12. Jon
CHAPTER 12
JON
I’d expected Drake’s apartment to be one of those small one-bedroom loft things. It wasn’t that at all. He had three bedrooms on the top two floors of a building downtown that had been renovated and converted from offices or storage or something. The exterior walls were brick, the floors old wood, and everything had a clean look to it. Stainless steel appliances. Lots of reds and yellows, with hints of blues. It probably looked spectacular in the sunlight, given the big windows.
I didn’t get much of a tour. Instead, he pressed me up against the island in the kitchen and kissed me insistently. Between sharp nips, he muttered, “Thank you. For coming to my game.”
“Beat watching it on TV. You were only an hour away, and it’s easy enough to get a last-minute ticket, so here I am.”
He pulled back, and fingered the access badge I still had around my neck. “And this?”
“Oh, that? Someone from PR texted me during the game, asked me where I was. They came and gave this to me. Also told me where the spouses and partners usually sit and that I should call them next time I need a ticket.” I tugged him closer for another kiss.
“Wait, they saw you, somehow? Knew you were there?”
Oh. I felt my face heat. “Uh, you haven’t checked social media, have you? Because, yeah. Everyone knows I was there, now .”
There was a cute look of absolute panic on his face, then he whipped out his phone. “Where?”
“Instagram.”
I knew what he’d find, since he’d been tagged in the photo, too. One of the photographers at the game had caught the moment when he’d tossed the puck to me, and there we were, both laughing with the sign I’d made. Those things get uploaded to a site, and the team pretty much has access to all the photos as the game went on, so of course they’d posted a comment:
An Otter and a Dragon??
The comments had blown up under that. Most of them were nice, or cute. Some were homophobic, because some people are awful. But everyone now knew there was something between us.
“Wow,” Drake said. “Guess we’re out, huh?” Then he placed his phone upside down on the kitchen island and tugged me away. “Let me give you the tour of my bedroom.”
I let him pull me through the living room to the stairs. “Am I going to see any of it, or is ‘bedroom tour’ a euphemism for ‘face into the mattress?’”
His grin was wicked, and I shivered in delight.
I did catch a tiny glimpse of his bedroom (another brick wall, some kind of painting of a beach, and light-colored furniture) before we were making out again, and his hands were tugging at the hem of my sweatshirt. “Get these clothes off so I can show you my bedspread.”
Didn’t take long to strip, and before I knew it, I was on my hands and knees on said bedspread. Not that I noticed much, not with Drake stroking my cock and tonguing my hole. It was all I could do to have any coherent thoughts. I curled fingers into the cloth and moaned his name. “Gonna make me come like that.”
“Nuh uh.” He gave my ass a soft slap and fondled my balls. “I want my dick nice in deep inside you when you do. Want your ass milking every last drop out of me.”
I bit my lip and shuddered because oh my God, imagining that had me about to shoot my load. “Better make it soon.”
Of course, he took his time. I was beginning to think he had an edging kink—or he just liked to hear me beg and whine and beg some more, because he had me babbling and pleading for him to fuck me already for what felt like an hour. I could barely hold myself up on my elbows, and my throat was raw from moaning.
“I love the way you sound. The way you look,” he said. “All strung out. Because of me. For me. You’re so damn beautiful, and I get to turn you into this whenever you want.”
“ Please , Drake.”
“Patience.”
“Don’t have any. You’ve used it all up. I’m the most—” He slid two fingers inside me. “Oh God.”
“There you go.”
He didn’t need to finger-fuck me. Hell, he probably didn’t need much lube. I was more than ready for him. I’d have told him that, if I could’ve produced more than grunts and whimpers .
“Fucking perfect,” he said.
So was his dick finally pressing into me and his grip on my hips as he drove himself deeper and faster inside until we—and the bed—were rocking with every thrust. Felt so damn good. “Best birthday,” I whispered.
Drake answered by thrusting deep and holding himself there. “I want to do this every year. Fuck you at the beginning and at the end.”
I squirmed around him, wanting more of him, wanting this to never end—but needing so desperately to come. “ Please !”
He gave me what I asked for, moving again, hard and with purpose while I worked my cock.
“Yeah, that’s it, Jon. You’re so fucking tight. Come on—do it. Come for me.”
