CHAPTER 21
ACE
THE PUCK'S COMING at me a bit too fast, but Groover's pass is perfect, landing right on my tape like he knew exactly where I'd be before I did.
Three seconds left on the clock.
Two Seattle defenders closing in.
One chance.
I don't think. Thinking's what got me in trouble all practice last week. I just move, muscles firing on instinct, stick coming back, weight shifting. Then I release.
The puck flies.
The goalie drops.
The puck sails over his glove, top shelf, and hits the back of the net just as the buzzer sounds.
The arena explodes.
My teammates are on me before I can fully process what happened, piling on in a tangle of sweaty bodies and pads and sticks, everyone screaming. Groover gets there first, practically tackling me, followed by Wall, then Petrov, then everyone else.
"THAT'S MY BOY!" Becker's yelling directly in my ear.
"In Russia, we call this shot 'the kiss of death,'" Petrov announces.
"You just made that up," Groover says, still wrapped around me.
"Maybe. But sounds good, yes?"
***
THE LOCKER ROOM is mayhem—the good kind. Music blasting, guys singing off-key, someone's spraying water bottles like it’s champagne, like we just won the Cup instead of a regular season game in December.
"That was beautiful," Wall says, toweling off his hair. "Pure poetry."
"Pure luck," I counter, peeling off my jersey, which is soaked through with sweat.
"Luck?" Wall throws a wet towel at my head. "That was skill, baby!"
"Also my perfect pass," Groover adds.
"Your pass was adequate," Becker says.
"Adequate? ADEQUATE?"
They're off, bickering like children, and I escape to the showers before I get dragged into it.
By the time I'm dressed and heading out, the adrenaline's starting to fade, replaced by the sweet kind of exhaustion, the one that comes from leaving everything on the ice.
***
THE HOTEL ROOM is perfectly bland—beige walls, generic art, standard-issue furniture, a bed that's too soft. But it's quiet and private, and right now that's all I need.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes, and I'm pulling out my phone to text Devon, just when it starts ringing.
His name lights up the screen, and that stupid heart-flip thing happens again. Like he knew I was thinking about him. Like I summoned him telepathically.
I answer, trying not to sound too eager. "Hey."
"Hey yourself, superstar." His voice is warm and teasing, and I can hear the smile in it. "How's Seattle?"
"Wet. Cold. The usual Pacific Northwest experience."
"Sounds miserable."
"It's not so bad. We won, so."
"Oh, I know you won. I watched."
I grin, plopping down on the edge of the bed. "Oh, you did?"
"Yep. First game I've ever watched. I'm no longer a hockey virgin." There's rustling on his end, like he's moving around. "Leila invited me over. She said I needed to understand the sport if I'm going to keep hanging around you idiots."
Something warm settles in my chest. "And? Did you understand it?"
"Fuck no. There's a lot of rules. And violence. So much violence." He pauses. "But Leila explained some stuff. Like that thing in the second period where you absolutely demolished that guy into the boards? She actually clapped."
I laugh, my mind drifting back to the rink. The Seattle forward had been running his mouth at Petrov all game, getting increasingly creative with his insults. "He was trash-talking Petrov."
"So you decided to rearrange his skeletal system?"
"It's called protecting your teammate."
"I call it assault."
"That's hockey."
Devon's quiet for a second, and when he speaks again, his voice has somehow gone softer and rougher at the same time. "Actually, you know what? Fuck the game."
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, the goal was great. Very impressive. Game-winning heroics and all that." He pauses, and I can practically hear his grin. "But do you have any idea how hot you look on the ice?"
And now I'm grinning. "Do I now?"
"It's such a weird feeling, watching you on TV. Seeing you do all that athletic shit, knowing that I've had your dick in my mouth."
Heat floods through me, blood rushing south so fast I get lightheaded. "Devon."
He continues. "It felt like having a dirty little secret. Like I knew something nobody else did." His voice has gone even lower now. "Made me feel special."
"You are special." The words come out of me automatically. "So, good or bad?"
"What?"
"The feeling. Of watching me on TV. Good weird or bad weird?"
"Oh." He laughs, and there's something dark in it. "Awesome weird. The best kind of weird. Made me horny as fuck, if I'm being honest."
My jeans are suddenly extremely uncomfortable. I shift on the bed, trying to adjust, and my cock throbs in protest. "Fuck. You can't just—you can't say shit like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because I'm in Seattle. In a hotel room. Alone."
"So?"
