Chapter 2
OLIVER
It’s been nine months since I’ve been fucked to kingdom come. Nine months of playing the supportive captain, team dad, and emotional backbone with nothing to show but my right hand glued to my cock.
Something inside me is screaming to find a guy, bend over, and let him have his wicked way with me. And that’s where Frat Guy comes in—no pun intended.
I don’t even know his name. I think it starts with a J? D? Honestly, the heat of his palm seeping through my shirt has made all nonessential information irrelevant to the task at hand.
What I do know is this: He’s about my height, maybe an inch shorter, with dark curly hair and arms that suggest he does something athletic but not obsessively so. Lacrosse, maybe. He’s from one of the fraternities down the row, and he wandered into our party with a few of his brothers.
Our conversation starts off simply enough.
He congratulates me on the win. I thank him.
He says something about my slapshot in the second period, which tells me he paid attention to the game.
Points for that. He’s close enough to me that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy that cuts through the stale beer and sweat.
“You know, I’ve been staring at your ass all night,” he says, which is bold. But nine months is nine months, and the way his breath ghosts against my ear sends a jolt straight down my spine that detonates south of my belt buckle.
“Upstairs,” I rasp.
He grins. “Lead the way, Captain.”
The walk up three flights of stairs to my room is the longest minute of my life. Every step is a negotiation between my brain—You don’t even know this guy—and my body—You haven’t been touched in months. Shut up and climb faster. My body wins by a landslide.
The second my bedroom door clicks shut, the world outside ceases to exist. No more thumping bass from downstairs.
No more muffled singing from Gerard. No more cackling from Drew.
Just the two of us and the streetlight filtering through my window, casting everything in this hazy glow that makes the whole thing out to be a fever dream.
He kisses me first, the force of it sending my shoulder blades flat against the door. His palms brand my hipbones through denim. The lingering bite of Natty Light mingles with something sweeter—Altoids, crushed between teeth not long ago—as his tongue finds mine.
My fingers climb the slope of his neck, twisting around those dark curls. I yank him forward until our belt buckles clink, the sound sharp in the half-dark of my bedroom.
That’s when I feel it against my thigh. My brain, which has been running on fumes and desperation, does some quick calculations and comes up with a number that makes me weak in the knees.
“Jesus,” I breath against his mouth.
He laughs, low and rumbly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Our clothes come off in stages. His shirt first, tossed somewhere near my desk. Then mine, which he peels off slowly, his fingers dragging along my abs in the most torturous of ways.
“Hockey players,” he murmurs, shaking his head in wonder at my body. “Un-fucking-real.”
His hands travel along the V-cut of my hips, settling on the waistband of my jeans.
He undoes the belt buckle and pops the button with one hand, tugging them down.
I kick them off, nearly tripping over my own feet.
Apparently, I can skate at thirty miles per hour on a sheet of ice, but I can’t undress without almost face-planting.
“Holy shit,” he says when I turn around.
I know exactly what has caught his attention. His hands cup both cheeks through my boxer briefs and squeeze. Hard. “I fucking knew it would be this good.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, because what other words are there for when a stranger worships your ass?
Gerard would know, but right now, I really don’t want to be searching for my teammate.
Frat Guy drops to his knees as the muffled sounds of “Mr. Brightside” bleeds through the floorboards.
He pulls my briefs down and buries his face against me.
His hands continue kneading my glutes, spreading them.
His breath is hot against my skin, and when his tongue makes contact, my forehead thunks against the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, my fingers clawing at my sides. Nearly a year of nothing but fantasy, and now there’s a tongue doing things to me that should require a license. He eats me out, alternating between broad, flat strokes and pointed, devastating flicks.
I lose track of time. Could be two minutes, could be twenty. All I know is that by the time he stands back up and turns me around, my cock is straining upward, flushed and leaking against my stomach.
“Bed. Now,” I say.
He pushes me down onto the mattress and unbuckles his belt. The jeans come off, the boxers, and—
Okay. Let me paint you a picture. You know those novelty baseball bats they sell at stadium gift shops?
