That was the lie I was telling myself, anyway.
The truth was harder to look at. I was faintly obsessed with him. With the way he bit his lower lip when he was concentrating. The small satisfied tilt at the corner of his mouth when he landed something clean. The thundercloud expression when something went wrong. Full lips, naturally dark, the kind that looked like they’d been designed specifically to cause problems.
The internet agreed with me, apparently. I’d gone deep enough into the compilations to find the ones that focused specifically on his mouth. Slow motion clips of him mid-performance, lips parted, breathing hard.
I set the phone face down on my nightstand and headed for the shower.
It had been a long day—shitty game, knee throbbing, the kind of loss that lived in your chest for hours afterward. I just needed to wash it off. Clear my head. Think about literally anything else.
The water hit the back of my neck and I braced a hand against the tile but the images followed me in. That was the problem with obsession—you couldn’t wash it off.
He’d been rumored to have been involved with Nicolas Fontaine—the nephew of his coach back in Toronto, another figure skater competing at the elite level. The internet had been intensely interested in them. Fan accounts dedicated to their alleged relationship. Photos of them together at competitions, at training, leaving the same apartment building at odd hours. The speculation was that they’d had a messy breakup and that was why Théo had left Toronto so abruptly.
Nicolas Fontaine looked nothing like me. Lithe, golden blond hair, blue eyes, soft spoken in interviews, delicate in that particular way figure skaters could be. Everything I wasn’t.
I glanced down at myself through the steam. Broader build, the accumulated mass of someone whose sport required taking hits and giving them back. I looked like exactly what I was—a hockey player, built for collision and endurance, not elegance.
My cock didn’t give a shit if I wasn’t his type.
It had decided Théo Beaubien was its type and it was making that opinion very clear right now, thickening against my thigh despite the lukewarm water. I tried to think about something else. Game tape. The power play setup. Morrison’s four word post-game speech. My knee, which was aching slightly, the dull reminder that I was 28 and had been doing this for a long time.
None of it worked.
I kept thinking about Théo’s mouth.
Fuck it.
I wrapped my hand around my growing erection and the relief was immediate. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile and let the fantasy unspool.
That perfect mouth. On my lips. On my skin. On my cock. That sharp tongue, that controlled precision applied somewhere other than the ice.The thought alone was enough to make everything else irrelevant—the game, the loss, the fact that I was supposed to have my shit together.
I gripped myself harder and my cock responded eagerly, leaking at the tip despite the water sluicing over me.
The contrast of him—that sweetness, the almost angelic quality to his face paired with all that controlled sharpness—would he look at me with those dark eyes, wide and focused, while he took me into his mouth?
I groaned, the sound swallowed by the shower’s spray.Those dark red lips stretched wide to fit me. I would start off gentle but sometimes my dick had a mind of its own. Maybe he would want me to fuck his mouth roughly. Maybe he’d look up at me with those eyes and dare me to.
I squeezed the crown, trying to stave off the orgasm already building at the base of my spine.
Would he let me? The question surfaced unbidden and somehow that uncertainty made it hotter. Théo Beaubien, who commanded every inch of ice he touched, who moved like gravity was optional—would he surrender that control to me? Or would he fight for it, turn it into something competitive, something we’d both win?
I stroked myself slower, deliberately drawing it out, the water running down my back.
Those fucking eyes. I’d watched him from the back row enough times to have them memorized—the way they tracked his own reflection in the glass, critical and assessing. What would it take to make them soften for me?
My hand found a rhythm that matched my breathing, rough and uneven.I thought about his hands—those elegant, deceptively strong hands that could hold a spin position until physics gave up arguing. Wrapped around me. Guiding me. Taking.
“Fuck,” I breathed, my head falling back into the spray.
He was seven years younger than me. Barely 21. And my teammate’s younger brother.
None of it mattered when I pictured him on his knees, looking up at me with that quiet intensity, that same focus he brought to a quad axel. Like I was a jump he intended to land perfectly.
I came harder than I had in months, spilling over my fist while the water washed the evidence away. My legs nearly buckled and I had to catch myself against the tile with both hands.
The shower ran cold before I moved.
???
