Breakaway

27. Hayden

Chapter 27

Hayden

Pope is nervous for the Thanksgiving party despite having a small army going with him. He takes forever before allowing me to leave the apartment ahead of them, using every excuse he can come up with. I even get treated to a small fashion show. Jules brought over a few outfits when he came to hang out and Pope decides right before I leave that it’s the perfect time to try each on. Twice.

“Don’t be nervous, brosy,” Jules tells him as I get my coat on. He ruffles Pope’s hair, making my boyfriend frown even worse. “The guys have missed you.”

Pope snorts. “Yeah, right. I’m a wreck. And an asshole.”

Before I can jump in with something comforting, Jules has it handled. “Dude, all of us have our things. Petrov eats everyone’s food and is too shitty at English to understand when we tell him not to. Last year, Wilson’s kid was teething like crazy and Wilson went an entire month where just looking at him wrong could get your head chewed off. Lafferty gets cranky sometimes, for two or three days at a time, for no reason at all—though the guys have some interesting theories. Bear plays practical jokes on people, but he’s so bad at them that they’re always just really fucking annoying instead of funny. Knut hates socializing and sneaks out of social events after an hour, sometimes even less, without saying goodbye once he’s overwhelmed enough. Did you notice he left the bar when we were out? And he won’t make it here past six, guaranteed.”

Jules shrugs. “I could go on, but you get my point. You’re on the team. You’re one of us. You fucked up training camp for reasons that are your own business. You had the flu the last few days. Who the fuck cares? Let Hayden go so we can go.”

Pope fidgets for a few more seconds before giving me a quick kiss—blushing furiously when his mom awws while Jules and his dad wolf whistle. “I’ll see you soon…”

I smile. “You will.”

It’s snowing outside, the kind of softly falling snow that makes the holiday season feel whimsical. I can already picture Pope with snowflakes in his hair as he arrives at the party. It’s a good thing I picture it ahead of time too because I’ll probably have a hard time hiding just how much I love him. He’s just so goddamn beautiful. And brave. And kissable.

So, so kissable.

Okay, focus.

I park the car on the street despite there being a space in Ian’s driveway, not wanting to risk getting blocked in. Pope is doing well for now, but there’s a chance he’ll want to make a quick exit tonight and I don’t want to make Jules leave if he does. Ian meets me at the door with a beer and a huge grin. “Did you bring green bean casserole?”

I roll my eyes. “You made it clear I wouldn’t be allowed to attend without it.”

“Your ma’s recipe?”

“Yes, yes, ma’s recipe.” I lift the two dishes stacked together in my hands, tilting my head. “Can I come in or should I drop them here?”

His eyes widen. “Don’t drop them! One of those is all mine!”

“Of course it is.” I shake my head as he leads me inside. “I should have known.”

“You really should have.”

I pass a few of the guys on my way in, all rookies eager to please. There’s a good chance they’re here early because they wanted to help set things up. Ian probably loved that. He’s not a big fan of domestic things. It’s not a masculinity thing, just an Ian-is-a-disaster thing.

It’s not until I reach the kitchen that I realize I haven’t been over to his place yet since moving here. Guilt turns in my stomach. “Nice house, man.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He nods, looking around. His lips are curved into a frown though. “Big.”

“You always wanted a big house, remember? You were going to be rich and famous with a big house and—” a big family.

His eyes find mine. I don’t have to finish. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. Lord knows he said it enough times over the years. He shrugs. “Yeah, well… it’s a nice house, anyway.”

“You just turned thirty, you know. You’re not old quite yet. You’ve got time.”

“I know.” He sighs. “If only we all had a hot hockey player who turned out not to be so straight after all, hey?”

I blink at him.

He grins. “Oh, wait. I’d be the one that was not so straight, hey?”

“I—what—you—”

“Maybe I should try it—not being straight. Maybe that’s my problem.” He tilts his head, his grin almost manic. Not angry though. Thank fucking God it’s not angry. “Think Pope has some tips?”

I don’t bother looking around, knowing he wouldn’t do this if we had an audience. I busy myself with setting up the green bean casserole instead. “I don’t think you need to be quite so dramatic yet. Maybe when you hit forty.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He opens a beer and places it in front of me. “When’d it start?”

“When’d you find out?” I counter.