The mini ones that are thick and stubby?
Imagine that but attached to a human being.
This guy’s cock is dense. Girthy in a way that has my mouth watering and my hole clenching involuntarily.
It juts out from a thatch of dark hair, heavy enough that it barely bobs.
“You good?” he asks, and to his credit, there’s genuine concern in his voice, not arrogance.
“Get a condom,” I say. I know if I stare at it too much longer, I’m going to lose my nerve. And Oliver Jacoby does not lose his nerve. I’ve stared down six-foot-four defensemen with murder in their eyes. I can take a dick.
He finds one in his wallet and rolls it on while I rummage through my nightstand for lube. I slick up his fingers and spread my legs wide, one arm thrown over my eyes, as he works me open.
The stretch is a burn that teeters on the edge of discomfort before tipping into bliss. He curls his finger just right, and my hips jerks off the mattress.
“There?” he asks.
“There,” I confirm.
The cotton sheet bunches between my white-knuckled grip. My spine curves like a drawn bow, the mattress barely touching the small of my back. Droplets of sweat track slow paths from my neck toward the hollow of my throat.
He takes his time, which I appreciate and resent in equal measure.
“I’m ready,” I pant.
“You sure? Because—”
“If you don’t get inside me in the next ten seconds, I’m going to finish this myself, and you can watch.”
He laughs again, positioning himself between my legs. The blunt head of his cock presses against me, and for one delirious second, I think, This is how I die. They’ll find my body speared by the power of his penis, and the coroner’s report will be deeply embarrassing for all parties involved.
He pushes in, and the world disappears. I hear myself make a sound I’ve never made before—a groan/whimper. My hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into muscle. He pauses, buried halfway, his forehead pressed against mine.
“You okay?”
“Keep going.”
He sinks the rest of the way in with one smooth, controlled thrust, and I cry out, “Oh, fuck me!” in the most pornographic tone imaginable.
Frat Guy is gone. Part of me appreciates the “morning-after clean exit.”
No awkward post-coital conversation about whether this means something or if we’ll do it again. We both got our rocks off—three times, but who’s counting?
I sit up and groan for a completely different reason. I, Oliver Patrick Jacoby, have been thoroughly fucked. My hips sport fingerprint bruises, my back stings from scratch marks, and I know that walking is going to be a lesson in not biting off more than I can chew.
After getting dressed, I make my way downstairs. While the living room is a mess, the kitchen has been saved from total destruction.
I turn on the Keurig—a gift from Kyle’s mom, two Christmases ago.
As the machine gurgles to life, I lean against the counter and preview the day ahead.
My shift at The Brew is in three hours, a job that I thoroughly enjoy because there, I can be a barista, not a hockey player.
The pay is decent, which helps matters. But fuck, my ass hurts.
I could call out. Say I partied too hard, which isn’t a lie. But last week, I told my manager I’d work extra shifts this summer. I’m not headed home because my parents are going on a European trip for most of it.
The thought of summer makes me smile despite my soreness. Most students flee Berkeley Shore as soon as finals are done. What’s left behind are quiet walkways, serene nights, and the kind of trouble only unsupervised college students can create.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a mug before making a second pot for the walking dead that’ll stumble downstairs eventually.
The first sip is heaven, warming me from the inside and chasing away the final cobwebs of sleep. I shift from one foot to the other, wincing as the movement sends a sharp reminder of last night’s activities radiating down to my bare feet.
Okay, decision made. I’ll go to work. Can’t let a night of spectacular sex derail my summer plans. Besides, Miranda will unequivocally roast me if I call out the day after winning the championship. She already thinks hockey players are prima donnas.
“Urghhhhh.” A zombie shuffle from the doorway announces Drew’s arrival. He’s wearing boxers and one sock, and his hair has me wondering if he stuck his finger in a socket at some point last night. “Why is the sun so loud?”
“Morning, sunshine.” I pour him a mug without being asked. “Fun night?”
