“Nah. It was his wife. It all fits. He was fucking huge, and smoking hot, so I didn’t pay much attention at first, but I should have known the second I walked in and saw the deal with his furniture. And by deal, I mean there was none. No photos or art or ugly plastic plants or any fucking thing other than a bed, coffee table and sofa. And there was a bucket of cleaning stuff?—”
“Oh, maybe he was?—”
“And it was fancy, too. Rent would have been a bomb. Who has a place like that with nothing in it?”
“Maybe—”
“Freaks, that’s who.”
“Maybe—”
“God, a weirdo like that. I bet the place was littered with cameras.”
“Oi!” Brady’s surprisingly soft hand clamps over my mouth. “Can I speak for a second?” I nod, and Brady releases his grip. “He could definitely have been married with a kid. Or, like I was trying to say, Faithy could have been anyone. A sister. A neighbor. And there’s lots of reasons his apartment could be empty.”
“Yeah, name one other than fuck house, or he just scrubbed the place down ‘cause it was a crime scene.”
“Maybe he was moving?”
“Or maybe it was his kinky-ass, sex dungeon hideaway …. Don’t roll your eyes at me, Basse.”
Clenching then flattening his hands over his thighs, he pushes off the bench, then bends down to whisper, “Thank you for trusting me with your sexuality. I’m really proud and honored that you feel comfortable coming out to me, and hope you know it will stay between us until you tell me otherwise.”
“Thanks, Brades”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says firmly. “I’m not judging you at all when I say this, but you called this guy a freak, and there’s worse than married men with kids out there, Cubs. I’ve heard lots of horror stories from Troye to prove it. Maybe casual hook-ups with strangers aren’t right for you.”
“Nooo,” I whine. “I’ve just tasted them and they’re so yummy.”
“Look,” he laughs. “I know you love your comics and fanfic, but thisisn’tfiction. Letting your imagination run riot on the regular could bring more trouble than it’s worth. Skip the apps for a bit, and try old fashioned dating.” He chuckles again when I roll my eyes, then ruffles my hair like a big brother style. I like it way too much. “Just think about it, okay?”
“I might die of boredom or boner-overload while I do, but sure. I’ll think about it.”
I do not thinkabout it.
I agonize.
But not about ditching the apps as Brady suggested. No. What’s running through my mind more than Coach’s plays, or sports psych theories, are those hands. Those arms, and the body they were attached to. I can’t stop. The depravity of my thoughts matched only by the obscenity ofhisactions.
Maybe that’s why I can think of nothing else. Because he’s forbidden.
Yeah. Forbidden. Like that fic I was reading at O’Reilly’s where Spider-Man hooks up with Hulk, much to the chagrin of Daddy Stark.
At the most unfortuitous moment, my dick twitches, and chubs. We’re not talking Iron Man hard here, but enough for me to be uncomfortable in, and grateful for my cup and hockey padding.
“Isn’t that right, Cory? Cory–Cubby Malkovich!!”
“Huh?” A chorus of laughter follows, everyone finding my absentmindedness hilarious. Everyone except the coaching staff. Coach White is shaking his head. Brady is mouthing,wake the fuck up,his eyes almost popping out, and Coach Harris. Well, he looks as though he’s regretting whatever life choices led him here.
Possibly making me captain, too.
“Sorry, Coach,” I mumble, blush burning my cheeks. “I think my time in Montreal is catching up with me.” It’s a lame excuse. Knowing that, I avoid Brady’s glare.
“It’s been a chaotic time for you, Cory. I get that. But your transition from college to the NHL is a rough one, so if you can’t handle a two week training camp, and a four hour car ride home, you may want to reconsider your future. Same goes for you, Bailey.”
“What did I do?” Sam Bailey whines at my side.
Like he hadn’t just kneecapped, and thrown Sam under the bus, Coach moves on.