He laughs. “Just now, officially. But I noticed the way you were looking at him, even after you threw that little fit about never being with a player. Then, funniest thing, he started looking at you back just the same. Kid looked like he was starving for you. I figured there was no way something wasn’t happening, especially with all those late nights at the arena with him keeping you company.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Starving, huh?”

“Oh, don’t even. You’re disgusting.”

I laugh. “It started at our last hotel stay. Well, fuck, it started way before that for both of us, I think, but he gave into what he was feeling that night.”

“Hotel tryst, huh? That’s so puck bunny of you, Hay.”

“Oh, don’t even,” I say, echoing his earlier complaint. “It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

“I’m—” I sigh before meeting his eyes and admitting, “I’m in love with him, Ian.”

His eyebrows raise. “Oh. Wow. Okay.”

“I didn’t mean to. It just—it was kind of impossible not to.”

“Does he love you back?”

Warmth blooms in my chest, a slight laugh escaping as I say, “Yeah, he does.”

“Wow. Fuck.” He nods. Then grins. “Good for you, man.”

“You’re not pissed?”

“I’m low-key pissed because I already know this is going to give me a major headache down the road, but I’m high-key happy for you guys and supportive.”

“We’re keeping it secret until his reputation is more settled, if that helps.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I am. Whatever he needs. I can tell it’s not shame or fear holding him back. He already came out to his parents and a friend.”

He smiles. “Good. I can’t help but agree, he probably should keep it on the down low until things are more settled.”

“I think so too.”

“Sooo…” He looks around, tugging at his earlobe. His voice is much lower when he asks, “I know you’re not going to tell me what it is, but I have to know… did you find out what happened at training camp?”

I roll my eyes. “ Ian .”

“Oh, come on! I won’t bother you to share, I just want to know if you know!”

“Yes. I know.”

He nods, his eyes boring into mine, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. I let him sit like that for a few seconds before snorting a laugh. “You want to ask so bad.”

“I really do.” He sighs. “But you’re too good of a guy to ever tell me.”

I glance around, checking to ensure we’re still alone. “You’ll find out soon, if that helps.”

He straightens, coming closer until his front is pressed to the island between us. “What? Really?”

“Really. Don’t bring it up, okay? Let him enjoy the holiday. He’ll talk to you tomorrow before the game.”

“I can’t decide if I’m excited to finally know the answer to the biggest mystery in the league or scared.”

“He’s not a mystery, E. He’s—” I shake my head and look down at the beer in my hands.

Ian grips my shoulder. “I’ll take care of him, Hay. He’s my player. And he’s your boy. I’ve got him, I promise.”

My eyes burn. I’ve been holding it together so well for Pope, I hadn’t realized how close I’ve been to losing it.

“Shit.” I laugh as I wipe the first tear from my cheek. “Ignore this. It’ll stop.”

“You don’t have to stop it, man. You need a minute? We can go to my room.”

“Dude, I’m taken.”

He chuckles, but his nose is wrinkled. “Please don’t ever say dude again. It’s unnatural coming from you.”

“It felt unnatural,” I agree, sniffling.

The doorbell saves me from having to talk about my feelings, though Ian hesitates. “I’m fine. Promise.”

“You better be.”

“Go away so I can check on your turkey.”

He frowns. “A guy messes up a turkey one time…”

“That turkey wasn’t messed up, it was tortured and mutilated until the fire extinguisher put it out of its misery.”

There’s no good argument against that, so he disappears around the corner. I actually do check on the turkey then. It looks surprisingly good, all golden and well-seasoned. There’s even onion and lemon stuffed inside of it. Ian must have consulted the internet this time. Or someone helped him.

Ian doesn’t return to the kitchen as the doorbell rings three times in a row, the house growing louder with each arrival. A ridiculous giddiness hits me when I hear Jules’s voice booming above the others. I have to fight the urge to go find Pope, knowing Ian will never let me live it down if I come off too eager.

Thankfully, Pope—and Jules, Lafferty, and Wilson’s oldest daughter riding on Lafferty’s back—come find me.

“Hi!” Wilson’s daughter chirps when she sees me. “We’re here to steal food!”

“Shh!!” Jules puts a finger to his lips, eyes dramatically wide. “Alyssa, you’re going to give us away!”

Alyssa’s eyes go just as wide. “Oh! Right! Soft voices, like when sissy is sleepin’!”

