Chapter 1
Alfie would never go as far as to install a camera in the locker room. That would be seriously creepy. (And also might get him caught.) But if he stood in a particular spot, he could appear to be idly looking forward—away from where the hockey team he was equipment manager for shared their post-practice shower—but actually staring straight at them.
Slowly and carefully, he folded towels, creasing each one perfectly before stacking it on the bench the guys would file past on their way out of the shower, one eye in the mirror at all times. His love of hard male bodies was the reason he’d taken this job, and since he didn’t get paid for his time in money, he figured it was only fair he be paid in sneak peeks at said hard male bodies. And, wow, were those bodies hard.
The shower was a communal one, not very common these days, but the guys didn’t seem to mind getting naked together. They hooted and joked, dropping the soap and waggling their asses as they bent down to pick it up. Sometimes they even slapped each other’s bare wet bums, a sound that sent shivers up Alfie’s spine. Hot water, post-workout adrenaline, and soapy stroking had their cocks plump and glistening as they threw back their heads to rinse their hair or reached up under their balls to get their sacks good and clean. Alfie wished he could clean every one of their sacks with his tongue.
Hockey players were so big and virile, so tough and strong, with hands like vice grips and muscles popping out all over. The occasional black eye or split lip didn’t do anything to tamp down Alfie’s fantasies either. He liked a fighter, liked to imagine them fightinghim,how quickly he would lose.
He had enough towels ready now, arranged in five neat stacks of five. As the players streamed out of the shower, he would hand each one a towel, careful to keep his eyes abovewaist level, but for right now he could ogle, his line of sight safely disguised by the mirror. What he wouldn’t give to be fucked by one or two of those guys.
He’d had the idea that being equipment manager would mean interacting with the team more than it turned out it did, with the vague hope that interacting might lead to dating, or at least to fucking. But it was like they didn’t even see him. He might as well be an automatic towel dispenser for all they took notice of him as they filed past, still joking with each other and not being the least bit self-conscious about the way their assets hung out for everyone to see.
If Alfie had a dick like theirs, he might hang it out too, but his was unimpressive—on the small side and never of much interest to anyone except him, though at the moment it was hard enough to ache. He was almost always hard in the locker room. How could he not be with so much testosterone in the air and so much naked flesh on display? Later, after the team had left, he would bury his nose in their laundry and huff himself to orgasm. But for right now he kept his dick contained in a tight jock where his erection would hopefully be unnoticeable, as if anyone would even bother to glance in that direction.
“Good game,” he said as he handed out towels—his pathetic attempt to be part of the team.
They’d won today, their first win of the season, which was why everyone was in such a good mood. Last week they’d lost, and the mood in the locker room had been more somber. But the bodies on display hadn’t been any less gorgeous and the dirty jerseys hadn’t been any less odorific, so Alfie didn’t really care what happened on the ice. All he cared about was having access to this much male nudity.
The team dressed slowly with lots of whipping of towels at asses. Alfie wouldn’t mind if someone wanted to whip a towel athisass, but of course no one did. His ass was invisible, like the rest of him.
Once everyone was relatively decent, Coach Brady came out of his office to remind them about the practice schedule and to go over what everyone had done right or wrong. Since they’d won, he didn’t spend much time on negatives, finishing with a hearty “Good game, everyone.”
And then, unexpectedly, he said, “Alfie.”
Alfie jumped. Coach never said his name. No one ever said his name.
“Yes, Coach?”
“In my office.”
When Coach called people into his office, it was because they’d done something wrong. But what couldAlfiehave done wrong? Everyone was looking at him, his cloak of invisibility having fallen to the floor with a thud. He stood rock-still, frozen with shame and uncertainty.
“Now,” Coach barked, and Alfie jumped again. He could hardly move with the way Coach was glaring at him, but if he didn’t then Coach would glare even harder, so he screwed up his courage and made what seemed like the longest walk of his life across the locker room into Coach’s office.
Coach shut the door behind them and went over to take a seat in the swivel chair behind his desk, which he pushed back so he could spread his legs. Alfie hadn’t ever been in Coach’s office before, but he was too nervous to catalogue its contents except to notice that there were two guest chairs and to wonder if he ought to sit in one of them. But Coach didn’t tell him to, so he remained standing, fidgeting from foot to foot and unable to figure out what to do with his hands. He wanted to put one in his pocket and give his dick a reassuring squeeze. It’d been hard out there in the locker room, but it wasn’t sure what to do now.
Coach was a handsome man, a silver fox if ever there was one, and an ex-hockey player, which was clear from the bulk of his shoulders and the veiny strength of his forearms. He kept in shape too, could skate almost as fast as his players, and looked so tall on skates he took Alfie’s breath away. But he was mad now, mad at Alfie. His already thin lips were pressed into an even thinner line, and though his legs were in a relaxed posture, he had his arms crossed over his chest, which made his biceps bulge formidably.
“What, um—?” Alfie had to stop and clear his throat because he was more squeaking than talking. “I mean, did I do something wrong, Coach?”
“I think you know what you did wrong, Alfie.”
Alfie shook his head. Towels, uniforms, pucks, nets—everything put away and accounted for. But Coach kept staring at him like he really ought to know.
“Why did you take this job, Alfie?”
“To help the team?”
“Really?” Coach sounded doubtful. “You were thinking about the team? The hockey team. A team which plays hockey, a sport you know and care about.”
“I don’t know alotabout hockey.” Actually, he knew nothing about hockey. “But I care about, um, school spirit. Go QSU!”
Coach shook his head. So maybe Alfie couldn’t fake being invested in his college’s athletic record either. He’d come to QSU to get a degree in aeronautical engineering, not to root, root, root for the home team.
“Does it matter why I took the job?”
“I think it matters, Alfie. Because I have a feeling you didn’t take this job out of a desire to serve. I think you took it out of a desire to perv.”
