Chapter 14
Sasha
My ceiling has a crack in it that looks like a hockey stick.
I’ve been staring at it for forty-five minutes.
My dorm room is dark except for the parking lot light slicing through the blinds, I can still feel Aaron Kelly’s hands in my hair from Sunday under the bleachers, and I am lying here replaying every shift of that disaster of a game like a man who enjoys suffering.
The third period alone makes me want to throw my phone at the wall.
I had three clean looks and buried none of them.
Aaron had the puck on a two-on-one in the second period and shot instead of passing to me — shot high, hit the crossbar, and I watched from the slot with my stick on the ice and my mouth open like an idiot.
Coach pulled us both aside after and said, “You two are supposed to be the best line in the conference. Figure it out.”
We didn’t figure it out. We figured out how to lose 4-1 to a team we should have beaten by three.
My phone is on my chest. It’s 1:47 AM. Aaron is not terribly far away at the house with his roommates Cooper and Robertson, probably lying in his bed doing the exact same thing I’m doing — staring at the ceiling, running the game, making himself miserable.
I wonder what his room looks like. I should be there. In his bed. My face in his neck, his hand in my hair, his voice low and annoyed, telling me all the things I did wrong tonight while I tell him all the things he did wrong, and then we stop talking about hockey and start doing something better.
Instead I’m in a twin bed in a dorm room that has never had Aaron Kelly in it.
I pick up my phone and text him.
Me: That was the worst game I’ve ever played in my life. I want you to know that.
The reply comes in under thirty seconds. He’s awake.
Aaron: It wasn’t your worst game. Your worst game was the exhibition against Northeastern last year when you fell at center ice.
Me: I did not fall. I hit a rut.
Aaron: You fell. On your ass. At center ice. During warmups. I have it on video.
Me: Delete that video.
Aaron: Never.
I grin at the ceiling. Even pissed off and twenty minutes away, he makes me smile.
Me: We need to talk about the second period. The two-on-one. I was wide open in the slot.
Aaron: Here we go.
Me: I was WIDE OPEN, Aaron. My stick was on the ice. I was waving at you like I was trying to flag down a taxi in Manhattan.
Aaron: I had the shot.
Me: You had the crossbar. There’s a difference.
Aaron: The shot was there. I was trying to go bar-down.
Me: Bar-down only works if the puck goes IN the net. If it hits the bar and bounces out, that’s not bar-down. That’s bar-up. That’s missing.
Aaron: It was two inches high.
Me: Two inches is the difference between a goal and a loss, Aaron Kelly. Two inches is the difference between you being a hero and me lying in my bed wanting to strangle my own right winger.
A pause. Then: Aaron: You want to strangle me?
Me: Among other things.
Another pause. Longer this time. I watch the screen. The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Aaron: What other things?
My cock twitches against my thigh. Just like that — one text, three words, and my body decides we’re done talking about hockey.
Me: Are you sure you want to know? It’s almost two in the morning. You have an early skate tomorrow. Very irresponsible to stay up late.
Aaron: Since when do you care about being responsible?
Me: I don’t. I’m giving you an out. In case you want to go back to arguing about the two-on-one.
Aaron: I don’t want to argue about the two-on-one.
Me: Then what do you want to argue about?
His reply takes a minute. I watch the dots pulse.
He’s typing. Deleting. Typing again. I’ve never seen his room — never been to the house on Maple Street.
I wonder what his bed looks like, whether he’s on his back with the phone held above his face, his thumbs hovering, his jaw working while he decides how brave he’s going to be tonight.
Aaron: I don’t want to argue. I want you to tell me what you’d do if you were here.
My hand slides down my stomach. Not touching yet. Just resting there, low, below my navel, feeling my own pulse.
Me: If I were there, I would not be talking about hockey.
Aaron: Obviously.
Me: I would have my hands on you. You played like shit tonight and you’re probably very tense.
Your shoulders get tight when you’re frustrated — I’ve seen it.
I’d work the knots out. Slowly. My thumbs on the back of your neck, pressing hard.
You’d make that sound you make when something hurts in a good way.
Aaron: I don’t make a sound.
Me: You absolutely make a sound. It’s somewhere between a groan and a sigh and it makes me hard every time.
