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Finally Ronnie took Christian’s cock in his mouth again. With hooded eyes, Christian watched Ronnie watch him—one moment, the bulbous tip of his dick separated them; the next, Ronnie swallowed it down, his mouth opening wide to take his entire length in. Those ice-chip eyes never blinked, and that wintry gaze never left his own as Ronnie deep-throated him. When his lips kissed the hair curled around Christian’s cock, his tongue slipped out to lick over Christian’s fuzzy nuts, and his cockhead brushed against the back of Ronnie’s throat.

  His mouth worked around Christian’s shaft once, twice. Every inch of Christian’s body felt poised, like a drop of water dangling from a faucet, waiting to fall. His cock felt sheathed in wet heat, and a bead of saliva drooled down over his balls. “Yes,” he sighed, and “God,” and “Ronnie, please.” He felt Ronnie’s lips tighten around his shaft, felt that throat working against the tip of his dick, and with a guttural cry he could barely contain, Christian bucked up off the sofa as he came deep within his teammate’s mouth.

  Expertly, Ronnie drank him down. Christian fucked into him, his mind a blur. Yes, God, please, yes, yes. The words escaped him as mere breath, but they rang out through his mind and Ronnie milked his orgasm as if they spurred him on.

  Scoring on the ice had never felt this good.

  * * * *

  At the end of the first period, Christian heads into the locker room with the rest of his team. The way the Coliseum is laid out, both locker rooms are on the same side of the rink—they lead off in separate directions off a main hallway, like a T. During games, a thick curtain divides the hallway into halves so the teams can’t interact. As Christian passes by the curtain, it flutters at the bottom, and he can hear laughter from someone on the other side. His hands tighten around the stick in his hands. They’re laughing at him, he just knows it.

  In the locker room, a table has been set up with snacks and drinks. Before he can grab anything, though, the coach is in his face. “Magic or not, you have to fucking concentrate out there,” he yells. Christian keeps his gaze down to avoid meeting the man’s eyes. “You’re not the only member of this team, kid, you hear me? The first shot was great but let up on the puck a bit. You can’t hog it the whole game.”

  “Why not?” Christian mutters. “Every time I get it, it goes in the goal. We’re winning, aren’t we?”

  Three to one, he wants to add, and it’s only the first period. That’s a great score, and if he’d been on the ice when Ronnie’s shift last played, it’d be three to nothing.

  “The way you play,” the coach hollers, “you’re winning, and fuck the rest of the team. You have other guys out there, Madge. Let them hit the puck once or twice, what do you say?”

  Christian shrugs off his words. It’s the same old story—he starts scoring big, and all the other players get pissed because he’s better than them. The Blizzard is just another stepping stone in Christian’s career path, and how will he ever attract a scout’s attention if he doesn’t take control out on the ice? That’s how he fell under the notice of Bedford’s owner. That’s how he’s going to get to the NHL.

  He keeps to himself by the snack table, nibbling on a Power Bar and guzzling Gatorade. Even Burle stays away from him—the two room together when out of town on away games, and of all the players, he knows Christian best. Or rather, knows his moods, and has learned the hard way not to cross him when he’s mad. Like the rest of the team, he doesn’t know Christian, the real Christian, the person Ronnie had known. They’d been roomies, too, on the road, and there wasn’t a game last year that hadn’t ended with the two of them lying together in bed, Ronnie’s own or at a hotel, the sweaty sheets twined around their legs and their bodies hard against each other…

  With a shake of his head, Christian pushes those memories away.

  Someone thumps him on the shoulder; he looks up to find Burle there, helmet pushed back until it teeters precariously on the top of his head. There’s a faint smile on his grizzled visage, almost apologetic, as if he somehow knows what this game is doing to Christian and he’s sorry. “Time’s up,” he says, nodding at the hall. “You ready?”

  The rest of the team is already heading back onto the ice. Christian tosses his drink away and follows Burle. He lets his teammate pull ahead, leaving him to trail behind. He should’ve been first, he thinks, at the head of the team, and the crowd would go wild when he entered the rink, arms raised high in victory. If this were the Bedford stadium, they’d call out his name as he skated into position. And if he had better teammates, he wouldn’t be the only one scoring to win—

  “Magic.”

