Epilogue
CALLAN
Slapshot snores loudly at my feet, wearing the custom Ferguson jersey I had made for him.
I don’t know how he can sleep at a time like this, when the Huskies and the Falcons are tied with less than a minute left in the third period and Pinsky in possession of the puck.
Val has given up sitting and is bouncing on her toes next to the TV while the rest of the guys and I are on the edge of our seats, screaming for Pinsky to take the shot.
As much fun as it would be jerking off while I watch Diego play, it’s a lot more fun waiting for him to call and video chat me once he’s back in his hotel room later.
And this apartment feels too damn big and quiet to keep it all to myself when he’s on the road, so I’d rather have the guys over to watch the games with me. And Val, of course.
The Falcons’ center gets the puck from Pinsky and drives down the ice.
Diego is ready for him as soon as he crosses the centerline though.
He charges forward and shoulder checks the guy, stealing the puck and nailing a slapshot straight down center ice, where Dimitrov is waiting, taking Diego’s assist and making a last-minute goal.
The buzzer sounds and then we’re all on our feet, screaming and cheering.
“Goddamn that was a good game,” AJ says, punching me playfully in the arm.
“Hell yeah, it was. Oh, shh, shh, shh,” I try to quiet everyone down as the screen fills with Diego right as he comes off the ice and gets ambushed by a reporter.
Fuck, he looks sexy. His hair is sweaty and his skin is flushed, a big, cocky grin stretched across his face. Two more days until he’s back in Chicago and back in our bed. I never knew two days could sound so damn long.
“You’ve been on a hot streak this season, what do you attribute that to? Are you trying to prove everyone wrong who said you wouldn’t be back after your injury? On a victory tour now that Brody has been traded?” the reporter asks, shoving the microphone into his face to wait for his answer.
Diego’s smile gets even bigger and he looks straight into the camera, holding my gaze from a couple hundred miles away. He’s looking right at me, and I know he knows I’m watching.
“It’s my new lucky jockstrap,” he says, winks, and walks off towards the locker room.
I can’t decide if I should laugh or groan as my dick hardens and the camera pans back to the reporter.
“There you have it. His lucky jockstrap,” she says before starting a recap of the action we just spent the last two hours watching.
I turn the volume down and Slapshot farts himself awake.
I’m itching to text Diego now and tell him what a tease he was with that comment, but I’ll wait.
In an hour, the apartment will be empty, and I’ll be in bed with my man all to myself and plenty of time to talk about jockstraps and game winning shots until we fall asleep with the call still connected like we always do.
So far, none of his teammates have leaked his coming out to the media, but he knows it could happen eventually and he’s ready for it if it does.
He doesn’t want to make a spectacle himself, but we’ve been talking about a queer youth hockey camp that we could fund, and I get where he’s coming from.
He wants to make sports a more welcoming place for queer people, not just create a new headline about himself.
That, among a million other reasons, is why I love him so damn much.
The End