Point Shot 01 - Two Man Advantage (7 page)

I made high-risk passes. Some paid off, some didn’t. I charged, boarded, tripped and interfered. I spent close to fifteen minutes total in the penalty box. The five-minute major I got for fighting was the
pièce de résistance
to the evening’s festivities. It was totally warranted. I had, after all, knocked the Mounties’ golden gay-boy goalie off his feet inside his crease. Had it been intentional? No. I had been run into by the Mounties’ D-man coming in to try to steal the puck from me. I did admire Dwayne, after all. But the retaliatory goalie-stick to my face?
That
had been uncalled for. As were the three Mounties who jumped on me. At least that was what I told Lambert after the game. He told me I was the biggest hemorrhoid he’d ever had to contend with, cursed his father’s balls for making him, then went off to look for a ligator big enough to snap around my neck.

The ride back to our motel was spent staring out a frosty window into the darkness of…I didn’t even know what state we were in. Pennsylvania, I thought, but couldn’t be sure. No one sat beside me. The festering glowers of hate I threw at anyone who even looked like they wanted to make with the convo drove them away. The team was subdued. Tired not only of being on the road but of losing every game we had played. Even Dan, with his penchant for sunny dispositions, jokes, ribald humor and general uplifting “We’ll get them next time, guys!” asshattery, couldn’t pick up the Cayuga Cougars tonight.

Instead of going into our room, I pulled a Louie and headed to the bar just down the highway from the Roadside Rest we were calling home for the night. I could feel Dan’s gaze on my back as I shuffled off to get shit-faced.

“You’re really some kind of coward, aren’t you?” he called across the parking lot. I kept walking, hands in jeans pocket, head down to avoid the bitter wind. I had hoped he would go into our room and go to sleep. Figured the tenacious ass wouldn’t do as I wished. He tugged me around. I threw off his hand. Snowflakes whipped around us, some landing on his sculpted cheeks.

“Fuck off, faggot.” Yeah, I said it. Dan drew back. I watched his fist tighten then lower. His hitting me would have been better. Hitting and verbal abuse?
That
I was used to. That was what I’d been hoping to find on the ice, and had to some extent. It was also what I was hoping to find in the dive tavern down the road. Booze, sex and someone who would treat me like the enormous pile of dung that I knew I was. God, but I missed my mom. Must be that Thanksgiving coming in four days had me all sorts of wistful.

“Vic, do you really think getting plastered is the answer?” Dan asked. My gaze flew to the players still lingering in the cold, dark night. “Vic, come inside and talk to me. I’d like to help if you’ll let me.”

My sights left Buttonwood, Dunwoody, Lounge and a smattering of other men hoping to see my clock get cleaned.

“They aren’t calling me back up,” I told him flatly, although he already suspected what the situation was.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, his cheeks and ears growing red from the wind. Snow blew in swirling circles around the lamps lighting the motel parking area. “Anything I can do?”

Mean words clung to the tip of my tongue. Vile, hateful things I wanted to tell him to do.

“You can let me fuck you,” I said softly.

He nodded and walked off, his short legs chewing up the distance from where I stood to our hotel door. The other players, seeing no blood was about to be spilled, complained loudly as they went to their rooms. I didn’t move until every person dawdling around was inside. Then and only then did I place one foot in front of the other.

Dan was exiting the bathroom when I came in with a gust of snow and wind. The drapes on the windows blew sideways. I kicked the door shut. I stood there, hands in my pockets, toes cold, and the stitches I had gotten from Dwayne’s stick to my face pulling tightly across my left cheek.

Dan began taking his clothes off. I watched, never moving, until he was naked. He climbed into the twin bed closest to the bathroom.

“Not pushing them together?” I asked, my voice distant and tinny. He shook his head, his long brown hair falling into his eyes. He really needed a trim, he kept insisting. I loved that hair dangling in his eyes when he was sweaty and hot under me. Guess he liked making me happy, because it was still long.

“You can fuck me in a single bed. Double beds are for lovers,” he informed me. “So come on, get over here and—”

Some really dark thing erupted. I grabbed the twin bed that my duffel bag of personal shit laid on and flung it into the side of the twin Dan was lying in. Nostrils flaring, I climbed over the fucking bed, burrowed into Dan Arou’s side, and wrapped myself around him like a jungle vine. He drew the covers up over us. Shoes, coat and clothes—he covered it all. He held me tight in that dark room. We never did fuck. We just lay there, listening to each other breathe, until I fell asleep with my nose buried in his thick neck.