  As he passes the curtain in the hallway, he hears his name from the other side. It sounds like a bad word, spat out in such hate, and it stops him in mid-stride. Someone unseen laughs, a braying jackass sound he knows too well. Eric, the fucker. Talking shit about him, and he doesn’t even know Christian overhears.

  He does something unthinkable—with the crook of his stick, he snags the edge of the curtain and pulls it aside. The Rebels are passing by, heading for the ice. When the curtain opens, they turn as one and stare, dumbfounded, at Christian. It’s one against a half dozen—stupid odds, Christian knows—but the fight’s been building in him all evening and he’s ready to remind these jerks he’d once been the best thing on their team.

  Eric stands closest to him. His eyes glisten meanly and his lips curl into a snarl. Taking a step toward him, Christian threatens, “Say that again to my face.”

  Placing a hand against Christian’s chest, Eric shoves him back. “Out of our locker room, Magic. You don’t belong here anymore.”

  Christian pushes Eric’s hand away, and it begins. The two men scuffle in the hallway, sticks clattering against the stone walls and concrete floor. Beside them, the curtain rattles on its pole, and the men behind Eric start chanting, “Fight, fight.” Christian gets in a good punch to the stomach—he hears Eric oof! in his ear—then strong hands pull them apart. Christian keeps swinging until someone steps between them. A broad back separates him from Eric, and the sudden whiff of sporty cologne takes him to a place he hasn’t realized he missed before tonight.

  Even with his back to him, Christian recognizes Ronnie’s scent and the stiff, sweaty spikes of dark, shaggy hair that stick out above the collar of his jersey.

  Christian tries to edge around Ronnie, but his former teammate holds him back. The hand on the front of his jersey makes his stomach flutter, and a familiar ache blossoms at his crotch. Ronnie’s other arm is bent against Eric’s chest, holding him in check. “Stop it, right now,” Ronnie admonishes, his voice low. “Take it out on the ice.”

  “Ronnie,” Eric starts, “he—”

  Loud music filters down the hallway, rolling in off the ice like fog and cutting Eric off in mid-sentence. Ronnie raises his voice to shout over the noise. “Your shift is up first, isn’t it? So get out there already.”

  “But—”

  Ronnie shakes his head. “Just go.”

  Christian makes a half-hearted attempt to lunge after Eric, but Ronnie’s arm blocks him, and the hand at his waist fists in his jersey to keep him back. The Rebels glare at him over Ronnie’s shoulder, but no one says another word. One of the younger teammates, a rookie Christian doesn’t know, shoulders by Ronnie and earns himself a punch in the back as he passes.

  When the hall is clear, Christian mutters in Ronnie’s ear, “Are you fucking him now?”

  Ronnie turns, eyes narrowed, face livid. The wounded look in those eyes is all the answer he needs—Ronnie’s as tortured by tonight’s game as Christian is himself. Good. I’m not the only one.

  “Get out on the ice,” Ronnie tells him. He fumbles something into Christian’s hand, a piece of paper or a ticket stub, something Christian doesn’t get a good look at before Ronnie’s pulling the curtain between them.

  “Hey!” Christian cries out. He pokes his head around the curtain but the hallway is empty. Taking a step closer, he tries to peer down the short hall that leads into the Rebel’
s player box and out onto the ice. “Ronnie!”

  Someone grabs hold of his jersey and hauls him back on his side of the hall. Christian turns to find his coach breathing down his neck. “Magic!” he shouts angrily. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Christian crumples the piece of paper in his hand. “Nothing. I—”

  “Then get out on the ice! They’re waiting on you to start.”

  Quickly, Christian hurries down the hall to the player box. There he stops to remove the blade guards from his skates, and he tucks the piece of paper up under the fitted sleeve of the long underwear he has on beneath his jersey to keep him warm while on the ice. The paper chafes his wrist, and he smashes it down as he skates out into position. He can’t imagine what the message might say, but he doesn’t have time to look at it now. As he moves to face off against Eric, he pushes the paper—and Ronnie—from his mind.

