Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
COLBY
The energy in the locker room is tense as we suit up to take the ice for the semifinals. Earlier this afternoon, we watched Denver defeat Cornell in overtime, and now it’s our turn to face Western Michigan.
Am I nervous? I mean, I’d be lying if I said no, but it doesn’t feel like the typical bout of pre-game nerves.
This time, it’s for something entirely different.
I haven’t been able to shake off what Tyler said last night about not having a choice in his future, and with the realization that this weekend might be his last tournament if we lose, I’m feeling more pressure than usual to make sure we make it to the Frozen Four.
The pressure is all self-inflicted, of course, but I feel like I owe this to him with everything he’s doing for me.
I’m struggling to get it out of my brain though.
I can’t comprehend not having a parent who encourages you to fulfill your dreams. My parents have always been my biggest supporters.
From the 5:00 a.m. practices to the seven-hour drives for a tournament, they have only been encouraging and positive, even after the games where I played like dog shit.
They’ve never once tried to talk me out of pursuing my goal of playing pro hockey, and the fact that Tyler’s parents haven’t even given him the chance to consider what he would like to do with his life doesn’t sit well with me.
Would Tyler want to try and find a way to stay in hockey in some respect? It’s too late for him to enter the draft, but I know there are plenty of players who have made it to the NHL undrafted or landed a decent contract in the AHL. Or he could go to Europe if he wanted.
My stomach twists at the thought of him living in Sweden or Germany, or even Austria.
That’s so far away.
But if that’s where he wanted to go, I’ll do whatever I can to help him get there. Unless there’s something outside of hockey he would be interested in. Except… I don’t know what his interests are outside of hockey.
Guilt washes over me, and I pull on my skate laces a little harder than necessary.
I’ve known him for seven months now, and I don’t even know what his hobbies are.
I don’t know what kind of music he listens to or what his favorite movie is.
Sure, no one knows mine, but that’s because I choose to be quiet and a little more reserved in order to protect myself.
But Tyler… he’s more of an open book than I am, and yet, I’d come dead last if there was a quiz.
Does that make me a shit friend? I’ve never really had any real friends to know what the norm is about knowing your friends’ interests, but the tight pull in my gut tells me I am.
He’s more than a friend.
Nope. That can’t happen. No matter how much I’d like it to.
“Listen up, boys,” Coach Vaughn says with a clap of his hands, distracting me from my runaway thoughts. “We faced this team two years ago, and while they got the better of us back then, we’re not going to let them get away with it this time.”
There’s a chorus of grunts in agreement around the locker room.
“We’re going to stick to the powerhouse line tonight.
Starting six, we’ve got Nelson, McKay, and Shelley up front, and bringing up the defense, we have Lennstrom and Fleming, with Winslow manning the crease,” he confirms, then lifts his head from his clipboard to look around the room at each one of us.
“We are a stronger team than them. Our stats have proved it this season, so I wouldn’t put it past them to try and get into your heads to trip you up.
Stay vigilant. Stay focused, and whatever you do, don’t fuck this up. ”
“Yes, Coach!” we shout in response, and then the room falls into a focused silence as we pull our jerseys over our heads and finish getting ready.
The arena hosting the regionals this weekend seats almost ten thousand people, and when we step out onto the ice, it’s like the air crackles with anticipation.
Both schools have brought their bands, each of them taking their respective ends of the ice.
The sound of chanting, drums, and brass instruments bounces off the walls of the building, causing goose bumps to ripple across my arms.
As I skate a loop around the back of the net, I glance up into the stands, taking in the signs and faces painted in red and white, Whilton U colors. People have filled every seat, and this is only the regionals. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if we make it to the Frozen Four.
When, not if, McKay, Coach Vaughn’s stern voice echoes in my mind.
Truth.
I take my place on the blue line and remove my helmet for the national anthem. Nerves and adrenaline pump through my veins as I shift from skate to skate, eager to get this game underway and be one step closer to taking the win back to Whilton U.
And for Tyler.
I cast my gaze over to where he’s standing a little further down the line, my stomach flip-flopping at the sight of him.
