CHAPTER 23
MATEO
HOCKEY PRACTICE IS a fucking spectacle.
I'm perched in the stands of the Wolves practice facility, supposedly reading my Anthropological Methods textbook, but who am I kidding? For the past twenty minutes, my eyes haven't left Groover's ass as he flies across the ice, executing maneuvers that seem physically impossible for someone his size.
There's something hypnotic about the way he moves—power and precision wrapped in grace, like a predator that's learned to dance. The scrape of skates against ice, the thunderous crash of bodies against boards, the sharp crack of stick meeting puck—it's primitive and elegant all at once.
And it's doing unmentionable things to my libido.
Three days. It's been three days since Groover introduced my dick to his throat like they were long-lost soulmates finally reunited. Three days of replaying every wet, hot second in excruciating detail. Three days of waking up hard as concrete from dreams so filthy they'd make a porn director blush.
Three days of wondering what it would be like to return the favor.
On the ice, Groover wins a puck battle in the corner. He fires a pass across the ice that lands perfectly on a teammate's stick, leading to a shot that makes Wall throw himself sideways like he's auditioning for a dramatic death scene.
The team erupts in cheers and stick taps against the ice. Even Coach Martin looks grudgingly impressed, which from what I've gathered is like getting a five-star review from Gordon Ramsay.
"Not bad, Williams!" Coach barks. "If you played like that during games, we might actually win the division!"
Groover just grins, helmet pushed back on his head, face flushed from exertion. When he skates past the boards near where I'm sitting, our eyes meet briefly, and the wink he throws my way makes my stomach flip like I'm fourteen with my first crush.
Pathetic? Absolutely. Can I help it? Not even slightly.
Practice wraps up with some conditioning drills that look like medieval torture disguised as hockey training. The players race from blue line to blue line until their legs shake, then drop to do push-ups on the ice, then race again. By the end, even Becker—who never seems to tire of anything except serious conversation—is hunched over, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
Coach blows the whistle one final time. "Hit the showers! Team meeting in thirty."
The players file off the ice, exhaustion evident in their heavy strides. Groover is among the last to leave, exchanging words with Washington before skating toward the exit.
I gather my books, pretending I've actually accomplished any studying, and head toward the lower level. My heart is pounding like I'm the one who just did wind sprints, but not from exercise—from what I'm about to do.
You see, I have a plan. A plan that formed somewhere between yesterday's anthropology lecture (during which I drew disturbingly detailed diagrams of male anatomy in the margins of my notes) and last night's explicit research session (which left my browser history in need of federal witness protection).
I'm going to surprise Groover. After everyone else leaves, of course—I'm adventurous, not suicidal. And then I'm going to drop to my knees and show him exactly what a dedicated academic can accomplish with proper research and enthusiasm.
Assuming I don't chicken out. Or pass out. Or throw up from nerves. All distinct possibilities at this point.
I take the stairs down to the locker room level, finding a bench in the corridor where I can wait without looking like a complete stalker. I pull out my phone, pretending to check messages while actually counting down the minutes, rehearsing what I'll say when I see him.
Hey, thought I'd surprise you . No, too casual.
I can't stop thinking about what you did to me . Too desperate.
Your cock. My mouth. Now . Way too porn-dialogue.
Jesus Christ, am I actually this bad at seduction? My dating history suggests yes, but I was hoping for some kind of evolutionary leap forward after having my brain liquefied by the best orgasm of my life.
I'm so deep in my spiral of overthinking that I don't notice the locker room door opening until players start streaming out. I slouch lower on the bench, suddenly very interested in my phone screen as they pass. A few nod in recognition, but most are focused on getting to the team meeting.
Becker spots me and does a theatrical double-take. "Well, well, well! If it isn't Professor Boyfriend, lurking in the hallways." He plops down next to me, still damp from the shower, smelling like expensive body wash. "What brings you to our humble hockey dungeon?"
"Just waiting for Groover," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to guilty.
Becker's eyes narrow, a grin spreading across his face. "Waiting for Groover... in the empty corridor... when everyone's supposed to be at a team meeting." He nods slowly. "I see. Well, as a completely unrelated piece of information, Coach always talks to Groover last about strategy. And as another totally unconnected fact, the equipment manager is off today, so no one will be coming back to the locker room for at least an hour."
My face heats to approximately the temperature of the sun's surface. "I don't know what you're implying."
"Of course not," Becker agrees, standing with a wink. "And I definitely won't tell Coach that Groover is helping you with an urgent, um, anthropological emergency that might make him late to the meeting."
Before I can respond, he's sauntering down the hallway, whistling what sounds suspiciously like "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye.
Great. So subtle.
