Page 8 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

“You got any more pucks in there?” I ask, eyeing his bag.

He shrugs. “A couple.”

I grin and hold my hand open for him to toss me another one. Beau backs off, but not without shooting him one more warning look, while I start juggling with the two pucks. I’ve never actually juggled before, but it didn’t look that hard, and I was right, it’s not. Not if you’ve got decent reflexes anyway. I get a good rhythm going and then nod to Basilio.

“Hit me again.”

He pulls a third puck out of his back and throws it at me. Juggling isn’t that hard, but apparently catching a third puck while juggling is pretty tricky. I drop the other two and manage to catch the third one right before it nails me in the chest. The rest of the guys whistle and cheer in a lovingly mocking kind of way, and I take a bow.

I pick up the dropped pucks and toss them back to Basilio one at a time, then plop my ass down on the bench to start wrapping my stick. The position unintentionally gives me a front-row seat to Beau bending over in nothing but a jock, his big ass cheeks parting slightly to flash me a peek at his hole with its patch of dark hair surrounding it. My mind conjures the image of his two fingers buried deep inside of it and the echoing memory of his throaty groans.

My body heats and I jerk my gaze back to my stick.

What the fuck was that? I’m not trying to think about Bozy all sweaty with his big dick in his hand. I swallow hard and my hands shake just a little as I pull the old tape off of my handle. I stop and shake them out. Did I eat enough today? We carbo loaded this morning, and then there was a big salmon lunch when we landed in New York, plus I drank a protein shake just before we got on the bus, so I should be fine.

When I look up again, Beau has his compression shorts on and is working on his pads. Good. Or, I mean… not good, but whatever. I don’t really care what state of undress he’s in. I pop my gum between my teeth and toss the wad of sticky, worn tape onto the bench next to me.

It had to be pretty good though… the fingering thing. I’ve definitely never made sounds like that when I’m jerking it. I’m usually kind of all business when I’m taking care of things myself. My cock swells against my thigh, reminding me that I’ve done nothing but take care of things myself lately. That’s gotta be why I’m still thinking about last night. I just need to get some real action, clear the pipes a bit, blow off some steam. Maybe I’ll pick up a puck bunny after the game tonight. If I’m not too tired. New York is a damn good team and I’m sure they’re going to make us work for every goal.

I glance at Beau again, quiet in a locker room full of loud, rowdy guys, completely focused on getting himself ready for the game and tuning everyone else out. I love that about him. Some of the guys in the league are here because it was their dads’ dream for them, some are in it for the money or the fame, but Beau is here for the love of the game, just like I am.

He glances over his shoulder, and when our eyes meet, something nervous and sort of shy flashes in his expression. I can’t exactly reassure him again right now with a dozen other guys around us that it’s seriously not a big deal, so I shoot him a wink instead and toss him the roll of tape I’m finished with. He catches it over his shoulder and nods in thanks, but he still looks a little tense.

I’m sure he’ll shake it off once he’s on the ice. At least, I hope he will.

FIVE

BEAU

After warming up, I get to my feet, trying to shake off this haze of weirdness clinging to me. I search the ice for Trav, finding him easily while he does some hip stretches in front of a few women who giggle as they watch him. No matter what team we play, there are always fans in the crowd desperate to see hockey’s sexiest player.

Trav gets to his feet and skates over to me, motioning me closer with his index finger. I skate over to him, tugging my helmet off, and Trav immediately buries his fingers in my hair. The move is both comforting and weirdly unsettling. That’s new.

“We’ve got this.”

Nodding, I search his eyes, finding some reassurance in their warmth. “Yeah,” I grunt.

But we don’t “got” this. We’re a mess.

The chemistry is off, and I’m the problem. I can’t seem to get my feet to do what my head wants tonight. I’m missing passes and letting New York’s defense get past me too many times.

Trav is working his ass off and I’m desperately trying to get my shit together, but it’s no use. I’m failing him. The team relies on our first line, a position I’m lucky to have, and I’m fucking it up.

We leave the ice after our second shift, and while we sit on the bench, Trav and the other guys steal glances at me, and I want to scream. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Bajic slaps my back, no doubt eyeing the first-line spot I took from him when he sprained his ankle badly. I don’t blame him. “You’ll find your way, Bozy.”

During our next shift after New York scores on us again, Trav skates me into the boards, leaning in close. “Get out of your head, Bozy.”

I nod and try to block out everything but this game. Normally, the cold smell of the ice, the excited chants of fans—even when they root for the other team—and my guys all around me are all I need to be at my best, but tonight it’s not enough.

I struggle through every period and every shift until I hit the ice for the final one. At this point, I’m surprised Coach hasn’t yanked me altogether.

We’ve got less than five minutes left of this game, and while a win is out of reach, I could at least improve a little.

The puck slides toward me and I pass it too soon, missing Trav by seconds. He grunts in frustration as he battles for the puck with New York’s defense. He’s able to pass it and get it away from our net, no thanks to me.

My performance stayed a hot pile of shit, and as we trudge off the ice at the final buzzer having lost 4-1, the weight of it all threatens to crush me.