Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
“Tired?” Maude asks. A fucked-up question to ask after a day of travel. We’ve agreed not to practice today, but I still need to stay up a few more hours if I don’t want to sleep through Prix de France.
“Dingbats lost their first match of the season.”
“Ah,” she nods. “They tend to do that, no?”
“They have a new coach this year. Guess I was hopeful it would be a turning point for them.”
“A first game loss should motivate them.” She pinches my cheek. “Don’t be glum!”
I jerk my face away without her ripping any skin. Like a sulking teenager, I pop in my headphones, listening to my program music for the millionth time. While I rehearse in my head, I can’t help but open up my messages.
Roderick
Sorry to hear you lost the match.
Christos
Don’t worry about that. You’ve got your own game to worry about.
Match? What do you call it in figure skating?
Program, I think is the word you’re looking for.
Well worry about your program. I’ll whip the boys into shape for the next match.
I do appreciate you thinking of us.
I still have my headphones in during check-in.
Maude and I aren’t sharing a hotel room this trip.
When I was eighteen, there was nothing more exciting than having a hotel room to myself, my very own temporary bachelor pad.
It’s still exhilarating, but because I have a bathroom all to myself.
I practically sprint to my room to take a long, hot shower, washing off the travel ick.
The steam does little to relax my thoughts.
I just need to be in the top five tomorrow to stay on track to qualify for the Grand Prix.
Getting podium would be better. Standing at the very top of that podium is what I’m aiming for.
The prospect of my photo at the top of another article, another thing for Christos and I to talk about when I get back home.
We are talking a lot. ‘Talking.’ Flirting is a kind of talking.
My wet hair soaks into the pillow as I scroll back through my text messages with Christos. Every text from him that doesn’t have to do the damn key makes my lip twitch, threatening a smile. The complements, the genuine care, the little jabs that feel more like love bites than insults.
I open up poundr, skipping past a new city's worth of hookups and going right to messages. Christos is at the very top and I check his profile. He still hasn’t added any photos.
But he also hasn’t deleted the app. Scrolling back through our first real conversation, his messages make him seem like the perfect submissive, but now knowing the guy, I wonder if he’s more of a brat than he lets on.
A little green dot pops up next to his name. Only one way to find out.
TwinkleTop: You need to stop flirting with me over text
3dge-m3: ?????
TwinkleTop: And in person.
3dge-m3: I’m not flirting with you.
TwinkleTop: I keep forgetting to ask. What did you think of my skating costume?
3dge-m3: It’s nice.
TwinkleTop: I’m getting a new one. Should I make it tighter around my ass?
3dge-m3: I didn’t notice your ass.
TwinkleTop: Seriously?
3dge-m3: Your flexibility and stamina are way more interesting than your ass.
TwinkleTop: Maybe you haven’t looked close enough at my ass.
3dge-m3: I could be wrong.
TwinkleTop: Do you want to see it?
3dge-m3: Yes
TwinkleTop: Yes…?
3dge-m3: Yes Daddy. I want to see your ass. Please.
I roll over onto my stomach, pulling down my pants and briefs enough to show off my ass. I take a photo over my shoulder and send it.
TwinkleTop: I’ve got a hotel room all to myself. Wish you were here.
3dge-m3: To fuck me or are you buying room service?
TwinkleTop: Both. I’d treat you right.
3dge-m3: We shouldn’t be doing this.
TwinkleTop: Obviously. You need to work on your dirty talk.
3dge-m3: I want to bury my face in that perfect ass.
TwinkleTop: That’s better.
TwinkleTop: I’ll sit on your face. Play with your big cock while I’m grinding on your tongue.
3dge-m3: I’d be a goner. Finish in record time.
TwinkleTop: Like I’d let you. I say when you come.
TwinkleTop: Or can you not control your slutty cock?
3dge-m3: No, I need Daddy for that.
I press my hips into the mattress, my ass still out and dick hard as hell. I’m an ocean away, but fuck, if he asked me to come over, I’d find a way. Fuck him till he can’t remember his name and then make podium tomorrow.
Christos isn’t a distraction. He’s motivation. Gold metals are nice, but beefy bottoms with a degradation kink are way better.
I do my best to type with one hand while servicing myself with the other.
TwinkleTop: Your big ugly cock would be good in Daddy’s hands.
3dge-m3: I know. Fuck I know.
3dge-m3: What would I have to do to come?
TwinkleTop: You’d need to be respectful. Take my cock to the very back of your throat. Look me in the eyes while you choke on me and thank me for it.
I moan into the comforter, struggling to keep my phone upright.
TwinkleTop: Are you touching yourself?
3dge-m3: No.
3dge-m3: You never said I could.
TwinkleTop: Such a good slut. Touch yourself.
My imagination takes over. Picturing Christos on that worn leather couch, his fat cock in his hand while he jerks himself to my texts.
His pink tongue dragging across his lips as he too gets lost in a fantasy—eating my ass while my hands stroke him raw.
I can picture his muscles straining, chest heaving, a bead of sweat rolling down his flat nose.
If I make the podium tomorrow, he’ll want me.
His Daddy will be back and he’ll be all over me.
Finally, I’ll get to hear him moan. Taste his ass and cock for myself.
I roll onto my back, abandoning my phone on the mattress so I can use both hands.
My hips buck, the head of my cock already so sensitive.
I could draw this out, but there’s no reward here for patience here.
I pull my shirt up, spilling on my bare torso. With my clean hand, I grab my phone again to snap a photo, sending it to Christos before deleting it. I don’t get a chance to admire the pic till it’s already sent through the app.
He responds with his own photo. His thick cock red and veiny, cum already pooling at the tip.
TwinkleTop: Cute. I should tell you to wait till I’m back to finish.