Chapter Eight

“Man, this room is impersonal.”

I looked up from my unpacking to find Arou padding around my rented motel room in Cayuga. Unpacking meant throwing the balled-up clothes in my bags to the floor, in a nice heap, so I could wash them later. Or maybe I’d just set them on fire.

“I like impersonal,” I said, whipping the empty duffel into a corner. Dan rolled his eyes then sat on the bed, checking the firmness. “I, um, I got this guy in Boston, he’s like…well, he’s sort of my favorite play-toy. I need to call him so he knows I’m not coming back.”

Dan studied me, all mattress-bouncing stopping quickly. He looked so good in jeans and a hoodie. The way the denim cradled his groin was beyond hot.

“So this Boston guy, is he your partner?” he asked. I shook my head, peeled off my coat, then jumped his bones. Dan began to fight back. I clapped my hand over his mouth, slung my leg over his thighs and sat on him.

“He’s just a man-fuck, that’s all,” I told him.

He ran his tongue over my palm. I liked that. Then I gave him a finger or two to suck on. His eyes glowed with sensual promise. I tugged my fingers free so I could take his mouth. I ran my hands up under his Cougars sweatshirt. He began working on the snap of my pants. I flicked my tongue over his teeth. He pushed me upward slightly to ease my zipper down. My cock was suddenly free.

“Fuck my mouth,” Dan huffed, pushing on me to get me to move higher.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, taking one last deep tour of his mouth before I straddled his head. He closed his eyes, his hands moving to my ass. Pretty white teeth nibbled on the swollen head of my dick for a few moments. Dan pulled me downward, fingers digging in to my ass, taking as much of me as he could down his throat.

“That mouth, Dan, your mouth. Man, I dream of your mouth.” The confession tumbled out. He tickled my opening with the tip of a finger. By the time my semen was coating his throat, he had wiggled his thumb into me. I was still trembling when he flipped me onto my back on the bed. I reached for the nightstand. He smiled sinfully when I shoved the tube of lubricant against his chest.

“You like me inside you, don’t you, Kalinski?” he asked while drizzling clear gel over his fat prick.

“A little,” I conceded, my balls still contracting. I massaged them, back arching off the bed as another mild tremor overtook me. Dan moved over me, placing my left leg on his right shoulder. He teased my opening, rubbing the head of his dick over my puckered hole. “Okay, fine! I like it more than a little.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” He thrust roughly. I whimpered as he filled me with that one harsh push. “Sorry!” he gasped, his hold on my ankle beside his ear tightening. “I got to do this hard, right? So you know some Boston screw ain’t nothing compared to me, right?”

“Right! Right. Ah, yeah, right. Fuck’s sake, Dan, right!” I squealed like a prom queen losing her cherry. Dan did not leave one fucking doubt in my mind. Boston screw? Who the fuck was that? His name was already history as far as I was concerned. My head was driven against the headboard so hard and rapidly, I began to see black floating spots in front of my eyes. Arou did not let up, not for a second. He even tugged out at the last second to cover my ass, balls and flaccid dick with ejaculate. Then, in some sort of primal marking frenzy, he smeared his seed into my skin. There was no protest from the peanut gallery. I was suffering blunt head trauma and was unable to make complete sentences.

He flopped down on me, sweaty and tacky with body fluids, then kissed me roughly, possessively, hungrily. I reached down for the covers. Dan and I made out for a while, our hearts slowly dropping back into normal rhythms. His hand was resting on my hip bone, mine on his tasty rump.

“So yeah, is this some sort of Mini-Me reaction when another dude is mentioned?” I asked when the brain fluid inside my skull stopped slopping to and fro. Dan shoved his muscular biceps in my face. That was much better than an elbow in the kisser.

“Look here. Do you know who this is?”

I checked out his tattoo at close range.

“Sure, it’s Wolverine,” I said. Thoughts of tumbling his tight ass danced inside my head.

“Yeah, it is. You know why I have Wolverine on my arm?”

“Because you’re not only a Baggins, you’re a comic-loving Baggins. And that, my friend, is about as pathetic as any person with testicles can be.”

Dan rolled his pretty sapphire eyes.

