The locker-room door swings open, and Coach Donovan steps in. His eyes sweep over the scene—the champagne waterfalls, the nudity, the dancing kick line—and his expression cycles through about seven emotions in under five seconds before landing on resigned amusement. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see any of this.” His hazel eyes find mine. “Jacoby.”
“Coach.”
“Congratulations. You earned this.” A rare, genuine smile breaks across his face before he schools it back to neutral. “Now, I’m going to go do press. Your job is to make sure no one dies before I get back. Can you handle that?”
I glance at Gerard, who is now being hoisted into the air in a pose reminiscent ofDirty Dancing.
“Define ‘dies,’” I say as he tumbles forward.
Coach Donovan pinches the bridge of his nose, mutters something that sounds suspiciously likeWhy do I do this?and backs out of the locker room, pulling the door shut behind him. The second he’s gone, the volume triples.
“Alright, boys!” I bellow, climbing onto the nearest bench. “Hockey House in thirty! And Gerard,pleaseput on pants before we leave the building!”
“No promises!” he roars back.
2
OLIVER
It’s been nine months since I’ve been fucked to kingdom come. Nine months of playing the supportive captain, team dad, and emotional backbone with nothing to show but my right hand glued to my cock.
Something inside me is screaming to find a guy, bend over, and let him have his wicked way with me. And that’s where Frat Guy comes in—no pun intended.
I don’t even know his name. I think it starts with a J? D? Honestly, the heat of his palm seeping through my shirt has made all nonessential information irrelevant to the task at hand.
What I do know is this: He’s about my height, maybe an inch shorter, with dark curly hair and arms that suggest he does something athletic but not obsessively so. Lacrosse, maybe. He’s from one of the fraternities down the row, and he wandered into our party with a few of his brothers.
Our conversation starts off simply enough. He congratulates me on the win. I thank him. He says something about my slapshot in the second period, which tells me he paid attention to the game. Points for that. He’s close enough to me that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy that cuts through the stale beer and sweat.
“You know, I’ve been staring at your ass all night,” he says, which is bold. But nine months is nine months, and the way his breath ghosts against my ear sends a jolt straight down my spine that detonates south of my belt buckle.
“Upstairs,” I rasp.
He grins. “Lead the way, Captain.”
The walk up three flights of stairs to my room is the longest minute of my life. Every step is a negotiation between my brain—You don’t even know this guy—and my body—You haven’t been touched in months. Shut up and climb faster.My body wins by a landslide.
The second my bedroom door clicks shut, the world outside ceases to exist. No more thumping bass from downstairs. No more muffled singing from Gerard. No more cackling from Drew. Just the two of us and the streetlight filtering through my window, casting everything in this hazy glow that makes the whole thing out to be a fever dream.
He kisses me first, the force of it sending my shoulder blades flat against the door. His palms brand my hipbones through denim. The lingering bite of Natty Light mingles with something sweeter—Altoids, crushed between teeth not long ago—as his tongue finds mine.
My fingers climb the slope of his neck, twisting around those dark curls. I yank him forward until our belt buckles clink, the sound sharp in the half-dark of my bedroom.
That’s when I feel it against my thigh. My brain, which has been running on fumes and desperation, does some quick calculations and comes up with a number that makes me weak in the knees.
“Jesus,” I breath against his mouth.
He laughs, low and rumbly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Our clothes come off in stages. His shirt first, tossed somewhere near my desk. Then mine, which he peels off slowly, his fingers dragging along my abs in the most torturousof ways.
“Hockey players,” he murmurs, shaking his head in wonder at my body. “Un-fucking-real.”
His hands travel along the V-cut of my hips, settling on the waistband of my jeans. He undoes the belt buckle and pops the button with one hand, tugging them down. I kick them off, nearly tripping over my own feet. Apparently, I can skate at thirty miles per hour on a sheet of ice, but I can’t undress without almost face-planting.
“Holy shit,” he says when I turn around.
I know exactly what has caught his attention. His hands cup both cheeks through my boxer briefs and squeeze. Hard. “I fuckingknewit would be this good.”