Jules nods. “Exactly.”

“What about’s him?” she whispers, pointing a finger at me and giving me the side-eye. “Will’s he tell’s on us?”

“He’s fun, don’t worry.” Pope flashes her a grin before turning his eyes on me and batting his lashes. “You’ll help us steal food, won’t you, Hayden?”

“Hmmm.” I wink at Alyssa before waving them closer and opening the fridge. There’s one thing Ian always goes overboard on at holidays because he wants as much leftover as he can for himself—whipped cream. I snag an oversized can—one of many—and start shaking it. “Jules, be on the lookout.”

Jules pulls some sort of move that I think is supposed to be ninja-esque but really just looks stupid as he heads to the archway entrance of the kitchen. I pop the cap off and whisper for Alyssa to open wide, then start spraying whipped cream into her mouth. Or try too. She gets the giggles and it sort of goes everywhere, including into Lafferty’s hair. She seems to get enough to be happy though.

“Me next!” Lafferty whines.

With an indulgent eye roll, I spray some into his mouth and then turn to Pope.

I don’t blush often, but the heat of his gaze is enough to have my blood rising all over the place. Rising enough to have me tilting my hips away from the eyesight of the small child nearby.

“Open wide?” Pope asks in an unfairly low, sexy voice.

Jules chokes on air over by the lookout spot.

Lafferty is thankfully too busy explaining to Alyssa why she can’t drink the tequila, no matter how pretty the bottle looks.

Taking a huge chance, I let myself touch the bottom of Pope’s chin with two fingertips of my left hand, holding it steady as I bring the can to his mouth. I don’t look away from his eyes. Now he’s the one blushing, his pale skin blooming a beautiful pink.

I spray a good amount on his tongue before leaning forward enough for my stubble to scrape across his cheek. He shivers. “Now swallow like a good boy.”

His hand grabs my hip, squeezing as he swallows.

Jules rips the can out of my hand with a frown. His cheeks are possibly pinker than Pope’s. “I’ll get mine myself, thank you.”

Pope shakes himself out of his stupor and laughs, tipping the bottom of the can up just as Jules starts to spray so it goes all over him.

“What is going on in here?” Wilson barks, his hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised. He’s clearly fighting a smirk.

Poor Jules chokes on the whipped cream he managed to get in his mouth as Alyssa squeaks and hides her face behind her hands.

“We’re innocent,” Lafferty vows. “Jules is stealing whipped cream.”

“He is, Daddy!”

Jules looks at Alyssa in complete betrayal, still struggling to breathe.

“Such mischief.” Wilson gives into his smirk. “Share some with Daddy and we won’t tell Mom, deal?”

Pope moves out of the way, his hand on my hip guiding me with him.

The chaos only grows as the night continues. There are way too many loud, drunken hockey players yelling over each other to be heard, the football game in the background. Alyssa has everyone wrapped around her little fingers within minutes of her arrival, as evidenced by the whipped cream debacle. She easily talks the players into playing mini-sticks with her, a few of them at a time. My personal favorite is when she and Kirkland go against Knut and Jules. There’s nothing better than watching Knut—the definition of a fucking giant—trying to be gentle with the adorable spitfire.

When Tara arrives with her boys, it develops into a whole game, everyone getting rowdy enough for Ian to yell at everyone to calm down. One look from Tara has him backing down though, ducking his head and stuffing cheese cubes into his mouth.

Jules was right when he warned Pope that everyone missed him. He endures a ton of noogies and side-hugs and exciting stories. His parents also get the star treatment, especially his mom who is waited on hand-and-foot most of the evening.

Jules was also right about Knut. He gives all of the kids fist bumps before sliding along the wall in a move that’s just as pathetic as Jules’s attempt earlier, not making eye contact with anyone. I check my phone as he disappears around the corner. Jules was almost right, I suppose—Knut made it eight minutes past six.

We’re all in food comas by the time Pope and his crew leave. I stay behind, not wanting to seem suspicious. Most of the players help with clean-up, though a few are drunk enough that Ian piles them into a sober guy’s vehicle and sends them off before they can make an even bigger mess of things. There are two guys left that are just on the wrong side of tipsy, so I offer them rides.

They try to swindle me into fast food. I offer them cherry juice that I have in the car instead. They’re quiet after that.

