In the fluorescent overhead lighting of Pie Society, I can make out Alex’s features much better than I could in the club or on the street. In this light, he looks so much younger than his twenty-seven years. If I hadn’t caught a glimpse at his driver’s license when he pulled out his wallet, I’d peg him at twenty-three, max. The seemingly unintentional floppiness of his hair, the way his rosy cheeks are like two plump apples, round and inviting. He’s nearly clean shaven, but the bit of stubble forming his five o’clock shadow is a little patchy, which tells me that maybe he couldn’t quite grow a full beard if he tried.
Adorable. I bet that drives him crazy during No Shave November.
“Sorry,” Alex says as he pops the tab on a can of diet soda, the hiss of the carbonation cutting throughthe quiet between us. “I’m sure this isn’t how you planned on spending your night.”
I wave a hand, brushing off his concern. “Nothing to be sorry about. This may have been an unexpected detour, but pizza is never an unwelcome addition to the night.”
“That’s what I’m saying! Elliot, my dude, I think you and I are going to be great friends.” Alex holds his soda can out to me, and even though I don’t have a beverage, I pretend to clink an imaginary glass.
I don’t know that ‘friends’ was what I had in mind when I first approached Alex in the VIP suite—I was hoping for a hot make out session and some dry humping at the very least—but now that we’re spending some time together I could see us hanging out. Naked or not, he seems like he’s a good time kind of guy.
But still…Alex is cute, and I’m horny as hell. It can’t hurt to test the waters.
“I was coming out with the intention to, uh, hook up with someone tonight, though.”
A million different emotions flash across Alex’s face at once, and while he has been easy to read so far, I don’t know him well enough to decipher any of them. I think there’s a hint of surprise, maybe even a bit of intrigue, but I know for sure when he lands on pity and gives me an apologetic half-smile.
“That probably would have been more fun than this,” he shrugs. I’m about to suggest that it still could be fun—after we’ve realigned his juju chakras or whatever with pizza—but he leans back and tucks his hands behind his head. “Sex wasn’t on my list for the night. I don’t hook up during the season.”
It’s…a good thing I don’t have a drink in my hand, because if I did, I’d likely be performing an awkward and over the top spit take right about now.
I open my mouth, then close it, and open it again, but I’m unsure of what to say.
He doesn’t hook up during the season?
I mean, it’s not like sex is part of the job description or anything, but neither is celibacy.
Alex only nods at my speechlessness, as if he was expecting this response and gets it all the time.
“You don’t hook up during the season?” I say, finally finding my words. Or his words, really, since I’ve just parroted his statement back to him. “Why the hell not?”
“Pattern recognition,” he shrugs. When I make a keep going gesture with my hand, he sighs. “When I’m having sex, my game is thrown off. It's like…it's like skipping the line at a club. If I’m being given orgasms, the hockey gods take away my ability to stop a puck. I noticed it during my freshman year in college. Any time I’d get lucky after a game, I’d play like shit during the next one. It kept happening so eventually, I just stopped trying to get lucky in bed and stuck to getting lucky on the ice.”
I nod, as if any of this is supposed to make sense to me.
“It's just…wow. No sex. What do you do if you have a partner?” I ask, because surely sex in a committed relationship can’t be something that upsets the hockey gods, right?
“Haven’t had one of those since college, and they never lasted longer than an offseason. It hasn’t been a problem.” Alex sips his soda, never taking his eyes off me. Part of me wonders if this is all some sort of weird seduction technique, like by letting me think he’s some kind of priest from October to June, I’ll be helpless against his wiles and simply have to get his pants off and show him what he’s been missing.
While that does sound appealing and would one hundred percent work on me, I don’t get the vibe that he’s lying. I think this cardigan wearing, fanny pack sporting, boy next door goalie really sacrifices his pleasure and the company of others for the sake of his game.
It's…sweet. Stupid, but sweet.
“So what do you do to burn off all the extra adrenaline after a win? Or to distract yourself if you lose?” I ask, because god knows random sex is theone thing I look forward to on game day, win or loss. “I feel like I’d be bouncing off the walls with the worst case of the zoomies every damn Sunday.”
Alex holds up his right hand and waggles his fingers before making a jerk off motion. I groan, dropping my forehead to the sticky, shellacked wooden table and Alex laughs, probably because he thinks I feel bad for him.
But really, I groan because I know later tonight when I’ve got my own hand on my cock and my eyes squeezed shut, I’ll be thinking about Alex fucking his fist, wearing nothing but a cardigan and that damn fanny pack.
4
SO PERFECTLY IMPERFECT
Alex
Elliot was totally right about the pizzas, and I can already feel the good juju pushing out the bad. I think we set the universe straight enough that I don’t have to worry about my game play. I won’t know for sure until practice on Monday, but my chest feels a whole lot lighter.
Our pizzas were finished right as I told Elliot about my “no hook-up during the season” rule, which was good since I’m pretty sure I broke his brain with that tidbit of information. It rattles most guys who find out. The athletes that I know like to celebrate their wins and mourn their losses in the bodies of other people, and I tend to stick out like a sore thumb when I’m always going home alone. Andyeah, it's lonely sometimes. I’m far more well-acquainted with my right hand than I think any guy over the age of sixteen should be, and I’ve flattened my fair share of pillows by using them as cuddle buddies.