Aaron: Sasha.
Me: It does. I’m being honest. You groan and my cock goes from zero to problem in about two seconds. It’s very inconvenient during post-game stretches.
Aaron: Oh my god. Are you serious? During STRETCHES?
Me: You bend over to touch your toes and your shorts ride up and I have to think about English grammar to keep my situation under control. Verb conjugations. Very effective.
Aaron: I can’t believe you just told me that.
Me: You asked what I’d do if I were there. I’m building the scene. Be patient.
Aaron: You’re building the scene? This isn’t a movie.
Me: It’s better than a movie. In a movie I can’t tell you that I’m already hard just from texting you about a two-on-one.
No reply for ten seconds. Fifteen.
Aaron: Are you really?
I shove my waistband down. My cock springs free, thick and aching, and I wrap my hand around myself and squeeze.
Me: So hard it hurts. I’ve been like this since you texted me about the crossbar. Apparently my dick thinks you being angry is foreplay.
Aaron: Your dick has terrible judgment.
Me: My dick has excellent judgment. It picked you.
Aaron: That’s the worst line I’ve ever read.
Me: And yet you haven’t stopped texting me. Your turn, Aaron Kelly. Tell me what you’re doing right now.
The dots pulse for a long time. Twenty seconds. Thirty. I stroke myself slowly, waiting, the phone screen bright in the dark room.
Aaron: I’m in bed. The house is quiet. Cooper’s asleep down the hall.
Me: And?
Another long pause. Then: Aaron: And I’m touching myself. I started when you said the thing about the stretches.
My hand tightens. My hips push up off the mattress.
Me: What are you wearing?
Aaron: Really? We’re doing that?
Me: Humor me.
Aaron: Boxers. That’s it.
A grin spreads across my face.
Me: Take them off.
Aaron: They’re already off. I took them off when I started. I wasn’t going to tell you that but apparently I have no self-control at 2 AM.
I laugh into the dark room. My hand keeps moving — slow, tight, spreading the wetness that’s already gathering at the tip.
Me: I love that you have no self-control at 2 AM. Tell me what you’re thinking about.
Aaron: You. Obviously.
Me: Be more specific.
Aaron: Your hands. The way they feel on me. In the green room before the interview — your hand on my cock and your voice in my ear telling me to practice my trash talk. I think about that constantly. It’s a problem.
My cock throbs in my grip. The green room. His head tipped back, his body shaking, biting down on his palm to stay quiet.
Me: What else?
Aaron: Your mouth. I keep thinking about — the hotel in New York. Going down on you. How you sounded when I figured out what you liked.
Me: You figured it out very fast. For someone with no experience you were disturbingly good at it.
Aaron: Is that a compliment?
Me: It’s a fact. You made me come so hard I said something in Russian I’m not going to translate.
Aaron: I remember. I’ve been trying to look it up. Google translate doesn’t have a good answer for whatever you said.
Me: Don’t look it up. It’s embarrassing.
Aaron: More embarrassing than what we’re doing right now?
Me: Fair point.
I’m stroking faster now. The phone is propped on my chest, his words glowing in the dark, and every text is making the heat coil tighter at the base of my spine.
Me: Your turn. Tell me what you’d do to me right now if you were in this bed.
The dots pulse. Stop. Pulse again. I can feel him working up to it — the people pleaser, the good boy, the guy who says please and sir and blushes when he swears. Deciding to be brave.
Aaron: I’d get on top of you. I’d pin your hands above your head because you always try to take over and I want to be in charge for once.
My breath catches. My cock jerks in my hand.
Me: Keep going.
Aaron: I’d kiss your neck. That spot behind your ear where you’re sensitive. And I’d grind against you — slow, not letting you rush it. I know you’d try to rush it. You’re impatient.
Me: I’m not imaptient
I stare at my screen. I just sent a typo. I’m so turned on I can’t type.
Aaron: You just misspelled impatient. I’m winning.
“I didn’t realize this was a competition,” I mutter to the ceiling, “but apparently it is.”
Me: You’re not winning. My hands are busy.
Aaron: Both of them?
Me: One is on my cock and the other is trying to type and neither is doing a great job right now because of you.
Aaron: Good.
