Point Shot 01 - Two Man Advantage (2 page)

I gave Arou one last look. He was down at the goal, having a good laugh with his team about something. Being reasonably sure it was me, I threw myself into catching up with the walking wall of sweat and swear-words that was Martin Lambert.

“Did you think I was kidding when I told you never to darken my door again, Kalinski?” he asked, throwing the door to his office open.

“You’re going to fuck the shit out of those blades,” I pointed out as I lingered in the doorway. Coach Lambert threw me a blistering look. I didn’t remember him hating me quite
this
badly. “But hey, it’s your nutsack Carl will roast over an open fire, not mine.”

“Shut the door, sit down and keep that toxic fucking mouth of yours closed.”

I did as he asked. Lambert fell into a rolling office chair to unlace his skates. The plastic wheels whimpered at the abuse. His gray eyes drilled into mine as he untied his laces with short, jerky motions. One skate sailed across the room, hitting the wall with a sickening thud.

“I can’t believe this is how the cocksuckers repay me for fourteen years of coaching expertise,” Coach snarled, yanking violently on a hellacious knot in his laces.

“Your team has come in last for the past two years. I’m not sure you can call that expertise.”

Lambert nearly ripped his foot off. The skate flew past my left ear and embedded itself a good four inches into the sheetrock behind me. Slowly shifting my attention from the skate of doom to Lambert, I gifted him with one of my “I was only kidding” smirks. It had little to no effect. If anything, the vein right above his left eye thumped faster. He pointed a meaty finger at me.

“You are a fucking canker sore on the dick of professional ice hockey, Kalinski,” he told me.

I winced. That was rather harsh.

“There is no way in hell I’m putting up with you being on this team. I’d sooner saw my balls off with a rusty butter knife than have to put up with your bullshit again.”

“Words hurt, you know,” I said, inspecting my fingernails for dirt.

He erupted from his seat like a missile from a silo. The vein above his eye was engorged.

I lowered my hand. “You’d better sit down before you blow a ventricle or something. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“I don’t know what I ever did to Davidson, but it must have been good. You think I fucked his mother in a previous life or something?” Lambert asked, stalking around his office, cell phone to his ear. I shrugged. Personally, I didn’t care if Lambert had screwed the GM for the Barracudas’ mother
and
wife.

“I’ve seen his mother. You’d be better off fucking your own wife if, you know, she’s dropped those hundred and fifty extra pounds.”

“That’s leftover baby fat,” he snarled, his fist beginning to renovate the wall where the team picture hung.

“Your youngest kid is thirty-four,” I pointed out. Then I was shown out.

Turning and listening in the corridor, I heard something taking place that sounded a good deal like a tornado having anal sex with a hurricane. Shit bounced off walls. Glass shattered. Cursing in at least three different languages occurred. Smiling at the ease with which one man could lose his mind, I turned around and went chin-to-forehead with the Rumpelstiltskin of ice hockey.

Fuck, but his mouth was tempting. Pity it was drawn up into a half-assed grin. He extended his gloved hand. I looked down at it blankly.

“Daniel Arou,” he said, shaking his hand at me. “I’m one of the alternate team captains, so it’s my job to welcome all new players to the Cougars.”

“Look, Arrow—”

“No, not Arrow,
ah-roux
,” he said, while the rest of the team filed off the ice. I guessed practice was over. “
Ah-roux
.
Ah
as in the sound you make when you understand something. Oh! I’m sorry. You don’t make that sound too often, do you, Kalinski?”

“Is that a fucking Polack joke?” I asked, wondering which pretty blue eye to blacken first. Laughter at my expense reverberated off the nicely painted walls. Each of those walking scrotums was being mentally tagged, rest assured.

“Do you think it is? I can get you a chair to sit in while you figure it out.”

Having decided on his merry left eye, since I’m a righty, I drew back and popped the smug little gnome in the face. Arou staggered back toward the wall, bouncing off a soda machine. I raised both fists. The team as a whole closed in on me.

“No, it’s okay!” the midget shouted. The wall of bodies parted as if Chuck Heston had done his Red Sea shtick. I kept my eye on Edgar Winterson, a hulking Swedish enforcer who cruised the ice like a Zamboni. Arou wiggled through the tightly packed horde, his cheek covered with blood where my fist had split the skin. “I was taunting him.” He smiled, then patted my shoulder. “I’d say he owed me a good one, wouldn’t you, guys?”

