Hot Jocks Read online

  Hot Jocks Box Set

  By J.M. Snyder

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2017 J.M. Snyder

  ISBN 9781634865074

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Hot Jocks Box Set

  By J.M. Snyder

  Faceoff

  Play On

  Served!

  Tee’d Off

  Batter Up

  Victory Lap

  Getting Wet

  Out of Bounds

  Faceoff

  The hockey puck slides easily into the goal, setting off both the strobe light behind the goalie and the meager crowd that goes wild as Christian Magdziuk skids to a stop on the ice. The game isn’t thirty seconds old and already he’s put the Bedford Blizzard on the board. As the sirens wail around him, the announcer plays a rousing chorus of “Who Let the Dogs Out” to get the crowd rocking. “What a play!” a faceless voice calls out over the ice. “Looks like the Magic is back in R-R-R-R-Richmond!”

  Christian raises his hockey stick in triumph, but the fanfare dies down quickly. He is on the visiting team, after all. The momentum of his shot has carried him around the back of the goal—on the other side, his teammate, Gordon Burle, barrels into him. Beneath his face mask, Burle is beaming. “Great shot!” he yells.

  With a quick grin, Christian skates for the players’ bench. His team is lined up, hands out, to congratulate him. As he skates down the line, slapping hands with each in turn, he risks a glance behind him at the opposing team’s players. The Richmond Rebels, Christian’s former teammates, glare at him from across the ice. Only one man doesn’t watch him, and no matter how hard Christian stares at his old friend, Rebel Ronnie Niedermeyer never bothers to look his way.

  Burle bumps into Christian, propelling him away from the box and back out onto the ice. “Positions,” he hollers to corral the rest of the team. “We still have another minute or so on the ice.”

  As Christian glides to a stop in the center of the rink, he glances over at Ronnie, whose dark, shaggy hair has been brusquely pushed back out of his ice-blue eyes. Twin spots of color dot his cheeks, either from the cold coming in off the rink or from some heated emotion, Christian doesn’t know. His old friend’s chin rests in one large hand, and his forefinger is caught between ruddy lips as he gnaws on his nail. He’s studiously watching the goalie anchor the net back into place, and ignores Christian.

  Look at me, Christian wants to say. It’s only been a few scant months since he left the Rebels. Do his former teammates still hold against him the trade that sent him to the Blizzard? Does Ronnie hate him now, after all they had been to each other?

  Behind him, the referee blows a whistle to call the players together. Christian hunches over his stick, waiting for the puck to drop. Facing off against him is Eric Latimer, a man who used to invite Christian and the rest of the Rebels over for beers after practice. One look into Eric’s hard gaze and Christian can tell those fun memories are eating Eric up inside. Cautiously, Christian ventures, “Hey, Eric.”

  Eric’s eyes narrow in anger. “You got lucky with that shot, Magic. Live it up, eh? It’s the last puck you’ll sink tonight.”

  Christian laughs. “Who’s gonna stop me? You?”

  “Wait until Ronnie gets on the ice.” Eric knocks Christian’s stick with his, as if challenging him to say something. “He’s always been faster than you.”

  Ronnie won’t even look at me. Christian glances over at the player’s box.

  Sure enough, Ronnie’s gaze is elsewhere.

  Christian frowns in consternation. Look at me! How can the guy face off against him if he won’t even acknowledge his presence?

  Beside him, Eric mutters, “The Magic I knew never needed an assist to score.”

  Christian elbows Eric to silence him. “Shut up.”

  Eric shoves back, hard, knocking Christian off-balance. To keep from falling, Christian drops his stick and grabs twin fistfuls of Eric’s shirt. With both hands full, he leaves himself open for attack. Eric presses his advantage—he pummels Christian’s stomach, each punch a glancing blow through the layers of padding he wears, but the uncompromising look in Eric’s eyes hurts more than he cares to admit. They were friends once, or teammates at least. Christian hasn’t forgotten this.

  Apparently, it means little to Eric.

  Christian closes in, giving Eric no room to maneuver. They skate around each other wildly, helmets butting together like antlers locked in battle. The ref holding the puck scoots back, out of their way, but doesn’t interrupt their tussle. Around them, the crowd starts up a familiar chant, “Fight. Fight. Fight.” This is what they came to see—for some fans, this is what hockey’s all about.

  Christian gets Eric’s shirt up around his neck and manages to get in two good jabs right under his ribs before he’s pulled away.

  Eric swings as they separate—Christian takes the hit in the gut, and leverages himself on the arms that hold him to kick out with one leg. The dull blade of his skate slices through Eric’s pants at the thigh, causing the crowd to gasp as one. He’ll get extra time in the penalty box for that, but he’s headed there anyway. No one heard the shit Eric said, so the refs will think Christian started the fight. He kicks out again. Might as well get in trouble for something good.

  This time, his leg comes nowhere near Eric, who is being led away by two of his teammates. As Christian strains to loosen himself from whoever it is holding him back, he calls out, “Fuck you, Latimer. Where do you get off—”

  “You already have five for fighting,” Burle mutters in his ear. “Want to get kicked out of the game entirely? Keep talking. They’ll pull you and you know it.”