“I think I made out with a traffic cone.” He accepts the coffee with an appreciative smile. “Or maybe that was Jackson wearing one of those dunce hats. Hard to tell.”
“The traffic cone would have better breath,” I offer.
Drew snorts, then immediately regrets it, clutching his head. “Fuck. How are you even vertical right now?”
Because I worked out nine months of sexual frustration in one night, I don’t say. Instead, I shrug. “Captain’s constitution.”
“Bullshit. I think you’re secretly a robot. It’s the only explanation.” He takes a long sip, then peers at me over the mug. “You disappeared pretty early.”
Here we go. I keep my expression neutral. “Yeah, needed to decompress. Big night and all.”
“Uh-huh.” Drew’s hangover hasn’t affected his ability to see through my bullshit. “Is that why you’re standing like someone shoved a hockey stick up your ass?”
“I’m standing normally,” I lie.
“Bro, your toes are gripping the floor.” His eyes narrow. “Holy shit. You got laid!”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss.
“Oliver Jacoby finally got his dick wet!” Drew crows, then winces at his own volume. “Who was it? Please tell me it was that guy from the app who’s been sending you dick pics.”
“How do you know about—never mind.” I shouldn’t be surprised that Drew knows. He knows everything, the gossipy bastard. “Yes, fine. I hooked up with someone. Can we move on?”
“Move on? Are you insane? Our captain, our fearless leader, our monk of a man, has finally rejoined the land of the sexually active. This is better than winning the championship!”
“It’s really not that big a deal,” I say, though the soreness pulsing through my body suggests otherwise.
“Nine months, Oliver. Nine months of jerking off. I was starting to think you’d taken a vow of celibacy.” Drew’s grin is far too wide for someone allegedly dying of a hangover. “Give me the dirty deets. Was he hot? Did he treat you right? Do I need to threaten anyone?”
Warmth blooms in my chest at the hint of protectiveness beneath his teasing.
“He was hot. He treated me exceptionally well. Multiple times.” I can’t help the satisfied smirk from popping up. “And he left before morning, so no threats necessary.”
“Multiple times?” Drew’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn, Cap. When you break a dry spell, you really break it.”
“What can I say? I’m an overachiever.”
Drew laughs, then sobers slightly. “For real, though, you good? Nine months is a long time, and sometimes getting back on the horse—”
“I’m good,” I interrupt, meaning it. “Sore as hell, but good.”
He nods, satisfied. “You deserve it. This year’s been insane, and you’ve been the glue holding us all together. About time you did something for yourself.”
I smile wider. “Thanks, man.”
“At least now I can stop fielding questions about whether you and Mason are secretly fucking.”
“Mason and I are not fucking. We never so much as touched dicks.”
“I know. Mason’s many things, but subtle isn’t one of them. If you two were banging, he’d have hired skywriters by now.” Drew drains his coffee and holds out the mug for more. “So, work today?”
“Yeah, in a couple hours.” I give him a refill and top off my own. “You?”
“Nothing planned until this afternoon. That gives me plenty of time to die and be resurrected.”
I shift my weight again, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my ass throb. No luck.
Drew notices. “You sure you’re good to work? I swear you’re about to keel over.”
“I’m fine. My body’s just not used to being used in such a manner. Probably need a shower and six more coffees before I’m back to normal.”
“And a cushion for your ass,” he adds helpfully.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” He’s not wrong. “Want me to wake up the others? Might as well get the hungover masses caffeinated.”
“Let them sleep a bit longer. They deserve it.”
“Fair.” Drew heads for the door, then pauses. “Hey, Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you got laid. You’ve been wound tighter than Kyle’s asshole all semester.”
“That’s…an image I didn’t need.”
“You’re welcome!” He disappears into the living room, and I hear him poking the freshmen. “Rise and shine, champions! Coffee’s ready, and Oliver finally got his back blown out!”
“DREW!”
His cackle echoes through the house as I head for the bathroom.
We won the championship. I finally ended my dry spell. And summer stretches ahead, full of possibility and guaranteed fun with my friends.
Life is good, even if my ass is not.