I did, with a moan that was mostly breath. Jizz coated my fingers and his bedspread while he pounded into me, hitting me just right to keep the pleasure going and going.
“Fuck,” he moaned. “Oh God.” Then he was burying himself as deep as he could, and we collapsed together onto his bed.
After we caught our breath, he whispered in my ear, “How’d you like the bedroom tour?”
I huffed. “It’s a lovely bedspread. Let’s visit it more often.”
He vibrated with laughter.
Over the next couple weeks, Drake and I got into a routine of seeing each other when our schedules aligned, which was more often than I’d thought it might be. Yes, there were road trips that took one or the other or both of us out of town, but there were also days off, or non-game days when we got together. Sometimes, I’d drive to Pittsburgh and hang out with the Lions partners and spouses while watching Drake play. Several times, Drake came to Greensburg to watch me and the Otters. He got to know Ebba pretty well.
Hell, he dragged some of the bar patrons to games, too. Or maybe they took him—hard to tell. I do know that he managed to make it to the Otters Pride game, and the pool queens took it upon themselves to dress him for the occasion.
Those legs in fishnets? Oh my God, that would live in the fantasy file in my mental filing cabinet for a long time. And yes, I saved a whole bunch of photos.
The best part, though, was that we finally had our dinner date. And it was absolutely uneventful.
One of his days off coincided with a non-game day for me, so after practice, I drove to his apartment. We’d ended up playing tourist in town—going shopping in the Strip District, then checking out the Warhol Museum before ultimately having dinner at one of the various restaurants in the city. This one, an Argentinean grill, was down the street from his place. Drake had snagged a reservation earlier in the day, and miracle of miracles, there were no crises, no phone calls, no asteroids falling out of the sky and obliterating the East Coast. Nothing. We walked into the place, got seated upstairs, and had a great meal.
“So,” he said, leaning back and gesturing around him. “This count as a date?”
“This is most definitely a date,” I said. “Want to split dessert?”
After we ate that, he came over, sat on my lap, and we took several couples selfies, including one of him kissing me on the cheek. Those went onto Instagram.
An actual date. Had only taken a couple months.
Whenever he came to my place, the cats mobbed him. Come to think of it, whenever he came to the bar, the regulars mobbed him, too. I didn’t blame anyone—Drake was spectacular and fun to be with, now that he’d found his game.
His scoring touch was certainly back. On the Lions he was maintaining more than a point per game pace since his return. Lots of stories in the press about him rekindling his love of the game with the Otters, and he’d even penned a thank-you note to the fans in Greensburg.
I didn’t mind sharing him with fans—he was pretty much recognized anywhere we went in Pittsburgh, and more people were talking about me, albeit as Gunner Eriksson’s kid or Drake’s boyfriend. Or both.
During the All-Star break, I was very grateful we were able to steal away down to Sanibel Island. Neither of us had made our respective league’s team, mostly because that decision had been made for the NAPH during Drake’s slump.
He didn’t care. A long weekend at the beach, in the warm and sun went a long way to chasing away the wintertime blues, and it was just nice to spend time with each other that didn’t involve hockey. We ate, swam, relaxed, and read to each other. Honestly, couples goals, I guess.
I kind of kept waiting for the other shoe to drop—you hear so much about a relationship’s honeymoon period, before the friction sets in and you start squabbling at each other or something—but that didn’t happen.
“Did you and Papa ever fight when you were dating,” I asked my mother one afternoon in March.
Her tone turned concerned. “Are you and Drake having problems?”
“No. Everything’s fine. We’re good and happy. I think I’m more in love with him every time we see each other. I’m trying to figure out if that’s normal—there’s no handbook to look this stuff up in, and I’ve never been here before. Does that feeling…ever stop?”
She’d laughed at that. “If you’re asking me if I still look at your father and feel wonder that this man is with me, of all people—I do. If you’re asking me if we ever have our differences—well, you know we do. Not often, but you’ve seen us disagree.”
I had. Didn’t happen often, but sometimes they’d get into intense discussions about something and be on opposite sides. “I don’t know if I’d call that fighting, though…”
“Jon, the most important things in a relationship are love and communication. If you and Drake have that, none of your disagreements will seem like fights, either.”