I can hear the smugness through the screen. The same smugness from the hotel in New York when he looked up at me with my cock in his mouth and said you’re shaking.
Aaron: I’d wrap my hand around both of us. Press our cocks together and stroke us at the same time. I’ve been thinking about what that would feel like — you against me, both of us slick, my hand barely big enough for both.
My hips snap up. Precome drips over my fingers and I spread it down my shaft, my grip tightening, my breathing ragged in the quiet room.
Me: Aaron. Fuck.
Aaron: Too much?
Me: Don’t you dare stop.
Aaron: I’d go faster. You’d be leaking all over my hand — you get so wet, Sasha, I noticed that the first time, how much you drip when you’re turned on, it’s —
Then a second text: Aaron: I can’t believe I’m typing this.
Then a third: Aaron: I’m not stopping.
Me: Don’t stop. Tell me.
Aaron: I’d stroke us together until you couldn’t think. Until you were moaning my name. And then I’d let go of you and slide down and put my mouth on you. Take you deep. I’ve been practicing in my head — I know I can take more of you now. I want to feel you hit the back of my throat.
My brain goes blank for a second. My hand is moving fast, slick, the wet sounds loud in the silent room. I’m close. I’ve been close since he said I’d pin your hands above your head and everything since then has been pushing me toward the edge.
Me: I’m close. One-handed. Sloppy. Aaron — I’m so close
Aaron: Me too. I’ve been close for a while. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d make fun of me.
Me: I would never make fun of you for coming fast. I would add it to my stats.
Aaron: I hate you.
Me: Come with me. Right now.
Aaron: Sasha —
Me: Think about my mouth. Think about me swallowing every drop of you. Come for me, Aaron Kelly.
I come. Hard — my back sinking into the twin bed, my cock pulsing in my grip, spilling hot over my stomach and fingers. I bite down on my arm to keep the sound in and my hips jerk through it, wave after wave, his name in my teeth.
The phone buzzes against my chest.
Aaron: Fuck. Fuck. That was — I just —
Then: Aaron: I made a mess.
Then: Aaron: I can’t feel my legs.
I’m lying there panting, come cooling on my stomach, grinning so hard my face aches.
Me: How was that?
Aaron: You know how it was. Don’t fish for compliments.
Me: I’m not fishing. I’m conducting a post-game review. Performance evaluation. You were very creative tonight, Aaron Kelly. The pinning-my-hands thing was new.
Aaron: Shut up.
Me: The thing about taking me deep was also very good. Very detailed. I gave it a 9.2.
Aaron: A 9.2? What did I lose points for?
Me: The typo.
Aaron: YOU made the typo. You misspelled impatient.
I laugh out loud in my dark room. “So unfair, Aaron. In my second language. Let’s see how you would do in Russian…”
Me: That was your fault. My hands were busy because of you.
Aaron: I’m going to bed.
Me: Wait.
Aaron: What?
I lie there. The parking lot light makes its orange stripe across the floor. My narrow bed that fits one person and maybe, if we pressed close, could fit two.
Me: I wish you were here. Not for the sex. I mean yes for the sex. But also just — here. In this stupid twin bed. I’d rather be arguing about the two-on-one with you next to me than alone.
The dots pulse. A long time.
Aaron: Me too. I was lying here after the game thinking about what you said on the bleachers. About waking up together. I want that.
Me: I want that too.
Aaron: We’ll figure it out.
Me: I know. You’ll make a game plan. You make a game plan for everything.
Aaron: Is that a complaint?
Me: It’s the opposite of a complaint. Goodnight, Aaron Kelly. Delete this entire conversation or I will use it as blackmail.
Aaron: Already deleting. This never happened.
Me: It definitely happened. I have the evidence on my stomach.
Aaron: GOODNIGHT, SASHA.
“Goodnight, Aaron,” I say to the empty room.
I put the phone on the nightstand and clean myself up with the t-shirt I was wearing earlier. The room settles back to silence. The window is cracked. The air is cold and smells like wet leaves.
Aaron Kelly is twenty minutes away in a house I can’t go to, in a bed I can’t climb into, and we just lost our season opener by three goals.
But he’s there. And he wants what I want.
I set my alarm, close my eyes, and fall asleep smiling.