’s your schedule like?”
My lungs shrivel and my heart somehow beats even faster. It’s fine, he probably just wants to check in on how my rehab is going. But why can’t he just ask? Why does he need a face-to-face for that? Shit, shit, shit. The rumors were true. I really am going to get traded.
Callan’s hand lands on my back right between my shoulder blades, a gentle reminder to breathe. I suck in a breath, hoping to hell that Coach can’t hear that I’m having a fucking panic attack just because he asked for a meeting.
“Sure thing, Coach. My schedule is flexible, just tell me when you want me,” I manage to say in a relatively normal voice.
“Great. Come by the arena Monday at nine.”
“You got it. I’ll see you then.”
I end the call and my phone slips through my numb fingers to thud against the floor right at my feet. I don’t even bother bending down to make sure the screen didn’t crack again. Who cares?
“Everything okay?” Callan asks, rubbing slow circles on my back.
I give a jerky nod and take another few measured breaths in an attempt to bring my heart rate back down to normal.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Coach just wants to meet next week. We’ll have to push our Monday morning session to another time.”
“No problem,” Callan says easily. “Guess you’re not in the mood for that massage anymore, huh?”
“No.”
He moves his hand away and goes to sit back on the couch. “No worries. There will be other days and other sore muscles.”
He winks at me, and I shake my head, still standing, my heart still beating just a little too fast.
“No, I mean fuck the massage. I want you to make me feel so good that this meeting is the last fucking thing on my mind.” I grab the bottom of my t-shirt and tug it over my head, dropping it on top of my phone, then start moving backward towards the hallway that leads to my bedroom. “You coming?”