Page 12 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

Beau pulls his briefs on and makes himself comfortable too, leaving his sheets crumpled instead of pulling them up like a weirdo again.

“Seriously, it should be a crime to own a Lamborghini if you’re just going to paint fucking flames on it,” he bitches.

I cackle and give myself a mental pat on the back. All is right in the world again, or at least all is right between me and Beau, and honestly, that’s the only thing I really give a shit about.

SEVEN

BEAU

“Rise and shine, Bozy.”

I groan, pulling the pillow over my face. “Go away.”

“Nope. We’re in NYC and if you’re going to torture me and make me hang out in this city all day, then fair is fair and we’re going for a run. It’s a beautiful fall day. Up.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Newsflash, I know that.” Trav chuckles as he disappears into the bathroom.

As soon as I’m sitting upright, last night’s events come rushing back and my body heats. My cock twitches with interest and I reach down to squeeze the base. Down, boy. The last thing I need is to pop wood over my best friend.

At first I was shocked, but then, not gonna lie, it was hot as fuck. I guess watching anyone get off is bound to be hot. Or maybe I have a new kink I didn’t know about. Either way, I’m thankful for him. His weird-ass approach actually worked, and the awkwardness is gone.

I continue to lie in bed while he’s in the bathroom, my thoughts lingering on his expression when he came. His brow scrunched, bottom lip caught between his teeth until he moaned and spilled cum over his hand.

Sure, I’ve seen him naked a million times by now, but I never really focused on his dick, obviously. It’s impressive, like everything about him is, all thick and cut with visible veins. I’ve never really noticed another guy’s dick other than stupid shit when you’re younger, comparing sizes. I’m not sure Trav is bigger than me, but he’s certainly nice.

Wait. Can a dick be nice?

Before I can overthink that too much, the bathroom door opens and Trav saunters out with a towel clinging to his hips. His wet hair drips onto his shoulders and I chuckle. He never grabs a towel for his hair.

“Shit water pressure,” he says.

“Good to know.” I force myself upright and slide out of bed, hurrying to the bathroom before Trav can see my half-hard dick.

Moving quickly through my morning routine, I push away thoughts of last night and instead focus on tomorrow’s game. I need to redeem myself, and maybe I can now that the tension is gone.

I skip the shower, opting to save it for post-run, then come back out into the room. Trav is sitting in an armchair dressed in workout clothes and gazing down at his phone. He cackles at the screen.

“Dude.” He looks up, his eyes gleaming with humor. “Westfeld was hit so hard last night he ended up on Ottawa’s bench laying across their guys, who promptly dumped him. Hate that guy.”

“Oh, shit. Really?”

Trav holds up his phone, replaying the video. I laugh too. Mitch Westfeld is a douche, capital D. Not just on the ice, either. He’s always getting into trouble in his personal life, and I’m pretty sure if he weren’t such a force on the ice, the league would’ve cut him loose long ago.

“That’s pretty funny.”

Trav nods, replaying it again. “Oh the chirps I have planned the next time we play him.”

I laugh, digging through my suitcase for my compression pants. Once I’m dressed, we head out, running through the semi-familiar streets of Midtown Manhattan, soaking in the early-morning chaos that is New York City. I wouldn’t want to live here, but I do appreciate the city’s energy. Of course, I’ll never admit that to Travis.

His mood is bright as he talks the entire run, sharing funny stories about growing up on the East Coast and naming a Boston equivalent to everything New York has.

By the time we get back to the hotel, my legs are shaking, but the run was a good one. We finish with a quick weight session in the hotel gym then return to our room.

“You can shower first,” Trav says.

“Cool. Thanks.”