  Christian stops struggling, and Burle lets him go. With his most menacing stare, Christian pins his former teammate with a look so fierce, he’s surprised Eric has the courage to skate away from it. Burle hooks one arm around Christian’s and leads him to the penalty box as Eric returns to his bench.

  For the briefest moment, Ronnie Niedermeyer looks up from his fastidious study of his fingernails to meet Christian’s gaze.

  “Ronnie,” Christian sighs. He tries to skate closer, to read what might be written behind those cold eyes, but Burle keeps a tight hold on his arm and, before Christian can free himself, Ronnie turns away.

  * * * *

  This time last year, Christian was a rookie with the Richmond Rebels. He’d blown away the competition in try-outs, and landed a coveted spot on the Virginia Professional Hockey League’s best team. Sure, it wasn’t the majors, not yet, but the Rebels were a step in that direction. With Christia
n’s skills, he knew he’d be hitting the American Hockey League in no time, and after that? The NHL, maybe even the Olympics. He could skate rings around his competition, and no goalie could block his shots.

  The first day of practice, he arrived at the Richmond Coliseum with his ego inflated from try-outs. Once on the ice, however, he wised up quick—the Rebels were a cohesive team who played together like a fine-tuned machine, many parts working toward one common goal.

  Christian could only hope to integrate himself into their camaraderie. He started out as he had at practice, fast and furious, taking no prisoners in his fight to attain the goal. It was his puck, his game. He would show them just who they were playing with now. He’d show them he was the best.

  Afterward, in the locker room, Christian stood by himself as he undressed. His jersey, his pads, his helmet and gloves, each was tossed unceremoniously into his locker. He’d heard the muttering from his teammates as they skated off the ice; he knew he wasn’t welcome among them. The others hadn’t hung around the lockers after practice, but rather ignored him and left quickly. There wasn’t even a word of encouragement to him. He’d played good out there, damn good, and not one of them bothered to mention it. So fuck them. Fuck them all.

  Behind him came the sound of a sneaker scraping over the concrete floor. Christian didn’t bother to turn around. A man cleared his throat, and Christian ignored him.

  “So,” came the soft Southern drawl, “you’re the one they call Magic out on the ice.”

  Christian felt his cheeks heat up. “It’s mad-jook. You’re pronouncing it wrong.”

  The man behind him snickered. “You looked like Magic to me.”

  Now Christian turned and saw Ronnie, one of the Rebel’s best players, leaning against the lockers with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His dark hair was a disheveled mess, as if he hadn’t bothered to brush it after climbing out of bed that morning. A faint shadow clung to his chin and jaw, making his lips look impossibly pink. His eyes were the clear blue of a summer sky—Christian thought if he stared into them for too long, he’d see through to the other side.

  With a grunt, he turned back to his locker. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

  Ronnie closed the distance between them to lean against the locker next to Christian’s. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding anything but. “For a minute there, I thought we were on the same team.”

  Christian glanced at him, confused. “We are—”

  “Then fucking act like it.”

  Ronnie’s voice was that same slow drawl, but now it held a sharpness that made Christian bristle. They stared like wild alley cats, each assessing the fight in the other, each gauging the other’s weakness and strength. Christian felt as if he were being pulled into that crystal gaze—he was in danger of toppling over into it, drowning in that frozen stare, and never resurfacing. He tried to look away and couldn’t, but he didn’t know if it were because Ronnie held him prisoner, or if he himself didn’t want to be set free.

  After a long, breathless moment, Ronnie smiled. His grin warmed his eyes, and Christian relaxed. Strong fingers touched his wrist, surprising him, and he had to look down to assure himself it was Ronnie’s hand on his.

  “Magic,” Ronnie murmured. Christian didn’t bother correcting him. “I’m wondering if you have any of those fast, slick moves off the ice, too.”

  Christian grinned. Maybe Ronnie had meant something entirely different when he said they played on the same team.

  * * * *

  In the penalty box, Christian watches the time count down his five minutes off the ice. He should’ve expected the fight—since he first heard they’d be playing their opener against the Rebels, Christian dreaded this game. Part of him hoped maybe there were no hard feelings about his trade. No one but Ronnie knows he requested it. No one but Ronnie really should have cared. But the hard glint he’d seen in Eric’s eyes said otherwise. He’s the traitor now, the sell-out.

  Whatever, he tries to tell himself, but it still bothers him to think men he once played with, men he’d considered friends, have nothing civil left to say to him.

  And then there’s Ronnie.

  A minute into his penalty, there’s a shift change on the ice. Both teams switch players, and from the corner of his eye, Christian sees Ronnie skate into position. He’s a winger, stationed close to the penalty box, but he doesn’t bother looking over at Christian. His dismissal hurts more than Eric’s harsh words or tough blows ever could.