TwinkleTop: But you only have to say my name while you cum.
TwinkleTop: Practice for when we’re together again.
I should clean myself up, maybe hop in the shower again, but I linger—imagining how Christos will say my name. Will it be mangled by lust? A desperate cry for more? Or a whisper, a chilling promise to keep this our secret?
Whatever the answer, I know he sounds so fucking good.
Meeting with your advisor after making podium is deeply humbling.
My grades are good, but I need to figure out my capstone project, and she rightfully asked if I am considering grad school.
The whole walk to the rink my head swirls with the possibility.
What do people do with a Masters in English other than teach? Or use it as an excuse to study abroad.
Reading old books in a Scottish castle doesn’t sound so bad. I’d have to find a new skating club and coach. Unless I really want to test Maude’s love for me. I think Garth would like all the sheep. I know she would hate the rain—and leaving the clientele she’s built up over the past two decades.
I’m talking through the hypotheticals with Marcus as we lace up our skates. “Pause. Why would you need to skate if you’re going to grad school?”
“There would be a lot of opportunities to skate in the EU, competition, ice shows—”
“You wouldn’t retire?” He grabs some handheld camera equipment—a gimbal, I think it’s called—and starts attaching the camera. “Don’t most skaters retire in their twenties?”
“There are still competitive skaters in their thirties. And I wouldn’t be in my thirties anyway. Twenty-three isn’t ancient.”
Marcus shrugs so hard his glasses slide down his scaly face. “I’m ignorant to this stuff.” He stands up, and we both make our way to the ice. “It sounds like you want to hang out in Scotland, skate, and study in that order.”
We get right to business once we’re on the ice. “You want to do the scripted stuff or the spins first?”
It’s not my first sponsorship, but it is the first time I’m filming something on campus instead of my home rink. I’ve cleared it with Maude and the brand, who seemed even more excited by the prospect—something about authenticity, that thing advertisements are so known for.
“Ad read first.” I’ve got the copy in my back pocket despite memorizing it. It helps make the unnatural speech sound a bit more realistic. “Whether I’m on or off the ice—” a phrase I have never said without a paycheck being lorded over my head, “I need to be fresh, comfortable, and at my best—”
We’re on our third take when the door to the rink creeks open. “My go-to scent is—”
“Seriously?” The freshman Terrence has been complaining about groans loud enough for me to hear. Which also means he’s loud enough to ruin the take. “You’re such an ice hog, bro.”
I roll my eyes. “My go-to scent is—”
Leroy enters with a shout, “Distel! It's strength training day, head down to weights already.”
“Am I holding the girls up? Hold on.” He goes to the bench, bending over to grab something. “I forgot my water bottle yesterday. Can’t have me pass out from dehydration, right, Captain?”
Leroy slips his hands into his back pockets, tail flicking like a cat, making it clear it's not in the mood for pets. “Guess so.” He waves to me. “Sorry about that, Rod!”
“Why are you apologizing? Not like he ever practices anything impressive like quads or whatever.”
I dig the heel of my skate into the ice. “Because I’m not interested in breaking my ankle on your hard-ass-ice.”
I’m not going to waste my breath explaining quads alone don’t win competitions, and there’s no way in hell I’m admitting my quads are my weakest element.
I’m getting there. I’d rather use one of my technical spots on footwork or spins, but when more and more skaters are landing quads in competitions, there’s more pressure to turn at least one triple into a quad.
This guy can’t tell the difference between an axel and a Salchow, or even a quad and a triple. All he knows is when a skater falls. I refuse to retain the guy’s name. Terrence calls him the annoying freshman-rookie, and I think that’s got a good ring to it. Fits him perfectly.
Marcus asks from behind the camera, “But you could do one jump, right?”
“Seriously?” I snap at Marcus.
“Hey,” Christos’ voice rumbles across the ice. “What are you two doing here?”
Marcus and I look at each other, miraculously both thinking the same thing. Did I forget to clear ice time with Christos? The last time we talked was… not something I should think about while wearing leggings.
“My bad coach,” Leroy says. “Distel forgot something, I followed, got distracted. Not trying to bail on weights.”
Christos crosses his arms, barely hiding the smile on his face. “We’re doing cardio today, not weights.”
Rookie-freshman throws his head back, “Fuuuuuck” he bemoans.
“You can start right now, come on.” He claps his massive hands, and it’s like he’s pressed a remote button, Leroy and rookie jog out of the rink.
“Rink’s all yours,” he tells me before following them.
I shamelessly watch him go, only to catch Marcus doing the same. Our eyes meet. “I don’t think I’d seen the new coach before today.”
“Yeah, he’s…” The word nice is on the tip of my tongue, but I worry that one word says too much. “Good. Works the team hard.”
He watches me through the camera display. “Think we’ll actually win any games this season?”
A few weeks, ago I’d laugh to avoid answering the question, but now I have no doubts. “For sure. This is our—their season.”
There’s another thing I’ve never said before. I’ve never cared about championship titles or school pride. Maybe I should care about the team but let’s be real, I’m more of a cousin than a Dingbats brother.
In a weird way, Christos is like Scotland: grand and mysterious and fun to fantasize about. Once I start thinking practically, it's harder to justify the cost. Nevermind that I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Right now, that’s this sponsorship.
I squint at the camera’s red light. “Are you still filming?”
“Nothing makes me sweat more than conflict, so I figured it’s good footage.”
I shake my head. “Let’s film some spins. Try not to fall on the ice.”
Key has been approved. You can grab it at my office.
That’s it? So how does this work? I can come and go as I please?
Best we discuss when you want to use the rink to make sure it doesn’t overlap with the team’s allotted time but you’re good about that. Text me when you lock up so we have it on record.
Didn’t realize our texts were public record.
They are starting now.