His dark hair is pushed back off his face, the bright lights from the screen above highlighting every smooth line of his face and those lips that have the ability to alight a type of pleasure inside of me I never knew was possible.
He’s wearing an unreadable expression as he stares up at the flag displayed on the jumbotron, his chin resting on the back of his gloves where they hold the knob of his stick.
Is he as nervous as I am? Is his stomach caught up in knots, anxious about what comes next? It’s gotta be playing on his mind. It’s only natural. He’s dedicated so much of his life to this sport, and knowing the end is near must be wreaking havoc on his emotions.
I’m not given a chance to dive too deep into those thoughts, because as soon as the anthem finishes and the sound of roars from the stands hits my ears, I mentally shake away all other thoughts from my mind and engage my one-track focus.
Win this game. Bring home the win tomorrow. Make it to the Frozen Four.
That’s all I need to think about right now. Everything else can come later.
I put my helmet back on and reattach the straps to my cage, then do another lap of the zone as the rest of my teammates head back to the bench.
Lining up for the face-off, I avoid making eye contact with their star center and laser in on the puck, ready for the drop. Adrenaline pulses through me the second it leaves the referee’s hand. I win the face-off, passing back toward Nelson, and it’s game on.
As Coach Vaughn predicted, Western Michigan are playing a tactful game, trying to get into our heads and cause us to make easy mistakes.
Liam gets crushed into the corner of the defensive zone.
It’s three on two battling it for the puck.
I use the toe of my stick to try and poke it loose from around their skates.
He quickly glances over his shoulder, and I read his unspoken words.
I back up slightly, positioning myself without taking my eyes off the puck.
Nelson nudges the puck free with the end of his blade, kicking it back until it lands on my tape.
I’m heading up the ice, dodging their waiting defenseman, poking the puck between my skates with ease as I make the breakaway. The sound of the crowd cheering me on is like an invisible push, and I sink the puck into the back of the net with a one-timer.
I drag my knee across the ice, aiming my imaginary arrow at the jumbotron before Liam jumps into my arms.
“You are a hockey god, I swear,” he laughs, and relief hits me, knowing we’ve got the first goal on the board, but the game isn’t over yet.
The rest of the game goes pretty much the same. Western Michigan capitalize on a lame power play after Nelson gets called for tripping, equalizing the score, but then we retake the lead with a shorthanded goal during the second period.
As we head into the third, you could cut the tension simmering on the bench with a knife. We’re all sitting on the edge of the bench, eyes locked on the play. Every time I hit the ice for my shift, I’m giving one hundred and ten percent, but I haven’t been able to get a clear shot on goal.
Slumping on the bench, I squirt water into my mouth and resist clenching my jaw in frustration.
“Get the puck out of the zone!” Coach Vaughn growls from where he’s pacing behind us. “Now is not the time to get sloppy!”
With just over two minutes left, Western Michigan call a time-out, and we use the time to huddle around Coach as he walks through our next plan of action.
The referee blows his whistle, and my heart is beating in time with the drums being played by our school’s band.
Then, it’s like the noise intensifies when they pull their goalie.
I grip the boards, unable to tear my eyes away as they battle it out in our zone.
Anton passes to Tyler behind the back of the net, and then Tyler sends the puck flying from the corner.
The puck sails over the heads of Western Michigan’s players.
Their defensemen put their all into chasing it down when it lands in the offensive zone, but it’s too late.
The puck slides into the empty net, lighting the lamp and putting us two goals ahead.
A shriek of excitement leaves my lips of its own volition as I throw my hands in the air.
The bench erupts in celebration. Someone slaps my back and ruffles my head, but nothing can tear my eyes away from Tyler.
The sight of his wide grin behind his bubble has my pulse thumping wildly, and when he heads toward the bench to exchange fist bumps, it takes everything in me not to grab him and haul him into my arms. The look of pure happiness radiating in his eyes when our gazes lock has my heart swelling in my chest.
Tyler deserves to have this feeling all the time, and I’m determined to help him find what that is before the end of our arrangement.