  As play resumes, he turns back to his study of the clock, counting down the seconds until he’s free to leave his small glass prison. His team probably won’t score again until he gets back on the ice. He’s that good, with or without an assist from his teammates. The Blizzard is just a stepping stone for him, as were the Rebels. This time next year, he plans to be in the AHL and leave these petty fights behind.

  Out of nowhere, the puck flies straight for him. Christian flinches out of reflex, but it just hits the glass in front of him with a loud thock!, then falls to the ice. He’s distracted from the time clock now—two men fly toward him, hockey sticks slashing at each others’ legs as they angle after the puck. One of them breaks away, giving chase, but the other slams into the boards right in front of Christian.

  He flinches again as the glass shudders. And finds himself face to face with Ronnie Niedermeyer.

  It seems like forever the two men stare at each other. The crowd fades away, the game dissolves—the chill that seeps into Christian’s tired legs and butt comes from Ronnie’s ice-chip eyes, and the look there freezes Christian’s heart in mid-beat. He still can’t read what goes on behind those cold eyes, but he knows from experience just how warm and loving they can be. Images rise unbidden in his mind—the two of them practicing on rollerblades, bodies pressed together as they checked each other’s swings; those eyes hooded with lust late in the evening, or drowsy with sleep in the early morning light; Ronnie’s too-pink lips kissing the firm muscles of Christian’s abdomen, those eyes glancing up as he moved lower, and lower…

  Another player skates up behind Ronnie, coming in fast. Too fast. Christian’s gaze flickers over Ronnie’s shoulder and his former teammate notices. With a wink as if to thank him for the tip, Ronnie ducks low and hugs the boards as he skates out of the way. A second later, a member of the Blizzard hits the glass where Ronnie stood not a moment before.

  “Almost had him,” the guy grouses. He flashes Christian a teeth-baring grin and returns to the game.

  But Christian can’t focus on him. He can’t return to the timer, either, counting down the seconds until he’s out of the penalty box. His gaze follows Ronnie as he skates after the puck, and that wink sticks in his mind. He closes his eyes and sees it again. So quick, so surreptitious, so unexpected…

  And so much like the Ronnie Christian used to know that maybe, just maybe, not everyone on the Rebels feels the same about his leaving.

  * * * *

  Christian’s first game with the Rebels had been against the Portsmouth Patriots, a low-ranking team they beat without trying. It was Christian’s first real hockey game, not counting those he’d played while in college or in amateur leagues. His first professional game. Hearing his name called out across the ice as he sank puck after puck stirred in him thoughts of greatness. This was where he needed to be, here. This was the game he was meant to play.

  One clear thought rang through him as he had skated off the ice after scoring the final goal of the game. Gretzky, move over. It’s time for some Magic in the majors.

  After practice games, the team usually went out to an early dinner at Mulligan’s, the nearby sports bar. During NHL season, one of the guys might invite the others over to watch the game—usually Eric, whose giant, flat-screen TV and decked-out home bar always made Christian think the guy was trying to compensate for inadequacies in other areas of his life.

  There weren’t any plans to do anything after the first real game of the season, though. They ended late, and
by the time everyone showered and changed into street clothes, it was almost eleven o’clock at night. Most of the guys said their good-byes and headed home, their victory cheers turning to sleepy hurrahs as they left the locker room.

  Christian’s playing earned him a few claps on the back, that was it. The feeling among the teammates was that they had won, as a whole, and Christian’s individual goals were forgotten. Sure, he’d scored for his team, but would a little appreciation hurt?

  As he stuffed the last of his uniform into his sports bag, he felt someone approach from behind. He didn’t turn, but he didn’t need to. He knew who it was. “Hey, Ron.”

  “Hey, yourself.” Ronnie leaned against the locker beside his, so close that Christian felt his presence like a blanket draped over his backside. When he bent to retrieve his skates, his ass butted against Ronnie’s crotch, and for the briefest moment, an audacious hand curved over his hip before falling away.

  They’d been skating around each other for weeks now. Always a tentative touch here, a hanging word there—nothing solid, nothing Christian could pin down and analyze. But he watched Ronnie with other members of the team and knew these small touches and lingering moments in the locker room were reserved for him alone.

  Turning, Christian dropped to the bench in front of the lockers and pushed his wavy blond bangs out of his eyes. “Good game, eh?”

  Ronnie grinned. “You were great out there. We’re lucky to have you.”

  Christian ducked his head to hide his grin. Finally, someone who attested his skill. “Yeah, well, thanks. I was starting to think I was invisible or something. No one else bothered to say a word.” He tried to keep his voice light, but it was hard hiding the bitterness he felt toward the rest of his team. “They act like they won on their own without me.”

  “We’re a team,” Ronnie reminded him. “The Rebels won tonight, not Mr. Magic.”

  Christian frowned down into the bag at his feet and said nothing.

  The silence between them stretched out, uncomfortable. Then Ronnie nudged Christian’s foot with his. When Christian looked up, he saw those cool eyes had warmed above a shy smile that looked so incongruous with the tough-guy persona Ronnie usually projected. “Hey,” he said softly. “What are you doing later?”