Chapter 9
Lars
I can’t stop stealing glances at Dylon across the couch with a controller in his hand. His backward cap plasters his hair to his forehead, and it almost reaches his eyes. He’s due for a haircut, but not until we lose a game.
Memories of earlier in the car consume me. I saw the car screech to a halt in front of us, and my subconscious played out the crash in slow motion. In my mind, I saw him go through the windshield of the piece of shit I rented. My body reacts to the vivid visual trauma of seeing him broken in an accident as if it’s real and brings back the night I rode with him in the ambulance, bloody and near death. I cannot shake it.
There should be relief that the crash never happened, but I’m on edge, waiting for fate to step in and tear him from me. I wonder if it’s karma for once again falling for my straight best friend. My heart should know better.
“Gotcha.” Dylon throws the controller down in victory, and I realize I’ve been staring at the screen but not seeing it. “You look like you need a dessert to cheer you up.”
“I ate an entire week’s worth of sugar at Patrik’s. If I eat more, I’ll be sluggish all week. And although I told you to get a haircut, I will not throw the game so you’ll do it,” I say, motioning to the TV. Tonight, I am recklessly teasing him.
“You don’t like my flow?” He takes his hat off and shakes his head so his hair swishes.
Oh, I like it, but I won’t think about that.
“You should grow the back out.” He ruffles my hair, and it feels out of place on my head. “All the girls will be knocking down our door to get their hands in it and claim bragging rights as the one who messed it all up.”
“You do a good job of it.” The words are out, and I didn’t mean he wants his hands in my hair, but I don’t correct myself.
His hazel eyes sparkle right before he pounces and tangles his fingers through my hair so it sticks up in all directions. He’s straddling my chest and smug about his handiwork.
“You should see yourself.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and turns on the camera app for me. “The perfect Lars Drakenberg, a disheveled mess.” He cackles and puts a hand to his mouth as if shocked. “What will people say?”
“People will think my derelict roommate attacked me for the sole purpose of defiling me.” My words have more than one meaning. The reckless side refuses to submit to reason.
“Oooo derelict and defile. Did an app translate that, or did you look them up in the dictionary?” He’s bouncing on his knees, and there’s no way to hide my erection in my sweatpants.
“They’re on the back of your kiddie cereal box.” I raise an eyebrow to rile him up. He says I know more English words than he does and that’s a crime, but the American education system is not my business.
“Now you’re hitting below the belt.” He crosses his arms, and his biceps bulge under his T-shirt. I’m not the only one using words with a sexual connotation.
“It would be life-changing if I hit you there.” My words sound measured and bored, but my heart is tripping over itself, beating so fast.
Dylon’s eyes widen, and he scrambles off me with a laugh and grabs the throw blanket off the couch. “Not ready for that.”
His words should not disappoint me. We were not actually talking about sex or anything sexual. We were playing around. But insecurity skates across my skin with the loss of his body on mine .
Dylon hops up but keeps the blanket over him until the last second. “I’ll get some sports drinks. What flavor do you want?”
“The usual.” It takes extreme effort to coordinate my brain and muscles so I can sit like a person on the edge of the couch. Part of me wants to lie there and fantasize about Dylon on top of me and all the things I’d let him do.
“How about a movie?” He hands me my drink and sits on the cushion next to me instead of the other side. He looks at me from under his lashes, and I nod, not exactly sure what I am agreeing to because, in this light, the gold flecks shimmer like stars in his eyes.
He breaks eye contact to pick up the remote and scrolls, stopping on a sports channel. “How about the highlights instead?”
I am afraid my voice will give away the longing I have for him, so I nod again. He settles back, and our shoulders brush each other.
“Sorry,” he apologizes after his arm bumps me.
“Not to worry,” I say, and my elbow gently connects with his arm as I take a drink. Constant contact will break me so I switch my drink to my left hand and rest it on the arm of the couch. He’s careful about where he sits while eating and drinking since he’s lefthanded. This is the first time I’ve seen him forget that.
The TV’s on and I’m facing the screen, but I can’t hear what the sports analysts are saying. It’s all static, and the picture is a blur. The only thing on my mind is Dylon’s body centimeters away.
“I’m tired. Practice was brutal today.” His head melts into the cushion.
“Coach wants us too tired to fight.” I sip my drink.
“Probably.” He yawns.
On the way home, we discussed Richardson’s negative assessment of our teammates and his announcement he deserves to be on the starting line. When Ace voiced our concerns about the team dynamic, Coach brushed it off and basically said “Toughen up. You’re hockey players.” That ended the conversation.