Pope’s parents are already asleep in my guest room when I finally make it back, Pope half-asleep on the couch. He doesn’t pick his head up from where it’s resting on the back cushions but his lips curve into a happy smile.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey.” I shed my shoes and jacket before joining him. He curls up against my side, waiting for me to lift my arm so he can be more comfortable. I wrap the arm around him and press a kiss to the top of his head. “So, today. Good or bad?”

“Good.” He sighs, but it’s light. Relieved. “Surprisingly good.”

“Did you guys get to talk any more tonight?”

“Just their goodnights. Promised me again that everything would be okay.”

I hum. “It will be. You’ve got a good team behind you.”

“I know. I’m lucky.” His fingers fiddle with the hem of my sweater. “Did you talk to Coach?”

“I warned him something is coming.” I laugh. “He knows about us.”

Pope jerks back, eyes wide. “What? When’d you tell him that?”

“Earlier. He had already figured it out, though. Apparently we’re kind of obvious with the way we look at each other.”

Pope’s jaw drops. “Seriously?”

“Yup. He gave me shit when I first got to his place. Playful shit. He’s not mad.” I brush his hair off his forehead. Despite his best efforts today to keep it tamed—and his mom’s best efforts to do the same whenever she noticed it—it’s got its own plans for life. “He’s ready to help any way he can. Promised to take care of you.”

He exhales shakily before tucking himself back against me. “It’s been a long fucking day.”

“It has. You ready for bed?”

“Is it terrible of me to say I’m ready for…” he lifts his head, looking over the back of the couch toward the hall that leads to both my room and the guest room with his parents.

“Ethan Pope,” I whisper, pretending to be scandalized. Or maybe actually a little scandalized.

“What?” He looks at me, his cheeks pink. “You sprayed whipped cream in my fucking mouth and told me to swallow like a good boy. What do you expect?”

I smirk. “Can you be quiet?”

“I’m sure you could figure something out.”

I have to swallow a groan at that. “Yeah, baby. I sure can.”

He’s wrecked.

There’s no other word to describe the state I’ve gotten the man I love in.

I started with him on his hands and knees, naked and waiting for me just long enough to start trembling with anticipation. He has a clean jock strap in his mouth to fulfill both the need for a gag and one of my biggest high school nerd fantasies. It had come in handy when I spread his cheeks with both hands and dove in with my tongue. He’d made the prettiest muffled sounds. So. Fucking. Pretty. I’d drawn it out as long as I could, soft licks, laps, pokes, a nibble here and there at the sensitive skin around his rim. I hooked a thumb into that tight ring of muscle so I could lick further inside. I’ve never felt so fucking hungry for a hole, fucking hell. He felt it, too. He couldn’t stand it after a few minutes, collapsing onto his elbows, then onto his cheek.

I’d drenched my fingers in lube and stretched him slowly. In and out. Around and around. I stroked and nudged and pulled until his hole was stretched around my three fingers and begging for more. Until his cheeks were covered in tears and the jock strap was soaked in spit. Until he’d begged so hard I couldn’t possibly deny him any longer.

“Think you can be quiet while you ride me, baby?” I whisper in his ear, my naked chest pressed to his sweaty back.

He whines, but nods.

I maneuver us, him too shaky and desperate to do it himself. He’s a beautiful wreck above me, thick and muscled thighs straddling my own, hands weakly clinging to my hips. His cock is flushed red-purple, precum leaking like a goddamn faucet down his shaft and onto the strip of hair on my lower stomach. The strap is half out of his mouth, soaked and heavy as it dangles.

“Fucking hell, baby.” I wrap a hand around the root of his cock, smirking when he bucks forward and whines again. “You want to ride me? Just like all those filthy fantasies you had before?”

His eyes flutter closed as he nods vigorously.

I help him, grabbing his left ass cheek with a slightly too-hard grip and pulling it to the side as I take my cock and guide it to his hole. He works with me, swiveling his hips in a way that’s fucking obscene until he feels my cockhead pressing where it needs to be. His head falls back, creating a long arch of his neck as he sinks down.

It’s possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt in my fucking life. It’s all silky-heat and clenched muscles, made better by the eagerness of his hips doing little bounces, desperate to get him down further, further, further as fast as his eager hole can take it. He’s flushed all over. Shivery. Dripping from his cock and his eyes and his mouth.