They murmured and scratched their chins, their heads going dully up and down. Fucking A. No wonder Lambert couldn’t get a winning streak longer than his dick. These guys were nose-picking morons. Except for Arou. You could see the intelligence in those blue eyes of his. Well, you could see it in the one eye that was visible. The other was swelling rather nicely, despite the glancing shot. I blew on my knuckles as if they were a smoking gun, then slowly lowered my fists.

“You’re so short you could milk a cow standing up,” I said.

Arou snorted, clapped me on the back, then walked off with the odd gait all men skating on carpet have. His girlfriends followed him.

“Nice to have you back, Kalinski. See you bright and early tomorrow!” he shouted over his shoulder. I flipped him off. That amused him greatly. Folding my arms over my chest, I wondered just what kind of an asscake Daniel Arou was.

Chapter Two

I found a nice hotel that had a good view of Cayuga Lake. There was no point in looking to rent or sublet something. The ink on the lease wouldn’t be dry before I was heading back home. Standing at the sliding doors with a cup of hot chocolate, I stared at the lake. It was beginning to ice over already. One hell of a cold winter was on its way. Sipping and watching ice form wasn’t cutting it. I thought about heading out to find a club. I was fidgety. If I could work off this weird unease with a good screw, my head would be clearer tomorrow. I put the empty cocoa mug on the bedside table. If I could find something fine like Arou, I’d…

I got as far as pulling my coat over my right arm before I ceased functioning. What the fuck had I just been thinking? I threw the coat onto the bed and stripped quickly. My cock was not only stiff, it was pulsing. Fuck. I flipped a mental coin. Into the shower I went, my hand cupping my aching balls. The water was chilly at first. I doused my head, then reached for the complimentary bar of soap. Starting at the back of my neck, I began lathering. Up, down, then under my arms the soap glided. I soaped my chest. My head fell back. My eyes closed. When my hand glided over the head of my prick, I inhaled sharply. In my mind’s eye I could see Arou on his knees, his deep-blue eyes smoky with passion, his fat lips stretched around my cock. I began mentally pumping in and out of his mouth. He groaned. I came in five strokes. Maybe six.

The first wave of my orgasm nearly blinded me with its intensity. I collapsed sideways, my free hand splayed on the tiles to prevent head trauma. I couldn’t breathe normally for a full minute afterward. Reaching down, I turned off the water, stepped out, then wrapped a thick towel around my waist. My head still felt disjointed and hazy. It had been some time since I’d experienced an orgasm like that. You know how some are fives and some are tens? The tens are fucking rare, so we learn to live with fives, sixes, sevens and a hot eight on occasion. Tens
never
come by hand. So what had been so special about that particular hand job? I cleared an oval in the steamy bathroom mirror. My hair was plastered to my head. I exited the bathroom, opting to forgo a comb or razor until the morning. The TV was still muted. I threw my ass onto the bed then cranked up the volume. Local news.
Wonder what they’ll be talking about during the sports section tonight
, I thought facetiously.
Why not turn it up and see, Vic?

“Okay,” I mumbled, stretching out on the cover, my back against the wooden headboard and my ankles crossed. Some assholeish commercial was playing. My nuts tingled. I reached down to scratch them. Instead I weighed them in my palm. They didn’t feel any lighter. Seemed an explosion like the one that had occurred in the shower would have them shriveled up like rejected grapes left on the vine for the bran man. I rolled them around gently. Local sportscaster Jimmy Joe Jerkoff was talking about the arrival of the newest Cougar. How fucking surprising! I squeezed my sac as he rambled on while showing a clip from the last game the Barracudas had had with the North Carolina Sandpipers. Smiling at the goal I’d scored in OT, I moved my hand from my balls to my prick. Sometimes I like to just sit and watch the tube while I hold or tug on my dick. I’m not the only dude who does it, trust me. I was about to change the blah-blah when the video changed from me to Arou.

“We’re looking forward to having such a skilled player on the team,” Dan was telling whoever it was with the news camera in his face. He had just left the Cougars’ locker room. His eye was puffy but not closed. The cheek I had split had been sutured and taped. His dark hair was wet. A thin strand curled right beside his left eye. I watched his mouth as he spoke. I wondered how he tasted. What his tongue would feel like when I sucked on it. I’d bet he was a firm little fuck. His neck was thick. The blue sweater he wore made his lapis eyes glow. “I’m personally hoping Kalinski stays for a while. He might be just what this team needs.”

