Page 65 of Two Guys One Puck
“Your sausage out is you having boundaries?” Sleepy mutters from where he’s curled up half in his cubbie.
“Every man has the sausage out. It’s natural. I’m not out here spreading my cheeks like I do in private.”
“You sun your bunghole? Like spread the cheeks sun it?” Grumpy asks. “That sounds kinda gay…”
“We exist in a fucking sausage factory in here. Everything is fucking gay in hockey.” Levine, who we refer to as Happy, cuts in before I can.
I’m so proud of that little bean. “Exactly. You’re splitting hairs.”
Grumpy grunts but doesn’t say more.
I fist bump Happy as he walks by.
I settle into my pre-game routine, trying to keep Seaborn—Ronan—out of my mind, but it’s impossible. I want to message him, but at the same time, I want him to message me first. I have to know he wants to see me again, and it’s not just another easy thing for him. Will he even be interested if he doesn’t have to work for it?
A million fucking questions, and I need to go warm up, so it’s time to put my armor on.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
I fight a smile because I will not get my hopes up. It could be spam. But it’s not. It’s a snap notification.
Seaborn: so are we going double or nothing?
Ktytor: double? You ready to hand over your ass twice?
Seaborn: you wish.
Ktytor: I’ll see you on the ice, beautiful.
Seaborn: I look forward to it and after.
Cheeky bastard. I like it.
And now I’m half hard in my damn cup.
The Gods new line is a beast. And they’ve only gotten better with more practice. Their offense was solid last season, but this year, they are dominating our defense. I can’t keep up with the shots they take. Not with Seaborn on me; he knows me too well. I’ve never had a defender know me so well. Did I do this by fucking him? It can’t be. Sex has nothing to fucking do with hockey.
Or does it?
My team funnels the puck to me, and before I can even get a shot off, Seaborn darts around me and steals it, taking off towards the other side. He slings it up to his wing, who takes a perfect fucking shot. They score, putting them up 3-1.
“I’m going to really enjoy my win,” Seaborn whispers when we’re on each other again.
“Don’t count me out yet, Honey cake.”
“Scared to give up that ass?” Seaborn asks.
“Not if you earn it.” Blood flows to my cock, and at the same time, anxiety burns in my chest. My body is torn between arousal and frustration. I don’t even know if I want to be fucked. When I made the wager, I was sure I’d be the one topping, and the idea of him losing and then allowing me to sink inside him makes me a bit crazy. The reverse confuses me.
In my culture, we‘re taught not to be vulnerable with anyone. It’s a weakness. It’s the primary reason men can’t be gay. Submitting to another man is making ourselves inferior to them. There is no exchange, but none of that makes me want it less. I want an equal, and maybe that’s why I’m far more attracted to him than any woman I’ve ever met.
“I’m gonna earn it.”
“If you say so, pretty boy.”
“So you think I’m pretty?” he asks, all smug.
“Just in the shower,” I mutter before we take off back down the ice.