“Such a good little jock, aren’t you?” I croon under my breath, stroking my hands up and down his hairy thighs just to make him tremble harder. “Keep going. You’ve almost taken all of it.”

He sucks in heavy, gasping breaths, the jock falling from his mouth. It catches on his cock, hanging around the root of it in a shot straight out of a fucking porno. If he wasn’t someone who’d be recognized on the internet if a terrible mistake happened, I’d beg him to let me take a picture of it. I stare at it for a long time instead, committing it to memory.

A drop of his precum finishes its journey down his shaft to soak in the drool-covered material. I bite back a moan, reminding myself this man’s parents are just down the hall and me railing their son’s hole would not be a good way to earn their respect.

But god, what a fucking hole it is.

Once he’s sunk all the way down and has rotated his hips a little to get more comfortable, he starts to bounce. My god, it’s everything. It’s sexy and beautiful and pretty and tight and wet and he’s crying and he’s shuddering and—I can’t do it any longer. I flip him over, pressing fingers into his mouth to muffle the shout that helplessly escapes him. His teeth scrape my knuckles but I don’t care.

He puts a leg over my shoulder, the other falling to the side. I press forward, adding another finger to his mouth until it’s stretched almost ludely, and start pounding into him. The sound of skin slapping makes me stop though. I deflate, reconsidering matters.

That’s when I notice he’s suckling on my fingers like they’re my cock.

Fucking hell, this man will be the end of me.

I rearrange his legs so I can lie on top of him, chest to chest, two of my fingers still between his lips so he can keep sucking like he seems to enjoy. Lips pressed to his ear, I whisper, “We’re going to have to go slow if we want to be quiet.”

He nods as if he understands the agony I’m about to put him through.

He has no idea.

I roll my hips in slow, steady movements that rub my cock against his sweet spot without giving him the brutal pounding he’s no doubt needing. He lasts about a minute before he’s rolling his hips, trying to meet my thrusts in an attempt to speed me up. Two or three after that, his nails are scraping down my back just soft enough not to draw blood.

Then the begging starts, frantic whispers in my ear.

“Please. Faster. I need— harder . More. More, please, more.”

“Can’t,” I say in a falsely sympathetic voice. “Sorry, sweetheart. Have to be quiet, remember?”

He presses his face into my neck, vibrating the skin with a wrecked sound as his fingers keep clawing at me.

If there’s one thing more addicting than his tight hole squeezing my dick, it’s how easily he falls apart for me. His submissiveness. Neediness. I could just eat it all up. Eat him all up.

My horny little jock whines and clings and thrusts his hips the best he can as I build him up to a slow, deliciously tortuous orgasm. It leaves him shuddering and biting down on my shoulder to muffle his sob, his cock spurting between our stomachs. I grip his hair tight, needing something to cling to as I tip over my own edge, spilling into him with a few faster thrusts, his hole milking me so fucking well I have a sob of my own to muffle.

I turn us onto our sides, notching my leg just right to be able to keep my half-hard cock inside him while we lie there all sweaty and sated. Our hands explore in ways they haven’t really had time to before. Slow, gentle touches. Mapping each other out. Learning each other.

He seems to like my chest hair. My stubble. The veins of my forearms. The dip between my collarbone and shoulder. My Adam’s apple. My fingers.

I’m particularly fond of his moles, as previously proven. The inverted line that runs from his pecs to his belly button. The scar on his chin from a fall on the neighborhood pond. The curve of his ear. The dimples that peek out when I skate my fingertips along his brow and call him, “Beautiful boy.”

By the time I decide it’s time to clean up, he’s half-asleep and loose-limbed. All I get out of him is a soft huff when I pull away from him, my soft cock sliding out easily. He frowns, his eyebrows furrowing, when I return to wipe the warm wet cloth over his stomach, around his cock and balls, and through his crack. There aren’t any audible complaints though.

He’s asleep when I return to him after cleaning myself up and using the toilet. His lips are parted as he softly breathes, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. The same few curls of hair that have stubbornly fallen on his forehead all day are back again, stuck there with sweat now.

I never knew I could be so amazingly in love.

It’s terrifying.

“I’m going to take such good care of you,” I promise him. Promise myself. “You and me, baby.”