I turn my body to talk to Dylon about it, but he’s asleep.
His long lashes fan over his cheeks, and his mouth hangs slightly open. I gently remove his sports drink from his hand and take it to the kitchen .
If I were smart, I’d wake him up and tell him to go to bed. But my repressed desire for him clouds my judgment, and I sit next to him with our shoulders gently touching each other. It’s barely noticeable, except all of me craves more.
There’s an urge to plaster us together from our feet to our heads. I don’t move, barely breathing, only soaking in his nearness. There is no way for me to stop staring at him. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The way his hair covers half of his ears and has the imprint of his cap like a crown.
Suddenly his head bobs, and he tilts to the side until his head’s on my shoulder and his breath tickles my arm.
Selfishly, I want more nights like this. The two of us joking around and leaning on each other.
In the tiniest corner of my heart blooms the hope that he could return my feelings. But that wouldn’t be in our best interest. We’re teammates, linemates. They would break us apart, and that would hurt the team.
But looking down at his sleeping face, all those reasons seem trivial.
Dylon
My pillow smells extra good, but it’s hard and I rub my face to get comfortable. When I pitch forward and open my eyes, I’m in Lars’s lap—face so close to his dick.
“Shit, fuck, sorry.” I launch myself on the floor, hit his feet, and roll to my side in shame and pain.
“That was extreme,” Lars deadpans.
“Why didn’t you push me off?” Out of habit, I try to straighten my cap, but it’s not on my head.
“You need your sleep, and I didn’t mind until you snored louder than a chainsaw.” He smiles, and damn, my stomach explodes with butterflies.
“I do not snore.” I search for my hat, but my gaze snags on Lars’s crotch. He’s hard. My head was in his lap, and he’s hard. I repeat it to myself again in disbelief. But the most likely explanation is incidental contact. Dicks don’t know the sex of a head.
Lars continues to grin, and I’m unsure what to do. He’s sleepy and relaxed and won’t take his eyes off me. I’ve been half hard all night, and seeing his bulge triggers my dick to rise like an inflatable Santa before Christmas.
Gray sweatpants were a poor choice. They accentuate my cock instead of hiding it. Fuck my life. Lars will never let me hear the end of it. I know it won’t upset him, but it’s embarrassing. But what can I say? Hey, sorry, I stuck my face in your lap and popped a boner. Happens between all best bros, am I right? Never in this lifetime will I say those words out loud.
No witty remark saves me. And when I glance at Lars, his erection is tenting his sweats as well. In my head, I make lots of snarky comments about jacking off together, but it’s not a joke.
I really want that. See him in the flesh and hard for me. See what his face looks like when he comes.
Fuck, I could come from the thought and roll myself into a ball. “Cramp.” I grab my leg and hold it to my chest.
Lars stands and his dick sways with the motion. I lick my lips. He turns away and says over his shoulder, “I’ll get you some heat for it.”
“Thanks.” And so he won’t see me, I crawl down the hall and dive into my bed, pulling the covers up right before Lars enters with a heating pad—and no boner.
He hands it over but doesn’t speak or leave.
“You’re a lifesaver.” My voice is higher than usual from stress, but hopefully he assumes it’s the pain from a cramp.
“Call if you need anything. I’m in the next room. I can be here in a second.” He tentatively lifts his hand and brushes the hair out of my eyes.
“Thanks.” My voice cracks like a teenager’s. If my long hair is the reason he touches me, I’ll never cut it again.
He leaves and shuts my door. My lungs expel all the air from my body, and I reach into my sweats for some relief. I should get lube, but I have no patience. My dick’s furious and needs to come. He’s been patiently waiting for me to get some action, but he’s done with that.
I squeeze it and let out a moan. These walls aren’t thin, and I’m not quiet. Shoving my joggers down to my knees, I clamp my lips together to keep the sound in.
My usual spank-bank image of a celebrity doesn’t do it. A bunch of images float through my mind as my hand picks up speed. I hear a noise from Lars’s room and recall the sight of him sprawled out on the couch with a hard-on. It hurls me over the edge like I’ve been shot out of a cannon with no warning. My body curls in on itself as my muscles shake until I’m empty and flop back on the bed.
I might be hearing things, but I swear there’s a low groan on his side of the wall. It can’t be true because his bed is across the room.
In my wildest dreams, I watch him do it from the other side of his bed and then my hand takes over, jacking him until he spills into it.