  * * * *

  As a senior player on the Rebels, Ronnie had more pull than most of the others on the team. No one complained when he began inviting Christian along after practices, and the coach changed up the rooming arrangements so the two men could bunk together while on the road. The other players began to relax around Christian—it was always hard fitting in with an established group, but Ronnie’s friendship made it easier to be accepted, and soon his teammates began to appreciate Christian’s skills on the ice. By the time they played their first away game, against the Portsmouth Patriots, Christian began to feel the camaraderie that had always seemed just out of reach.

  He sat beside Ronnie on the bus, and every so often, his teammate would touch Christian’s knee or arm or hip, a surreptitious gesture no one else could see. It warmed Christian up inside, that hand on his body, and he looked forward to an evening alone after the game. It’d become a ritual now, his staying over at Ronnie’s whenever they played, but a hotel room was a blank slate—anything could happen. Perhaps they’d finally move past the touch and go stage of their relationship, beyond mutual masturbation and insatiable kisses to something…Christian didn’t know. Something more.

  The game went into sudden death overtime, and the coach sent Christian out on the ice to sink the final shot. When the puck hit the net, the light above the goal flashed and the crowd roared, and Christian raised his arms in triumph as his team skated out to join him on the ice. Ronnie reached him first—in front of everyone, his arms went around Christian’s waist and he pulled him into a fierce bear hug. The other Rebels joined in, a mad crush that obscured the playful press of Ronnie’s lips against Christian’s cool, bare cheek. Yes, his mind crowed, triumphant. Other players knocked his helmet aside, tousled his hair, clutched at his jersey. For the first time, the Rebels celebrated his win.

  His.

  Later, at the hotel, the team caroused in the halls, bottles of beer clinking together as they toasted their victory. Christian had a beer or two, a goofy grin threatening to split his face, and laughed when the guys wanted him to rehash the final play. “Aw, come on,” they cajoled. Strong arms tugged him away from where he stood by Ronnie against the wall. “Show us again.”

  Christian grinned at Ronnie. “Go on,” he said, taking the bottle from Christian’s hand. “Show us your magic.”

  How could he say no to that?

  Hours later, Ronnie half-carried, half-dragged a pleasantly exhausted Christian into their hotel room. The two men still snickered from their teammates’ antics, and the beer buzzed comfortably through Christian’s veins with a vibrant hum like electricity through overhead lines. He let Ronnie drop him on the closest bed, where he lay on his back, fully clothed, and stared at the stucco ceiling above. “God,” he sighed. “I’m beat.”

  At the other bed, Ronnie unzipped his overnight bag. “Tired?”

  Christian laughed. “Yeah. I could fall out right here.”

  Ronnie nudged Christian’s leg with his own as he dug into his bag. “Too bad. I had plans for tonight.”

  Interested, Christian raised his head to glance at his friend. “Oh? Like what?”

  Extracting a small, cardboard box from his bag, Ronnie pitched it underhanded to Christian. It hit the bed by Christian’s arm, and he rolled over to grab it. As he held it up, he noticed it was a box of condoms. “Heavily lubricated,” he read. A nervous little flutter tickled his stomach. “Looks like you came prepared.”

  With his back to Christian, Ronnie shucked off his jeans and underwear. The twin pale moons of his ass peeked out from beneath the hem of his shirt. He turned toward Christian as he pulled the shirt off over his head, exposing whorls of dark hair that kinked around his nipples then dove down his flat stomach like a trail on a treasure map to fist in the curls at his crotch. Christian had seen Ronnie nude before—they showered together in the locker room, for Christ’s sake—but never had so much naked flesh looked so tempting before. His gaze was drawn to the ruddy tip of Ronnie’s cock, peering out from its bed of hair, and his own dick stiffened in anticipation.

  Positioning his legs on either side of Christian’s, he climbed onto the bed to straddle Christian and sat heavily on his thighs. One hand plucked at Christian’s zipper, easing it down inch by inch. “I had such big plans, too,” Ronnie said with a pout as he ran a finger up over the bulge at Christian’s crotch, over the button on his jeans, and under his shirt to delve into his navel. “But if you’re too tired…”

  Pushing Ronnie’s hand aside, Christian unbuttoned his jeans. “I’m not. Get up.”