"So, you can't just turn me on when you're not around to take care of it."
"Oh, but I can." His voice is pure sin now, dripping with suggestion. "You underestimate me, Mr. Jackson."
My mouth goes dry. "What are you—"
"Hold on."
There's rustling, some fumbling sounds, and then my phone vibrates with a video call request.
I stare at it for a moment, then hit accept.
Devon's face fills the screen. He's lying in bed, propped up on pillows, wearing a t-shirt that's riding up slightly to show a sliver of his stomach. His hair is messy, sticking up in all directions, making him look even cuter than usual.
"Hi," he says, grinning.
"Hi."
"Miss me?"
"Maybe."
"Just maybe?" He shifts slightly, and the camera angle changes, showing more of his torso. "That's disappointing."
I swallow, my grip tightening on the phone. "What are you doing, exactly?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" His free hand slowly slides down his chest, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his sweats. "I'm thinking about you. About that goal. About how fucking hot you looked."
I just stare, because this is turning into torture.
"About how I couldn't look away from the screen, imagining all those muscles moving under your uniform." His hand dips lower, palming himself through his sweats. "Got me all worked up."
Jesus Christ.
"You're—" I stop, not sure what I'm trying to say. My brain's offline, all blood diverted elsewhere.
"I'm what?" he teases, clearly enjoying my struggle. "Horny? Yeah. Your fault."
"How is it my fault?"
"You scored that goal. You looked hot doing it. Therefore: your fault." His logic is flawless and completely insane. "Now take off your shirt."
"What?"
"You heard me. Take off your shirt. I showed you mine." He tugs at his own shirt for emphasis. "Now show me yours."
Fair's fair, I guess.
I prop the phone up on the nightstand, angling it so he can see me, and pull my shirt over my head. The hotel room's cold against my skin, but I barely notice.
Devon makes this satisfied sound, low in his throat. "Much better. Now lie down."
"You're bossy, you know that?"
"You love it."
I do. I really fucking do.
I settle back against the pillows, phone in hand again, and Devon's eyes are roaming over what he can see of me on screen.
"You're so fucking hot," he breathes. His hand is moving over himself now, slow and deliberate through the fabric of his sweats. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
I let out a sharp exhale. "Tell me."
"I can't stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your mouth. Your cock." Shy this man is not. "About that night in your bed. About what I want to do next time."
"What do you want to do next time?"
"Everything." He grins, wicked and filthy. "But right now? Right now I want you to see what you do to me."
He angles the camera down, giving me a view of his whole body stretched out on his bed. His hand is still moving over the obvious bulge in his sweats, and I can see the outline of his cock, hard and straining against the fabric.
Then he slides his hand under the waistband.
I watch, completely transfixed, as his fingers wrap around what I know is his cock, and he starts stroking himself. I can't see it, but I can see the movement of his hand, the rhythm he's setting, the way his hips shift slightly.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"Your turn."
My hand moves to my jeans almost on instinct, popping the button, dragging down the zipper. I'm already half-hard, getting harder by the second, and when I palm myself through my boxers, Devon makes this desperate sound.
"That's it. Touch yourself. I want to watch."
I do, pressing my palm against my cock, feeling it swell and throb under my touch. It's nowhere near enough, but the anticipation is its own kind of pleasure.
"You're being shy," Devon says, and there's a taunt in his voice. "Don't be shy with me."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're still dressed." He pulls his hand out of his sweats, and even though I can't see his cock yet, I notice how flushed he is, how his chest is rising and falling with quick breaths. "Come on, Ace. Show me."
Something about the way he says my name, rough and needy and commanding all at once, breaks whatever remaining hesitation I have.
I lift my hips and push my jeans and boxers down, freeing my cock. It springs up, hard and leaking, and Devon's eyes go wide.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "I forgot how big you are."
"You had it in your mouth three days ago."
"Really? Feels like longer." His hand disappears back into his sweats. "Take them off. All the way. I want to see all of you."
I do, awkwardly, trying to hold the phone steady while stripping. Once I'm naked, I settle back against the pillows, cock hard and flushed against my stomach.
Devon's staring, and the intensity of his gaze through the screen makes me feel exposed.
"Perfect," he says. "Now touch yourself. I want to watch you stroke that perfect cock."
I wrap my hand around myself, and the contact after all that anticipation makes me gasp. I stroke myself slowly, base to tip, feeling the weight of my cock in my palm, the way it throbs with my pulse.
"That's it," Devon breathes. "Just like that."