I'd seen athletes before. Filmed them, studied them, learned the grammar of their bodies—the bulk of enforcers, the coiled power of forwards, the angular efficiency of defensemen. I knew what hockey did to a human frame.
Pickle was something else.
Lean where other players were thick. Wiry where they were solid. He was built for speed, not impact—narrow hips, long legs, muscles that looked like they'd been built by motion rather than weight rooms. His fingers twitched at his sides while his weight shifted from foot to foot. Energy with nowhere to go.
I saw even more.
The scatter of freckles across his shoulders was something I hadn't expected. There was a faint silver line of an old scar along his ribs—puck, maybe, or a skate blade. He had a soft trail of dark hair below his navel.
He was already hard, flushed pink, and he stood there letting me look with the same openness he brought to everything else. No posturing. Just Pickle, all of him, exactly as he was.
Twenty-three years old. Messy hair and sharp cheekbones and a mouth that couldn't stop moving even when he wasn't talking—lips parted, his tongue wetting them, and a grin threatening to break through despite the vulnerability of standing naked in front of someone for the first time.
He was beautiful the way a live wire or a breakaway was beautiful—all speed and instinct and the held-breath moment before you knew whether it would be a goal or a near miss.
I wanted to film him like this. Wanted to freeze the frame and study every detail.
I'd spent four days watching him through a viewfinder, keeping the lens between us.
Now there was nothing between us at all.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
"This is happening."
"It's happening."
"Cool. Great. I just need to keep saying it out loud, or my brain will convince me I made it up." He stepped closer, pressing against me. "Okay. Yep. Definitely real."
I kissed him and walked him backward until his knees hit the mattress. He sat down hard, bounced once, and pulled me down with him.
"I want—" He was already moving, shifting, trying to find the right angle. "Can we—I have stuff in the drawer, if you want to—"
"What do you want?"
"Everything. All of it. You." He managed to get the nightstand open and grabbed a bottle and a strip of condoms. "I want you inside me. If you—is that—"
"Yes."
"Oh, thank god." He shoved the supplies into my hands. "Okay. Yes. Please."
I took my time.
Not to be careful—Pickle had made it clear he didn't want careful—but because I wanted to learn him. Wanted to know what made him gasp, what made him curse, and what made his entire body arch off the mattress.
He wasn't quiet or still. Even with my mouth trailing down his chest, and my hand wrapped around his cock, he kept talking—a stream of consciousness that was pure Pickle.
"That's—oh fuck, that's good—your hands are—why are your hands great at this, that's unfair, that should be illegal—"
I twisted my wrist on the upstroke, and he moaned loud enough that I thought about his neighbors.
"More," he managed. "Please, I need—can you—"
I lowered my head and took him in my mouth.
"FUCK." His hand flew to my hair—not pushing, just grabbing, holding on. "Oh my god. Oh my god, Adrian, that's—you're—"
