“Did you really congratulate him on his win against us?” Willits asks, incredulously.
Felton nods, shrugging. “This is Lynch’s first NHL OT score, his second score in his NHL career. I thought it was worth congratulating.”
I shake my head, but honestly, that’s exactly the kind of guy Felton is. We all love that about him. He’s quirky as most goalies are, but he’s kind, thoughtful, and genuine. Even though most of the time, he pretends to be an arrogant asshole when the camera is looking, around the team, he’s a really good guy.
And during moments like this when a rookie scores something big, he’s a fucking amazing guy. There aren’t manyplayers on rival teams that would do that, though I wonder if he’d feel differently if he’d been the goalie Lynch scored against.
“That’s cool, man,” Dasan says, clapping his shoulder. “Now let’s go drink our misery away.”
Felton follows, his bulky frame hobbling down the chute. It’s remarkable how goalies manage to move as agilely as they do on the ice. They’re basically wearing as much gear as they weigh and somehow can almost outmaneuver all of us.
Off the ice is a different story, though he moves easily enough.
Felton is a beast off skates, so on skates he’s practically a giant. I think he’s closing in on seven feet, so those extra few inches of skate truly make him incredible and he practically fills the net. I often wonder if he was a big kid. Was that why he ended up in the net?
The locker room is quiet while Coach talks. His speech and tone aren’t overly disappointed. I think he can even admit that we should have had me or Willits on the ice for OT. He ends with telling us we had a very good game, and how our stats are much better than theirs in attempts vs. goals, which makes me smirk because I had been thinking that too.
Once I go through the shower, taking extra care to scrub my hands, I dress and wait for Zenia and Denny. We head for the club to let the music and sweaty bodies take us out of the bad mood. After parking our cars at Zenia’s, we take a rideshare to the club so we can all drink.
“We getting a girl tonight?” Denny asks.
I glance at the driver. His eyes remain on the road.
Sometimes, we do that to celebrate a win. There’s something erotic about a gang bang.
“Carson and Kroy meeting us?” Zenia asks.
Denny nods. “Yep. Kroy’s on his way. Carson’s already there.”
A shiver of anticipation slithers down my spine. The first time we did this was an accident. I’m not sure how that accident happened, but the five of us somehow ended up in a hotel room with this girl and took turns fucking her for hours.
She was totally into it too. And completely sober, which is always a must for obvious reasons. We also try to make sure they don’t recognize me, Zenia, and Denny. Non hockey fans are typically one of our criteria, because this is just one of those things that the news would love to share. It’s a precarious game we play—more often than we should—but we’re relatively careful and have a tremendous amount of luck, if I’m honest.
“We’ll see what we find,” I say.
As a rule, I’m usually pickier on who we share. It’s an unspoken rule that we only share together. The five of us. Never when one or more is missing. I don’t even know why. Bonding exercise, I guess.
I don’t have a preference for a particular body type or race or anything; it’s more about personality for me. Eager but not draping themselves over us. I need to get the vibe that they’re excited at the prospect of being fucked five ways. Nerves and anxiety are fine. I don’t expect many people we casually run into being down for a gang bang, but I don’t want to get the feeling that they’re unsure.
The guys are less concerned with this which is why I need to have the final say. I will never allow a time when someone comes back and claims that they were coerced into being with us.
There are places to participate in this kind of kink in a safer environment than what we’re doing. I’ve even suggested it. But having our names on record feels a little… unsettling. That shit could leak. While people shouldn’t care, they will, and that’s not the kind of attention we want hanging around as a pro athlete.
The images of Max Latham on a St. Andrew’s Cross two summers ago are still fresh in my mind and likely will be for therest of my life. The shit show that came from that. Not just for him, but the surge of compromising images of athletes was wild.
It trickled through other industries too—music, television, even some big-time law firms and politicians. The entire thing was freaking wild. Not going to lie—the three of us hockey players held our breaths, waiting for a claim. A whisper. Anything at all.
Perhaps it gave us a small sense of security when the entire thing eventually smoothed out and we could get back to the usual level of scandal in the world. But it made one thing crystal clear—anyone who recognized us in any capacity was a flat-out no. No discussion. No bartering, begging, or bribing would ever change my mind.
As we step out of the car, I could admit that maybe we could do with a little pick me up tonight. Tonight was a rough game and ended in a stupid situation that shouldn’t have happened if we had a damn defenseman on the ice. It wasn’t even a stupid ref call, but a stupid coach call. It could have been avoided.
That’s not to say we wouldn’t have still lost. But we wouldn’t have lost fifteen seconds into overtime! I’m confident about that.
Whatever.
The line wasn’t long tonight, and Carson’s by the door when we step inside. Kroy follows less than a minute later. Without a word, we head to the bar to get a drink and scope out the selection tonight.
It’s easy to tell who recognizes us. You can see them staring and pointing as they tell someone else. It’s a fifty-fifty chance whether they’ll come over and ask to dance. We like to see who they go to. Over half the time, it’s Denny. Apparently, he’s a hottie. It’s pretty equal between me and Zenia after that.