My head kicked back so quickly and so unexpectedly that I startled myself. My cock jumped in my hand. Spunk flew over my thighs as I twitched and groaned. Catching my breath a moment later, I glanced down at myself. My towel was hanging open. The top four inches as well as the head of my prick was drooping to the left. A gossamer thread of ejaculate ran from the still-purplish head to my thigh. My fingers were coated. I was a fucking mess. I threw myself from the bed, then stalked back into the bathroom for another shower. I wouldn’t turn the fucking TV back on when I was clean this time.

* * * * *

The following morning I was seated in the Cougars’ dressing room, feeling as piss-poor as a man can, while Coach Lambert made us watch videos of our upcoming opponents for the night, the Kalamazoo Knights. I kept getting these weird-ass looks from Phil Prescott, one of the defensemen on line three.

“See that? Jacoby there can really explode into open areas, especially the neutral zone. That’s something we need to keep in check. And by ‘in check’ I mean ‘in body check’,” Lambert explained to the room full of short-bus-riders. I stared downward, sick beyond belief to see the Cougar colors on my socks and pants instead of the Barracuda colors. “If anyone sees this needle-headed prick breaking loose, knock his damn ass into the boards. Don’t try to waltz with him. This isn’t a debutante ball and that ugly, inbred ass isn’t Peggy-Sue Primrose giggling as you tickle her muff.”

I looked up. Prescott was still staring at me.

“You got a problem?” I asked him. Everyone turned from the video screen Coach was standing beside. Prescott shook his empty head. My sights moved to Arou, sitting across the room from me. I returned to staring at my thighs.

“So, let’s lock down Jacoby. Now, as for Tremblay in the net, we need to keep in his face. That’s why today you’re going to be spending a few hours going over net-front coverage. We get in front of Tremblay, we get inside his head. Is there some sort of love-match going on in here, Prescott and Kalinski?”

My head jerked upward. The lights grew brighter as the video coach turned off the looping play-by-play with Tremblay front and center.

“I think Prescott there is trying to imagine what it’s like to be a real hockey player,” I replied, then leaned back into my new cubicle. They could have saved the cost of a name placard.

“Nah,” the gorilla said, “I’m just trying to figure out why you shaved but left that little patch under your bottom lip. Is that to pad your chin from your boyfriend’s balls?”

“Hey! No slamming gays—you know the rules. Kalinski, ignore that last comment,” barked Dave Dewey, the assistant coach. “Now get your asses out on the ice.” Dewey clapped his hands, signaling the end of the morning pep talk.

“I’m not gay,” I said as I stood, just to let the guys know what was what. It wasn’t a lie—I’m bi with a very strong tendency to pick a dude over a chick if given the choice. Arou nodded in silence, his mouth compressed.

We fell into line, the shortest winger in the world with the A on his shoulder at my left. Dewey led us to the ice, his gait lopsided, since he’d had a knee blown out back in his pro days. I kept my eye on Prescott as we followed the assistant coach. The fucker was marked for death, or at the very least a tonsillectomy with a CCM Pro Stock composite stick. We filed past the stocky assistant coach.

Someone bumped my elbow. I looked down at Arou.

“Is that a statement?” he asked, tapping the area under his sexy bottom lip with a gloved finger as we skated.

“It’s a soul patch, stumpy,” I said, eyes locked on Prescott. He was easy to find. Dragging his fucking knuckles on the ice as he skated sort of made him stand out. I zeroed in on the big four and one on his back, ramped up my speed, then drove my shoulder right into his spine. Up and over the boards he went, rolling off the visitors’ bench to the floor. Five coaches all bellowed at once. I threw it into reverse, bowing magnanimously.

“
Kalinski!
What in the name of my sweet Aunt Fanny’s pickled pussy is the matter with you?” Lambert roared, skidding across the ice wearing one skate, one shoe and a matching set of thumping temple veins.

“I was practicing keeping Jacoby in check,” I said “That’s how we take care of assholes in the big leagues.”

Prescott came over the boards like a rampaging T-Rex. Eight other players held him back. They didn’t have to on my account.