I check my watch. If Becker is right—and I can't believe I'm taking relationship advice from a man who once tried to microwave a whole watermelon on a dare—I have about ten seconds to make up my mind. Ten second to either bolster my courage or talk myself out of this entirely.
The universe decides for me when the locker room door swings open again and the object of my increasingly filthy thoughts walks out, hair damp from the shower, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He stops short when he sees me, surprise quickly morphing into pleasure.
"Hey," he says, dropping onto the bench beside me. "I thought you had a morning class?"
"Professor canceled," I reply, which is actually true, though I would have skipped it anyway. "Thought I'd surprise you."
He leans in, voice dropping to a register that makes my spine tingle. "Consider me very pleasantly surprised."
A group of facility staff walk past, forcing us to lean apart. Groover checks his watch and frowns. "I've got a team meeting in five. Rain check on whatever you had planned?"
This is it. Decision time. I can nod and reschedule, preserving my dignity and my nerves. Or I can...
"I need to show you something," I blurt out, standing abruptly. "In the locker room. It'll just take a minute."
His eyebrows shoot up, but he follows as I grab his wrist and pull him back through the door he just exited. The locker room is empty now, smelling of soap and sweat and whatever industrial-strength cleaner they use on the stalls. I lead him to the back corner, where his locker—number 17, now adorned with a small anthropology textbook sticker I gave him as a joke—stands open.
"Mateo, what—"
I silence him by crowding into his space, backing him against the lockers. His eyes widen as I press against him, my hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders.
"I can't stop thinking about what you did to me," I admit, the words falling out in a rush. So much for avoiding desperation. "The other night. It's all I can think about. All I can focus on."
His expression softens, big hands coming to rest on my hips. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. And I want... I want to return the favor." I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the heat rushing to my face. "Right now."
"Here? Now ? Shit. I need to—"
"Becker's covering for you," I say, which is probably true. "Says you're helping me with an urgent anthropological emergency."
A laugh escapes him. "Of course he is. Look, Mateo, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," I interrupt, fingers digging into his shoulders. "I want to. I've been thinking about it for days. Researching. Planning." I lean in, lips brushing his ear. "I want to know what you taste like."
His sharp intake of breath is all the encouragement I need. I drop to my knees on the locker room floor, the surface hard but not painful through my jeans. Looking up at him from this position—his eyes dark and intense, lips parted in surprise—sends a thrill through me I never expected.
"Fuck," he breathes, one hand moving to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip. "You have no idea how hot you look right now."
I lean into his touch, turning to nip at his thumb. "Guide me through it?" I ask, hands already reaching for his belt. "I want to make it good for you."
"Anything you do will be good," he assures me, but I see the need in his eyes, the way his breathing has accelerated. "But I'll help."
My fingers shake slightly as I undo his belt, then the button of his jeans, then the zipper. Each metallic rasp of teeth separating sends another jolt of anticipation through me. When I hook my fingers in his waistband, he helps by lifting his hips away from the lockers.
I tug his jeans and boxer briefs down in one motion, and his cock springs free, already half-hard. The sight of him—thick and flushed, growing harder by the second under my gaze—makes my mouth water in a Pavlovian response I didn't know I was capable of.
"Start slow," he says, voice husky as he watches me. "Just get used to the feel of it first."
I wrap my hand around him, feeling him harden further in my grip. The skin is impossibly soft over rigid hardness, hot and silky against my palm. I stroke him experimentally, remembering what he showed me last time, the twist of wrist at the top that made his breath catch.
"Just like that," he encourages, one hand coming to rest lightly on the back of my head. "Get me fully hard before you use your mouth."
I follow his instructions, working him with steady strokes until he's fully erect, thick and straining in my hand. A bead of liquid forms at the tip, and without overthinking it, I lean forward and lick it away.
The taste is not what I expected—slightly salty, not unpleasant. But Groover's reaction is what captures my attention. His whole body jerks, a strangled sound escaping his throat, fingers tightening reflexively in my hair.
"Okay?" I check, looking up at him.
"More than okay," he rasps, pupils blown wide. "Just... sensitive there."
Emboldened, I lean in again, this time licking a deliberate stripe from base to tip. The groan that tears from his throat seems to echo in the empty locker room, encouraging me to do it again.
And again.
"Use your lips too," he instructs, voice tight with restraint. "Take just the head in your mouth."
I follow his guidance, wrapping my lips around the swollen head of his cock, applying gentle suction. The weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my lips around his girth, is foreign but not unpleasant. When I swirl my tongue experimentally around the ridge, his hips buck slightly, a curse falling from his lips.
"Sorry," he gasps, immediately stilling. "Didn't mean to—"
I pull off with a wet pop that echoes off the walls. "It's okay. I like knowing I affect you." I wrap my hand around the base again, steadying him. "Tell me what else you like."