The sense of desperation coming from the Western Michigan bench is obvious when I take to the ice for my final shift.
Their passes are sloppy. The disconnect between their players is making them look like amateurs instead of one of the best collegiate programs, and as the clock counts down the final ten seconds, their heads hang in defeat on the bench.
The buzzer sounds, and we swarm Winslow in front of the net. I know we’ve still got to face Denver tomorrow, but we’re so close I can almost taste it.
Pulling myself out of the huddle, I glance around the ice, searching for the one face I want to celebrate with more than anyone.
And like he was looking for me too, Tyler stands there, a broad grin on his face and his arms stretched out wide.
My smile is instant, and I skate over to him, wrapping my arms around his torso.
“You were fucking amazing, Colbs,” he says into the side of my head.
Laughing, I lift my head and lean in until our cages are touching. “That goal? Fuck, that was so hot.”
His smirk is almost sinful.
“Yeah? Now you know how I feel every time I watch you play,” he teases, giving my ass a slap.
Any other time, I would look around, check our surroundings to see if anyone noticed, but here on the ice, I’m not concerned. It’s the norm to slap each other’s asses, out here or in the locker room. But with Tyler, and the secret we share with each other, it feels like something else.
I bite down on the corner of my lip, staring at him with a silent question. I want more tonight.
Something flashes in his eyes that I’m unable to decipher, but he gives a subtle nod before we’re pulled into the fray of more celebrations, followed by the handshake line.
Before I can make it back to the locker room, I’m dragged into speaking to a reporter alongside Liam. I give the usual spiel of how hard we’ve worked this season and how proud I am to play for such a solid team.
Thankfully, they don’t bring up the draft or ask any awkward questions that make me want to hide in the nearest cubby, and by the time I hit the showers, my mind has already put the game behind me. All I can think about is how far I want to go with Tyler tonight.
It would be irresponsible to have penetrative sex tonight, especially with us playing again tomorrow. Denver aren’t going to go down without putting on a tough fight, which leaves handjobs and blowjobs.
I think I’m ready for that. I mean, sure, I’ve never touched another cock apart from my own, but how different can it be? Jerking someone else instead of myself? Blowjobs, on the other hand, that’s completely new territory, but one I’m not entirely afraid of.
Closing my eyes under the warm spray, the image of Tyler taking me into his mouth has me biting back a groan.
Blood rushes down to my cock, and it’s almost like I can feel the stroke of his roughened palm over my length.
Then the image morphs to me wrapping my hand around Tyler.
My fingers flex at my side, wanting to feel the weight of him in my hand.
Maybe guiding him into my mouth to feel him on my tongue.
An involuntary gasp gets stuck in my throat. My eyes shoot open, and I quickly look over my shoulder. There’s no one else in here apart from Winslow on the far end, but he’s too busy talking to Fleming through the entryway to the locker room.
Holy fuck. What has gotten into me? Now is not the time to be thinking about this. If anyone saw me chubbing up in the showers, they’d never let me live it down. Let alone if they knew I was getting hard over images of our defenseman.
Angling my body away from Winslow, I give my cock a quick squeeze with my soapy hand before turning the temperature down as far as it will go. The blast of cold water kills my growing boner instantly. After ten seconds, I switch off the water and grab my towel to head back into the locker room.
I avoid making eye contact with anyone as I walk back to my stall. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tyler looking in my direction, but I keep my gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
If I take one look at him, I’m either going to chub up behind my towel, or I’m going to burst into flames.
Neither are appropriate scenarios right now.
I manage to get dressed without breaking my staring contest with the rubber floor, and I’m slipping my feet into my shoes when Coach Vaughn walks into the locker room. He grabs all of our attention with a single clap of his hands.
“I’m proud of you guys. We’ve got dinner arranged back at the hotel, then I want you all to take an easy night because we’ve got to do it all again tomorrow,” he says, then points one finger around the room. “I mean it. Rest up, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
My gaze collides with Tyler’s, and we both exchange a knowing smirk.
If only he knew.