Maybe that was true. Everything was so good and his felt sustainable. Drake was happy. I was happy. What more did we need?
The future would take care of itself, I supposed.
This game. This fucking game. I punched the top of the boards in front of me at the bench, and for once was glad Drake wasn’t here to watch me play. We’d been winning three-two when the other team had pulled their goalie and managed to tie things up with a minute-three to go.
We were this close to snapping our four-game losing streak. And now, not only did we have to hold on to prevent them from scoring again, the game was likely going into overtime. Which we hadn’t been all that great at, lately.
I knew seasons had their ups and downs, but I was getting pretty damn tired of this set of downs. The Otters were better than this current slump. A lot of fans said that we were missing our Dragon, and yeah, we could’ve used him, but even without Drake on the ice, we’d been winning games. Alfie had really stepped up, scoring seemingly every game.
But the past week and a half—all our luck had dried up.
Well, not all. As the seconds counted down, we did well to keep the puck out of our end. Even got some really good scoring chances—but no dice on a goal.
Well, overtime it was, then.
Mac and his assistants huddled us during the break to clean the ice. The first three out were Lou, Hardy, and Bike. They won the faceoff and got into the offensive zone. Even got a few shots off before the other team stole the puck. They didn’t get much time in our end, though, before we reclaimed it.
Our shift changes were good, and after another three guys went out, it was my turn, along with Bruda and Alfie. A little bit of a risk going with three forwards, but I guess Mac trusted how I saw the ice. Hopefully that confidence wouldn’t come back to bite us.
For a while, there were no chances. The other team’s guys had been out longer, and as we circled, I saw one of their guys hedging toward the benches. I think Alfie figured it out, too, because he dropped back while I crept forward. The instant their guy headed off, Alfie had the puck to me, and I was heading toward their goalie, as fast as I could go. My wheels had never been that great, but they were good enough that I deked their defenseman, faked a forehand shot, and backhanded the puck bar down into the net.
I pumped my arms up in celebration—and then I was upended. Tripped. Stick, foot, I don’t know how. All I knew was that time hung still, and I realized just how off-balance I was and how close the boards were. Fuck. Fuck!
Then everything happened in an instant. The impact. The pain. The shock. I was on my back on the ice. The goal horn was going off, the crowd was screaming, and Alfie looked scared shitless. Pale.
“Jon? Jonny? Hey no, don’t move.”
Fuck. Oh god. My arm. There was something very wrong with my arm. A sickly feeling grew in my body, and I knew tears were pricking at my eyes. Above me, Cal, our athletic trainer, appeared. “Jonny, you okay?”
“No.” My voice felt far away. “Arm.”
“Do you need a stretcher?”
Fuck, no. This was bad enough. “I think I can get up.”
It hurt like hell, even not using my right arm, but I got myself onto my knees and was able to skate off. (Of course it was my dominant arm. Goddamn it.)
After that—well—stuff got blurry. Mostly because everything fucking hurt. The team doctor and the arena EMTs met me and hauled me into the medical room. We managed to get my gear off, and they gave me a battery of commands. My fingers still worked, so that was good, but I didn’t want to move my arm at all, and the pain was creeping up my neck. “There’s something really wrong,” I kept saying, and they made noises about sending me to the hospital and some other chatter. They did end up getting a catheter into my good arm. “Hey, we’re going to get you some fluids and something for the pain, okay?”
That sounded great. Because I kind of wanted to chop my bad arm off.
Somewhere along the line, Mac appeared. “We’ve contacted your father?—”
“Oh God, no?—”
“Shut up, Jonny. He’s your contact, so we contacted him.”
Fuck. “Don’t tell Drake. He’ll worry and?—”
“Yeah, because him learning from the press during his after-game media scrum is the best way for him to find out.”
Okay, no, that was worse. I twisted my face.
“They’ll let him know. You’re on your way to Pittsburgh, anyway.”
What? “Why?”
“Because,” our doctor chimed in, “your shoulder is broken. You’ll likely need surgery, and the facilities there are some of the best in the world.”
Right. Right. The pain wasn’t receding like I thought, but I kind of didn’t care anymore. “Great. Can you turn my brain off?”
He gave a half-chuckle, did something with the tube running to my arm, my vision went wonky, and then I was gone.