Chapter 7 Todd
SEVEN
TODD
What the fuck did I just do?
I stumble back from him like I touched a live wire, breath coming hard, heart pounding behind my ribs like it’s trying to break out.
My gloves and stick are forgotten on the ice.
I can still feel the drag of his hoodie in my fists, the sharp inhale he took right before our mouths crashed together.
His rough stubble dragging over my chin. God, what did I do?
I kissed him.
The words hammer through my skull as I skate faster, like I can outrun what just happened. As though I didn’t just lose every ounce of control and kiss Logan fucking Brooks against the boards like I’ve been thinking about doing since the second he swaggered back into my life.
My chest heaves. My legs burn. I don’t stop.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
I skate another lap—maybe two—trying to shake the way his lips felt against mine. Too hot. Too real. Too much. My heart’s still pounding, and my mouth still tingles, and my brain won’t shut the hell up.
I kissed him.
I kissed him.
And he kissed me back. That’s the worst part. He didn’t shove me off. He grabbed me. Made a sound I’ve never heard from him before—low and so goddamn raw, as if he wanted it just as bad as I did. And he’s been waiting for me to snap.
Fuck.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to scrub the memory away, but it won’t budge. It’s etched in. The way he tasted. The way he looked at me right before I skated off. All wide-eyed and speechless like I knocked the air out of him.
He liked it.
I groan, low and pained, dragging my hands down my face.
What if he tells someone?
What if he doesn’t?
What if he wants to do it again?
Nope. No. I’m not going there. I can’t. I’ve worked too hard to keep this part of me locked down. Hidden. Out of sight, out of reach. I can’t afford to let it out now—especially not for him.
He’s cocky. Chaotic. Dangerous in ways I don’t even have words for. He’s not safe like the guys on Prism. He’s not anonymous.
I need to be anonymous.
It’s safer that way. Cleaner. Easier to pretend I’m just another straight guy chasing the NHL dream, with nothing for the media—or my father—to sink their teeth into.
Logan? He’s the opposite of anonymous.
He’s loud, he’s bold, he draws eyes without even trying.
He walks into a room and people look. He smirks, and they lean closer.
If I let myself want him—if I let anyone see that I already do—then I’m not just another promising player anymore.
I’m the gay captain. The queer prospect.
The label slapped on every stat line, every scouting report, every fucking headline.
Shaw comes out in final season—how will it affect his draft stock?
Queer captain leads Saxton toward Nationals—too much distraction?
I’ve seen how it happens. Doesn’t matter how many goals I score or games I win. It won’t be about the numbers anymore. It’ll be about that.
And I can’t take that risk.
Even if Eli and Daniel are out and thriving. Even if the guys on the team haven’t flinched. Even if Coach clearly doesn’t give a damn who you sleep with, as long as you show up and play like hell.
That fear still sits in my gut, coiled tight.
Maybe because it’s mine. Maybe because my dad never said anything outright, but the jokes still hit sideways.
The throwaway comments about “rainbow parades” on ESPN or “too much attention-seeking” when another athlete came out.
Nothing hateful—just offhanded, careless stuff.
Enough to teach me early how to keep my mouth shut.
How to laugh along. How to nod and stay invisible.
So no. I can’t crack. Not for Logan. Not for a stupid kiss in the shadows that has my body still buzzing like I touched a live wire.
God, I kissed him.
Or—fuck. He kissed me back.
And I liked it. I more than liked it. I lost my damn mind for a second. Gave in to everything I’ve been bottling up for years, and now it’s sloshing too close to the surface.
I need to get it together.
Burn it out. Scrub it from my system.
I need a distraction—fast, easy, faceless. The kind that doesn’t talk back or smirk like they know all my secrets. Someone from Prism. Someone who won’t ask questions.
Just one night to forget how it felt to press Logan Brooks into the boards and taste every fucking thing I’ve been afraid of wanting.
I shove my hoodie on over my damp shirt, ignoring the sting of sweat cooling against my spine. I don’t look in the mirror before I leave the locker room. I already know I won’t like what I see.
I’m not going to break.
Not again.
I shove the door open with my shoulder and toss my stick into the corner like it burned me. Peter barely glances up from his laptop, legs sprawled across his bed, headphones halfway around his neck. He’s halfway through some lecture notes or maybe a fantasy football draft—hard to tell with him.
“Late night,” he says around a yawn.
“Extra practice.” It’s the only answer I give since Logan and I have had to run extra drills.
Peter shrugs. “Cool. I’m crashing early. Gotta lift in the morning.”
“Yeah. Night.”
He clears off his bed and flops onto his side, turning off the lamp on his side of the room, leaving mine still glowing. I sit down on my bed and grab my phone, scrolling out of habit, but I already know where I’m headed.
Prism.
The app loads quickly.
The home screen is full of familiar profiles—guys I’ve seen before, ones I’ve talked to and ghosted. Some are shirtless. Some are smiling. Most aren’t what I need right now.
