Page 17 of Game Misconduct

Garcia’s breath came faster as he jerked himself off, and Mike stared at him doing it, like a starving beggar alone at an all-you-can-eat. He didn’t know where to look first because there was so much to look at. The way the muscles on Garcia’s abdomen moved as he strained up. Those fuckingthighs. And, of course, his big hands, fingers curled around his dick, thumb stroking over the head.

If you had asked Mike a few hours earlier about the sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his life, he couldn’t have answered. But if you asked him now, at least under the influence of a truth serum or something, he would have to say it was a guy jerking himself off on camera while Mike watched, a guy he hated and wouldn’t hesitate to punch in the face again.

He couldn’t even say anything, he was so wound up, watching. Every muscle in his body was straining up, like if he just twisted himself into enough knots, he could somehow teleport himself to Pittsburgh, shove Garcia down into the bed and fuck him up. The only saving grace in this situation was that Garcia seemed like he was just as undone by it all as Mike was. His hand had sped up and Mike could hear the sound of skin on skin, the occasional soft groan that escaped. It just made him think that if he was there, if he was fucking Garcia, he’d make him be noisy, he’d fucking tear the sounds right out of him.

Later.

Another time.

Not now.

He couldn’t do it now. He was so hard it actually hurt. His free hand white-knuckled at his side. He couldn’t even muster up the energy for anger, he was so consumed with watching, with needing.

“What do you want?” Garcia gasped, like every word hurt him.

“I...come on, come, please, please, I—I can’t—”

“God, babe, you have totellme, you have to ask—”

“I want to see you come, I want to—please—”

And with another soft gasp that sounded like he’d been punched in the gut, Garcia came, and Mike had the weird pleasure of watching it, the white spurts against the shadowed skin of his belly, the way his body trembled. The noise that came out of Mike’s mouth was like he’d come himself.

When Garcia picked up the phone again, Mike could finally see his face. The flush in his cheeks, the huge pupils, mouth hanging open, stupid. God, he looked like he’d been taken apart, and Mike wanted that. Wantedhim.

“Can I—” he managed to choke.

“It’s all you now,” Garcia said lazily. “Take off your boxers, though. I want to see you. I want to see everything.”

Mike kicked off his underwear before he could even think about it, too eager to argue. Set the phone down so Garcia could watch him do it, see all of him. The tattoos covered most of his belly and thighs with some small gaps. It felt even more obscene that way, knowing everything thatwasn’ttattooed was highlighted. He knew he was making noises, embarrassing noises, but he couldn’t control them. His hand flexed open and shut in the air over his dick, but he didn’t touch it. Couldn’t touch it.

“Jesus Christ,” Garcia said. He didn’t sound lazy anymore.

“God, please, please, please,” Mike groaned. “Please, fuck, I gotta come, you’rekilling me—”

“Touch yourself. Go on, babe, go on.”

He almost sobbed when he wrapped his hand around himself, when he started to move it. It was dry, which usually would have been a little uncomfortable, but he was so fucking turned on that he could just use the moisture from the beads of precome because he was literally five seconds away from embarrassing himself. It took all of his concentration to keep from coming and still jerk himself off at the same time, so he almost didn’t realize Garcia was still talking him through it, not as urgently as he’d done before, but low and filthy and encouraging.

“That’s it, just like that, come on, think about my hands on you, I’d fucking destroy you, I’d—”

Mike came so hard that his whole body bowed as he accidentally knocked the phone over and smacked himself in the face with one flailing hand. The noise he made sounded inhuman, not like him. He shivered and shivered and shivered again, and by the time he got his shit together to pick up the phone, his dick was still making sad attempts to keep coming, even when there was nothing left to give.

Garcia was staring at him when he finally got up the courage to look. “Jesus Christ,” he said after a moment. “You’re something else, kid.”

Mike, too fucked up to even bother snapping at him, made an inarticulate noise and closed his eyes.

Garcia laughed, sleepy and satisfied and strangely warm, and said, “Go to sleep, you stupid motherfucker. You got a game tonight.”

“Oh, fuck,” Mike said, “god, you...” and before he could embarrass himself further, he hung up.

These days Danny had a love-hate relationship with exercise. There was a certain dumb sense of accomplishment in hitting and exceeding numerical goals, or at least there used to be. Now it just felt as rote and mechanical as everything else. Even though he didn’t have to work out the same way during the season, he still pushed his way through rounds on the bike or sets in the gym even when most days his body was screaming at him. At the end, though, he was mostly just aware that this, like the rest of his life, was a means to an end. He lifted weights. He was stronger than anyone else on the ice. He would drag his way through the next two years, or until his body gave out on him, whichever came first.

It was a Saturday morning and he lay on his back on the bench, staring up at the bar above him. His back was slick with sweat and his muscles ached in a good way that would probably be a bad way in a couple of hours. It took him a minute to get himself together before he hauled himself up to unrack the plates and limp back to the lockers.

His phone was ringing, and he was worn out enough that he wasn’t really thinking about it. He answered automatically, half expecting it to be Mike.

“What the hell,” Araceli said.

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