“You know how tall Wolverine is in the comics? No? Of course not. The words in the bubbles make your brain hurt.” I pinched his ass soundly. “Wolverine is five foot three inches tall in the comics. That’s it. Five foot three inches tall. Us short guys, we’re tough as hell and twice as sexy. I mean, we have to be, right? When you decide to play a sport that’s inhabited by grunting, overaggressive gorillas like you, you have to be nastier than pig shit.” He winked. I smiled.

Despite the hellhole that was my life, Dan Arou made me smile. And feel loved.
Oh fuck.
He had me so wound up in the taste and texture of his skin that I couldn’t think how to pull back from the precipice I was balancing on. Did I even want to? That was the next burning question.

“Pig shit? We had to come to pig shit?” I asked, reaching out to run a finger over his bottom lip.

“You ever smelled anything nastier?” he enquired.

“I used the head after Dunwoody the other day,” I replied, pushing my fingers through his dark-brown hair.

“Okay, I’ll toss you that one. Aside from Dunwoody after a burrito supreme platter, you ever experienced anything nastier than pig shit?”

“Nope.”

“That’s why it’s such a great reference. So, like I was saying, when I decided to make hockey my life, I had to get tough. Wolverine, he inspired me. He showed me that a short man can have respect.”

“If he has twelve-inch silver claws,” I teased while pulling him toward me. The light went off. I spread my legs to make room for him to get comfortable between my thighs. For some reason, I didn’t have such fitful nights when I could feel his firm body draped over mine.

“Well, yeah, those help,” he admitted, his abrasive cheek resting on my sternum. My fingers were in that too-long hair, pushing it back from his brow. “And they’re adamantium, just for future ref.”

“Right. Like I’ll ref that in the future. So you got a comic dude inked into your arm as a way to remind yourself that your height isn’t who you are as a man or a player?” I managed to say, my eyelids heavy.

“Holy shit, Kalinski, you looked deeper than the obvious. I’m impressed.”

“You’re easily impressed then,” I mumbled sleepily, my hand settling gently on the top of his head.

“Not really.” His leg slid over mine. Then we both crashed.

* * * * *

Have you ever just watched someone sleep and been petrified and appreciative simultaneously? I know how totally stalker that sounds, but it wasn’t like “I’m a glittery vampire who sits here and watches some underage chick sleeping” weird. Okay, maybe it was a
little
bit of that kind of weird. I mean, I
was
lying beside Dan, admiring the hills and valleys of his back as the sun caressed his tanned flesh. His skin was smooth but clammy. The blankets were tangled around his legs, barely covering the ass that I had feasted upon then fucked just several hours ago. He slept just like he went through life—with energy. His thrashing was what had awoken me, as it had a few times during our road trip. Instead of snapping at him then stealing the covers back, I took this time to visually adore his body. Yeah, I was that fond of it. And him. Rest assured, that terrified me no end.

I moved closer to him, needing to touch him. My finger roamed over his spine. It dallied in the divot of his lower back. It traced letters and messages across his wide upper back. The man never moved. He twitched a few times, making noises like a contented cat, but never opened his eyes. My prick was thick already. I’d had never had it this bad for a guy before. Or a girl, for that matter, and that was another realization that had my nervous system tied into knots. What was it about this squat little Canuck that made me hard and giddy all at once?

Dan’s cell began to ring. Muttering at the stupid-ass Bloodhound Gang “The Bad Touch” ring tone he had, I slid out from under the covers, pawed through our discarded clothing, then slid the sleek black Droid out of the front pocket of his Levi Strauss & Co. jeans. I didn’t know the number on the screen, but I knew the last name. Dan grumbled like a bear being poked during its winter nap when I shook him.

“Hey, don’t be calling me names, Thumbelina. Your mother’s calling,” I said, then placed his ringing phone next to his head. He groped around blindly until he found the phone. I crawled back under the covers, resuming my exploration of his body.

“Hey, Mama,” he slurred terribly. “No, no, not hungover, just really tired. Not much sleep,” he said as he rolled onto his back, the phone held to his left ear. His eyes were closed. Wild tufts of brown hair stood out at crazy angles. I rested my head on my hand as I ran my flattened palm over his pectorals. The springy hair covering his chest crackled beneath my hand. “You betcha, I’m leaving tomorrow morning.” He yawned, wantonly flexing his pectorals, eyes still closed but lips twitching with a smile. Fucker was always smiling, it seemed. I groped his pec. “You okay if I bring a friend?”