I scroll past the bios that mention love languages and brunch. Past the ones that say “masc only” or “not into athletes.” Past the ones that are too soft, too eager, too something.
I don’t want open.
My thumb pauses on a new profile. No face pic—just a cropped torso, shot low. Defined abs, a tight V-line, and a dark happy trail disappearing under low-slung sweatpants. It’s anonymous. Clean. Easy.
The bio is even better:
SlowBurn69
Not looking for anything serious.
DL-friendly.
Discreet.
Perfect. He’s only about a mile from the campus. Which probably means he isn’t a college student, less chance of me knowing them or them knowing me.
Peter snores lightly from across the room, completely unaware that I’m about to make the worst kind of decision—the kind that feels necessary anyway. I don’t do hook-ups like this a lot, because there is always a risk of being outed.
I click the message icon before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: You free tonight? Discreet. Just need a quick one.
I stare at the screen for a beat. My heart’s pounding way too fast for how normal this is supposed to feel.
But all I can see is Logan’s mouth.
All I can feel is that kiss.
And I need it gone.
Now.
A new message flashes back almost immediately.
SlowBurn69: Not tonight in person. But I can get you off with my words. If you’re interested.
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. I should say no. Log off. Do anything but this, especially with Peter sleeping four feet from me.
Instead—
Me: Okay. Just… tell me what to do.
This is safer. He can’t see me through the phone, and I know my picture doesn’t give me away.
SlowBurn69: That’s a good boy.
Take your hand and run it down over your stomach.
Slow. I want you to feel everything.
I glance across the room. Peter’s snoring softly, completely unaware. I shift under the blanket, heart hammering, and do exactly what he says.
SlowBurn69: Now slide under your waistband. Wrap your fingers around your cock and don’t move.
Tell me how it feels.
Me: Hard. Too hard.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened to me earlier.
SlowBurn69: Yeah? What happened earlier?
I hesitate. Then type.
Me: I did something stupid, and I need it gone.
SlowBurn69: Yeah? What stupid thing did you do that made you hard just thinking about it?
Me: Don’t really want to talk about it either.
My phone goes dark while I wait for his reply, and I almost think he’s not going to reply, but then my phone vibrates with a notification. I unlock the phone to see it.
SlowBurn69: Then I’ll help you replace it.
Squeeze a little harder. Just enough to remind yourself who you belong to tonight.
My eyes flutter shut. I do what he says, and the jolt that follows makes my whole body tense.
Logan from the showers the other day flashes inside my head.
And it mixes and blends with the profile picture of this guy, until I’m so hard it’s painful.
With a bitten-off groan, I crack my eyes open to read the next message when my phone vibrates.
SlowBurn69: Now stroke once.
Slow. From base to tip. I want you dripping for me. I want to taste that sweet pre-cum.
Me: Fuck.
SlowBurn69: That’s it. You gonna be a good boy and come for me, or do I need to work for it?
Me: Work for it.
I arch into my hand and stroke myself slowly, even though every part of me wants to just jack off and come to the image of Logan that is firmly behind my eyelids. Fuck this might be better than meeting in person. Why have I never tried sexting before?
SlowBurn69: Damn right.
If I had you here, I’d push you down onto your knees, grab a fistful of your shirt, and hold you still while I fucked your mouth.
No teasing. No warm-up.
Just my cock down your throat until you forget how to think.
You’d like that wouldn’t you?
I squeeze tighter and bite back a moan, heat crawling up my neck.
SlowBurn69: You’d moan around me, wouldn’t you?
Let me use your mouth until you’re desperate for more. Then I’d pull out and make you thank me before I let you jerk off again.
Me: Jesus.
SlowBurn69: You still touching yourself?
Me: Yeah. Fuck. This is… a lot.
SlowBurn69: You can stop.
Or you can let go. Close your eyes and imagine me pushing you up against the wall. My hand between your thighs, running up your crack.
Whispering how fucking pretty you’ll be when you take my cock.
Me: I’m close.
SlowBurn69: Then come for me. Now. Be a good boy and make a mess.
I bite my lip, stifling the sound that threatens to break free. My hips jerk, pleasure crashing over me like a wave I didn’t see coming. My muscles lock up, every nerve firing at once—and then I’m done.
Breathless. Spent. Staring at the screen like it’s the only thing holding me together.
Me: That was… Yeah. Thanks.
SlowBurn69: You’re welcome. I’m free again Friday…if you’d like to take it further.
Fuck. Yeah. If he can make me feel like this with just his words, I know he would be a great distraction in person.
Me: Yeah. Send the address. And… tell me what you’ll do to me when I get there.
There’s a pause. A beat that makes my pulse start to climb all over again.
SlowBurn69: You’ll see.
But here’s a hint… I don’t just want you on your knees this time. I want you on your back, legs spread, begging me to keep going even after you come.
I throw my phone face down on the bed and drag a pillow over my head.
Fuck.
Friday can’t come fast enough.