I nearly laughed, but I pinched it off with my lips. He arched his back but kept stroking. Then, he broke the silence, sharp and loud. "Fuck, Pratt."
I couldn't hold off, and both of our bodies shuddered in waves as we came. He gasped for breath and then rolled off me to the side.
He put his head on my chest, resting his cheek against my heart while the rest of his body pressed against my side. His breathing slowed.
Less than two minutes later, he was out.
It was good. Quieter but better. We moved together, and the orgasms were nearly simultaneous. If I were that kind of coach, I'd be pleased. None of it required a joke.
I tried to remember if he'd ever gone to bed with me without one. I didn't think so. This time stood alone.
He slept, but I didn't.
After twenty minutes had passed, I tried to figure out what was wrong with a night that by every other measure was excellent.
Sully made a small sound in his sleep, a breath shaped almost like a word, and his hand curled against my ribs before going slack again. I moved my fingers through his hair, feeling the waves.
I thought about Nora's apartment. I assumed she didn't live in a house. An apartment was more likely on a bartender's salary. Sully had told me once that a grandfather was subsidizing half of his condo payments because his mother insisted that he not live in a dump.
He shifted again. His forehead pressed into the hollow of my collarbone, and he breathed out.
I closed my eyes. At last, my body relaxed and sleep was close.
The last thing I remembered thinking was that I'd slept on the floor every night before a home game for years. Tomorrow was a home game.
