I downplayed my symptoms, which Dr. Crosby caught, naturally, but she wasn’t totally bitching me out, so good sign. I need her sign-off to get back on the roster, when my two game suspension is up.
“Seriously. You,” she nods at me, “keep doing what you’re doing. No screens. I’ll allow TV. Don’t do any hard math and 200mgs of ibuprofen four times a day, even if you don’t think you need it. And you,” she directs at Pierce, “try not to be such a dick that someone else punches you in the nose this week.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” I mumble as Pierce slides off the table with the unbearably loud crinkling of that waxy paper.
“Beckett, come back in a few days, and I’ll see about approving you for practice. Stick to light cardio and light weights. And don’t bitch me out, I’m keeping you off the ice for another week at least.”
I wouldn’t argue that one. My last concussion had me off the ice for four weeks.
The doc gathers up her paperwork and double taps it on the counter to straighten it up. “And for the love of your ACLs, do some stretching. Both of you.”
As she exits the room, I peel off the little bandaid in the crook of my arm. Hiring private nurses to pump you full of IV hydration and B12 is all the rage in the locker room right now. And now I can see why. I feel great, except for the dull pounding in my head that flares into ice picks behind the eyes when it’s too bright.
“After you.” Pierce holds the door and does a little mock bow.
I pause in the hallway because I know the waiting room is packed. Pierce puts a hand on my waist and pulls me back a half step.
“Let’s take the back exit.”
My shoulders slump in relief, and I turn and follow him toward the back of the office. He punches the emergency exit to the stairs.
“I don’t mind fans.” I sound defensive and I hate it.
“I know.” Pierce’s footfalls echo crazy loud, making me squint.
“It’s just…”
Pierce turns on the landing and backs me into a wall. Even though my heart is racing, the headache eases up.
“I know. You love the fans. You owe them everything. And you’re hurt. You’re feeling vulnerable. And you never want to cause a bad interaction. You were that kid with ice dreams, waiting to meet your idol. Now you’re the idol.” He says all of this inches from my face.
Pierce knows. Pierce has always known what I’m feeling before I can even put it together for myself. I nod, my hands coming to a rest on his hips. He kicks my feet wider to fit between them. His lips brush mine as he talks.
“I know that you love the sound stick tape makes when you rip it off the roll.” He’s tugging on my belt. “I know you hate the sound of the saw you use to cut your stick down. And you absolutely hate it when sawdust gets stuck on the sticky edges of the tape.”
He peels my fly back, the sound of the zipper loud in the stairway. Breathing hard, my eyes shoot to the door.
“I know,” he drags his lips down my exposed neck, “you like being the good boy gone bad.” His hands are hot on my cock.
“Pierce,” I moan into his mouth, cupping his face with my hands.
“I know you can’t sleep after a home game. I know you like being pinned down. I know you like having Liam in your mouth when I fuck you.” His words blur as his hands move faster.
I try to shush him. “Pierce, you’re talking too much.” He growls as he sinks to his knees. I throw my head back and clamp my jaws shut when he takes the tip of my cock in his mouth. One big hand clamps around the base of my shaft, holding me steady, while the other digs into the meat of my thighs.
“Fuck. Quiet,” I hiss and shoot another look back at the door.
He swallows me again. My palm slaps the concrete wall for balance, the other finds his hair. The stairwell is cold; even with my light jacket still on, I can feel it seeping into my back.
I part my legs more. He hollows his cheeks, swirls his tongue under the ridge, then pulls back slowly so I feel every inch drag across his lips. I fist his hair, being careful of his nose, because I know Pierce too. He’s going to pull back, tease me, say something so filthy it will scramble my brain. But that’s not what I need.
“Pierce,” I gasp. He’s pushing against the pressure of my hand. “Make me come before someone catches us, you fucking asshole.”
I can feel his chuckle rumble through his chest. He works me hard and fast, like he’s proving his point. His fingers twist around my knot, lips sealed tight, throat open.
I’m biting my own tongue now, desperate not to make noise. I have both hands in his hair, rocking my hips to urge him on.
I come hard until I can’t see for a second. My hands go weak against his head. I hear him swallow, a purr in his throat. He licks me once, just to be a shit, before he stands. His hands bracket either side of my head, leaning his full body weight into me.
