Page 44 of Gravity
The team celebrates in the dressing room like little boys, again. We grab cans of soda from the coolers and shake them, then pop the tops and spray each other as we scream the Montréal victory song at the top of our lungs.Olé, olé-olé, Olé!I'm drenched. Everyone is drenched. Knee pads and tape fly. We're having a soda and equipment scramble, and we're howling.
It feels like coming home. Like I've been away—lost at sea, lost in the world—but I've found my way back to my brothers. Soda is dripping from the ends of my hair. Slava has MacKenzie in a headlock and is giving him a noogie. Valery keeps any interlopers away with his goalie stick, but he's laughing. Hunter and I find each other's gazes through the melee. He's beaming. At me, at the team, at our victory. At himself, because like the rest of us, he played the game of his life.
Everyone here deserves this happiness.
The celebration lasts because none of us want to let it go. The high of our victory mellows, though, and turns into a sated, contemplative glory. We are lazy with our post-game rituals, stripping slowly only to stop and reminisce about goals, plays, moments on the ice that are elongating behind us. We take off pads but leave our shorts on, then strip out of those but stay shirtless. None of us can stop smiling.
Eventually, bags are packed, clothes are put on, and the team begins to depart one by one. Back to wives or girlfriends or to parents who are waiting and probably wondering what's taking so damn long. But I’m not sorry, because in here, we're also family, and we need this tonight.
Hunter and I end up the only ones in the dressing room when three of our teammates head to the showers. I can hear their voices bouncing off the tile as they retell—again—a glorious play from earlier. Valery has stacked his pads in precise order, and he's left to stretch in the weight room. Someone else burps loudly from the toilets.
I've stripped to my compression leggings, and the sweat that soaked through my sweater and my pads earlier has made salt flats on my skin. Goosebumps and exhilaration cover me. My gear is in a heap, my equipment a soggy mess. My skates are laying in a puddle of ice melt.
The carpeted floor is soft and soggy on my bare feet when I cross the dressing room. Hunter’s sitting on the bench and has pulled on his jeans, but he hasn't changed out of his Étoiles undershirt. He has his elbows on his knees as he watches me walk to him. His eyes are as bright as starlight.
“Can I sit here?” I point to the empty bench beside him. It's Slava's spot, but Slava is long gone. He left behind a tornado of his equipment. The only gear of his that isn't spread out all over the ground is his used tape, because, like MacKenzie, he hurls his balled-up tape toward me. But he's laid his sweater across the bench perfectly, smooth and flat without any wrinkles. Slava may have trained himself to strip and leave the game behind and move on, but he takes care of his team colors. With Slava, it's the little things.
“I don’t know,” Hunter says demurely. “Slava is kind of picky about his spot.” Slava's spot on the bench is almost two times as wide as Hunter's, though Hunter is the far larger of the two men. Still, Hunter is the newbie, and Slava is the veteran, and he's earned himself the wide elbow room.
“Mmm. I suppose I should sit somewhere else then…”
Hunter's eyes dart to the showers, then to the toilets. We're alone, and no one seems to be in any hurry to return. His grin turns playful, and he snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me into his lap.
Adrenaline spikes through me, almost harder than it did before the game. I'm straddling him in the middle of our dressing room with our teammates feet away. I grab onto his shoulders to stop the world around me from spinning.
Hunter takes hold of my ass in both of his hands. “You were amazing,” he whispers. His breath hitches, and he darts forward and presses his lips against my chin, once, twice. “Are you happy?”
I'm deliriously happy. Over-the-moon happy. I haven't been this happy since—
Since Guy'sdépanneur.Since the river. Since Vegas. Since I met Hunter.
“Mais oui.” I check over my shoulder. Listen.Non, no one is coming, so I kiss him on the lips. It's supposed to be quick, just a little peck, but he tastes too good. Feels too good, so I linger, and in moments, I'm sighing into his kiss. My arms wrap around his neck as he pulls me closer. My tongue slides out, finds his, and we're really kissing now—
A toilet flushes. The water in the showers turns off. I scramble out of Hunter's lap as Karel pads back into the dressing room. He's in his boxer briefs and nothing else, and he gives us a salute as he grabs a soda and chugs it. Then the guys from the shower return, still talking about the game.
A few minutes ago, I wanted to stay here with the team and let this happiness and contentment build inside of me until I could float away on our hard-earned joy. Now I want to be alone with Hunter, and I want to explore victory and exultation in a decidedly different way.
“Are you ready to get out of here?”
The look in Hunter's eyes sharpens. “Definitely.”
“Allons-y.”
* * *
We nearly don't makeit out of the player's lot.
He slides into the passenger seat of my truck as I climb behind the wheel. Our eyes meet, and a moment later, we lunge across the center console, kissing like we didn't just make out inside the dressing room minutes ago.
The gearshift is digging into my ribs, but,calisse, I'm not close enough to Hunter. I chase his kiss and crawl into his lap. His hands slide up my back, and one goes into my still-sweat-damp hair while the other cradles my cheek.
We make out again frantically, feverishly. He's holding me tight to him, our legs and hips and chests pressed together like we can merge. Everything on my body is sore, and my thighs and my abs and my arms are firing, trembling from adrenaline and exertion, but still, I thrust and grind as I seek out his heat and hardness. I want to get our flies undone and pull our cocks out, take this to the next level right here and now. I want to slide to my knees in the footwell and take him into my mouth.Tabernak, I loved the taste of him. I'd imagined blowing a man—blowing him—so many times, but actually wrapping my lips around his cock? Sucking him until I made him come? Just the memory makes me melt.
But we are in the player's parking lot of the arena. This isn't the place or the time. I want more than a few stolen minutes with Hunter. I want to lay him out and devour him, trace my tongue along every inch of his skin. Follow the path of his muscles and kiss away each fresh bruise he earned from this game. I want to spend hours with him in my bed and in my arms. I'm allowed to, now. I'm allowed to bring my dreams and desires into this world.
When we pull apart, our lips cling to each other as if our bodies can't bear to fully separate.
“Let's go home?” I whisper. He nods. He's breathless, his eyes are wide, and his hair is ruffled, somehow worse than it was after the game now that I've had my hands buried in it.