  As his hips arched off the bed, Ronnie rose up on his knees to give Christian room to remove his jeans. He had wiggled them just below his underwear when Ronnie stood and tugged them off completely. His briefs followed suit, and Ronnie climbed back onto him again, pushing Christian’s shirt up out of the way as he lay above him. Their dicks crushed together with a sweet ache, and the press of flesh was wondrous along his skin. Ronnie held his shirt up, over his head, and before pulling it off completely, he kissed Christian’s exposed chin, then his mouth, then his nose. “I could eat you up,” he murmured against Christian’s throat as his lips left damp imprints behind after every kiss.

  Christian pulled his arms free from the shirt and found Ronnie’s shoulders. Running his hands along his friend’s back, he tightened his arms around Ronnie and held him close as he shook his head from side to side. “Get this thing off me already, will you?”

  With a laugh, Ronnie kissed Christian quiet. His body rubbed against Christian’s own as he tugged the shirt up slowly, his nipples teasing Christian’s own, his cock fast against Christian’s length. When the shirt cleared Christian’s ears, Ronnie nipped at his earlobe, then ran his tongue behind the ear, leaving a warm, wet trail in its wake. “Fuck me,” he whispered, his breath hot and close.

  Christian gripped Ronnie’s ass with both hands and spread his cheeks wide. His forefingers delved into the crack of Ronnie’s ass, strumming over skin that quivered at his touch. “Now,” Ronnie said, grinding his hips into Christian’s. “Fuck me now.”

  The box of condoms lay beside them on the bed. As Ronnie sat up to retrieve it, Christian pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. He reached out, his fingers toying with the pink nipples that poked through the tufts of hair on Ronnie’s chest. “What if I said I wanted to be first?”

  “They’re my condoms,” Ronnie told him, tearing into one of the individual foil packets. “When you buy them, you get fucked.”

  Christian reached for the box. “So what, you’re saying you get to use all of these? That’s not fair—ah yes, yes.”

  His words dissolved into breathless gasps as Ronnie fisted his shaft, kneading it erect before rolling the condom into place. Scooting forward to sit on Christian’s lower belly, Ronnie lay down on him again. He kissed Christian, hands slick with lube as they clenched in the wavy bangs that fell back from Christian’s brow. “Fuck me,” he growled, moving his hips in a maddening circle to entice his friend. “What are you waiting for? Sink the shot.”

  Christian’s hands found Ron
nie’s ass a second time, and he held those fleshy cheeks apart as he slowly guided his cock inside.

  * * * *

  Near the end of the second period, Christian is called for high-sticking. He doesn’t care—the shot he took hit the edge of the goal, rebounded off the goalie’s skate, then landed in the net for the score. The Blizzard are up five to one, and he allows himself a victory lap before heading for the penalty box. The coach will call him on the showboating, he knows, but at this point? He doesn’t care.

  In the box, he absently scratches at his left wrist as he watches the shifts change on the ice. Ronnie comes out, and though Christian stares right at him—the guy has to feel it—Ronnie doesn’t look his way. Christian tugs on the sleeve of his jersey and hears a crinkle as he rubs his wrist. With a frown, he pulls back the sleeve to find the piece of paper Ronnie slipped him in the hall.

  It’s torn from one of those scratchy paper towels the Coliseum stocks in the restrooms. Christian smoothes it out on his knee only to discover there’s nothing on it. How odd. Why would Ronnie give him this?

  Then he turns it over, and recognizes his former teammate’s scribble. Stop by my truck after the game.

  Christian’s first urge is to ball it up in his fist and throw it over the glass confines of the box. He’s not hanging around after the game, and Ronnie knows it—as a member of the visiting team, Christian will be bused off to the hotel immediately after skating off the ice. He won’t have time to visit old friends, particularly ones who don’t want anything to do with him.

  He glares out at the game, finding Ronnie easily among the players. Now the guy feels his stare—now Ronnie looks his way. Holding up the piece of paper, Christian shrugs and mouths the words, “What the fuck?”

  As if in reply, the hockey puck flies through the air straight at him. It hits the glass with a solid thunk! that makes him jump.

  The players scramble for the puck, and Ronnie gets caught up in the moment with them. He doesn’t look at Christian again as he skates into play. Stop by my truck. As if they have anything to say to each other now.