"Take as much as feels comfortable," he says, watching me with an intensity that makes my own neglected cock throb. "Use your hand for the rest. And—fuck—use your tongue while you do it."
I dive back in with newfound determination, taking him deeper this time, my hand working what I can't fit in my mouth. It's messier than I anticipated, saliva gathering as I try to coordinate my hand, lips, and tongue into some semblance of rhythm.
"That's it," he encourages, fingers threading through my hair, guiding me gently. "Perfect. God, you look so fucking good like this."
The praise sends a unexpected jolt of pleasure straight to my groin. I moan around him, the vibration pulling an answering groan from deep in his chest.
"You like that?" he asks, voice sharp with realization. "You like being told how good you are?"
I can't exactly nod with my mouth full, but the flush heating my cheeks must give me away.
"You're amazing," he continues, voice dropping lower, rougher. "So fucking beautiful on your knees for me. Taking my cock so fucking well."
Each word makes me redouble my efforts, taking him deeper, working him faster, desperate to earn more of that velvet-rough voice. I discover I can breathe through my nose if I concentrate, allowing me to maintain suction without having to pull off for air.
"Natural fucking talent," he groans, head falling back against the lockers with a dull thud. "Christ, Mateo, your mouth..."
I'm not sure when it happens, but at some point I'm no longer consciously thinking about technique or breathing or the mechanics of what I'm doing. I'm simply lost in the experience—the weight of him on my tongue, the sounds he's making, the thrilling power of reducing this mountain of a man to trembling need with just my mouth.
His guidance grows less verbal and more physical—small tugs of my hair to control depth, tiny movements of his hips that I learn to anticipate. When I hollow my cheeks and suck harder on an upstroke, the broken sound he makes sends a surge of pride through me so intense it's almost physical.
"Getting close," he warns, tugging at my hair. "You don't have to—you can use your hand—"
I ignore him, doubling down on my efforts. I want to taste him. Want to feel him come apart completely because of me. I grab his hip with my free hand, fingers digging into muscle, keeping him in place as I work him faster, deeper.
"Fuck—Mateo—I'm—" His words disintegrate into a groan as his body goes rigid, the hand in my hair tightening to the edge of pain.
The first pulse catches me by surprise—hot and salty against the back of my tongue. I manage not to choke, swallowing reflexively as he continues to come, his whole body shuddering with each wave. I stay with him through it, gentling my movements as the pulses subside, only pulling off when he tugs at my hair again, oversensitivity clear in the action.
I sit back on my heels, looking up at him—at his flushed face, his chest heaving with labored breaths, his expression slack with satisfaction. His eyes crack open, finding mine with dazed intensity.
"C'mere," he says, voice wrecked as he reaches for me.
I let him pull me to my feet, stifling a groan as my own neglected arousal makes itself known. He kisses me deeply, seemingly unconcerned about tasting himself on my tongue. When he breaks away, he presses his forehead against mine.
"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head. "I don't even have words."
"Good?" I prompt, needing the verbal confirmation even though his reaction made it pretty clear.
"Fucking incredible," he assures me, hand sliding down to cup the bulge in my jeans. "Now let me take care of you."
I buck into his touch, embarrassingly close just from the experience of getting him off. "Team meeting," I remind him reluctantly.
"Fuck the meeting," he growls, spinning us so I'm the one pressed against the lockers. He drops to his knees, a mirror image of my earlier position. "This won't take long. Not with how hard you are."
He's right. It doesn't take long at all. Less than two minutes later, I'm biting my fist to stifle the sounds as he coaxes an intense orgasm from me with the same mouth that just praised me to the heights of ecstasy.
Afterward, as we hastily clean up and straighten our clothes, I can't help the smug satisfaction curling in my chest. I did that. I reduced Ansel Williams to trembling need, to incoherent pleas, to complete surrender.
And from the way he keeps looking at me—eyes dark with lingering heat, a private smile playing at the corners of his mouth—I'd say I passed my first practical exam with flying colors.
"Might actually have to thank Becker," Groover muses as he shoulders his bag again, preparing to face his no-doubt annoyed coach.
"For what? Being nosy?"
"For giving me an unexpected oral evaluation," he says with a straight face that breaks into a laugh when I shove his shoulder.
"That was terrible," I inform him, but I'm laughing too.
"You love it," he counters, dropping a quick kiss on my lips before heading for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle. "Just so you know," he adds, voice suddenly serious, "that was worth being late to every meeting for the rest of my career."
As declarations go, it's not exactly poetry. But as I watch him jog down the corridor toward his waiting team, I can't help thinking it might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me.