Page 115 of Interference

In the end, Seattle beat Minneapolis 4-1. Anthony wouldn’t be home for a while—he still had to shower and eat—so I chilled in front of the TV and watched the postgame show. I’d always hated those when my Army buddies and I watched football. Like, what was the point? We just watched the game. We know this team needed to pass more and run more—we fucking saw it.

But with hockey, I didn’t mind, mostly because I was still trying to learn the sport. One of the commentators would take a play, slow it down, and draw lines and arrows to indicate what was happening, and that helped organize the utter chaos into actual order and strategy. The amount of cooperation, communication, and trust between hockey players was fascinating to me. How some of them were absolute magic together, but they all had to be able to work with any of their teammates, often coming up with strategies on the fly.

There was even a guy on Anthony’s team who could bounce a puck off the boards and have it go straight to one of his teammates to set up a scoring chance. How? How? I couldn’t even work out the trigonometry required to make a bank shot on a pool table. Bank a puck while skating twenty miles an hour and have that puck reach someone else who was going equally fast? That was… I don’t know, witchcraft or something.

The postgame show wrapped up, so I switched off the TV and got up to finish cleaning from when I’d made dinner earlier. It wasn’t much of a mess—just a couple of dishes in the sink—but I didn’t like leaving Anthony’s kitchen in disarray.

I was just starting the dishwasher when the cats, who’d been chilling on the cat tree, suddenly whipped their heads toward the kitchen. About two seconds later, the garage door started.

Both cats darted into the kitchen and onto the island.

Lily, who was lying on the floor by the couch, looked up, but she didn’t seem overly concerned, and she put her head back down.

Footsteps came toward the kitchen door. Both cats started purring even louder, kneading on the tile, and… I mean, I could honestly relate. I was happy he was home, too.

Then the door opened. I managed to hold on to my dignity and not chirp like Moose or almost fall off the counter like Bear. I did, however, shamelessly look Anthony up and down as he greeted the cats. I would never in a million years get tired of the way this man looked in a suit. Tonight he was wearing a plaid gray-and-blue suit with a dark blue tie, and his tailor had clearly been doing the Lord’s work.

After he’d taken a moment to say hello to his boys, I stepped closer and slid an arm around him. “So are you going to say hi to me, too?”

He grinned, pulling me in close. “Well, maybe if you got on the counter and danced for me, I’d—”

“Oh my God.” I snorted. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

He did, in fact, shut up and kiss me. We were both still laughing, but our lips quickly softened into a long, lazy kiss.

After a while, he touched his forehead to mine. “Hello to you, too.”

“What can I say?” I licked my lips. “I’ve been looking forward to you getting home.”

“Mmhmm. Same.” He nudged me up against the counter. “Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on hockey after you’ve sucked my brains out my dick?”

“I don’t know. You looked like you were doing just fine.” I kissed him lightly. “Congrats on the goal, by the way.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Maybe that means pre-game blowjobs are good luck?”

“Ooh, that’s a possibility. We should make it a thing.”

He laughed again, then claimed another kiss. God, I loved the way he kissed. And the hard-on pressing against my hip had all kinds of dirty thoughts swirling in my head.

“So after all that hockey today…” I slid my hands up his chest on either side of his tie. “Do you have anything left for me?”

Anthony groaned softly, pressing his dick harder against me. “Probably can’t handle getting fucked. But hockey doesn’t wear out my mouth.”

So it didn’t.

Anthony left early the next morning for practice, and he was gone most of the day for a team meeting and some other obligations. Something about reviewing film, I guess? I was still learning all the things hockey players were required to do besides, you know, playing hockey.

By the time he came home, I’d cooked up some light pasta for dinner, and after we’d eaten, we settled on the couch with some wine. We’d talked easily over dinner, but now he was a little quiet. Not cold-shouldering me or anything, just… preoccupied.

“Hey.” I nudged his foot with mine. “You still here?”

He shook himself. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m…” He sipped his wine. “I was just thinking.”

I tilted my head. “About?”

Anthony stared into his wineglass for a long moment. When he met my gaze again, his expression was completely serious. “I, um… If we’re going to keep doing this—getting involved with each other, I mean…” He chewed his lip. “Look, I’ve been in situations where the other person had… I don’t want to say ‘control,’ and ‘power’ doesn’t even fit right. Or… hell, maybe it does, but…”

I watched him, but then the pieces came together. “You’re worried about the power dynamic because of our, uh, situation?”

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