29. BILSON

TWENTY-NINE

BILSON

I struggle to keep up with Miles and Killer. I swear they’re as energetic as each other, and Killer loves running with Miles. So do I.

That is, until I realize Miles’s definition of a light run and mine are completely different.

Sweat drips down my forehead, and my muscles ache. Why is running so much harder than skating? It also doesn’t get you where you need to go as fast. Miles seems just as fast on his feet as he is on blades.

I have to stop and raise my hand as I bend at the waist. “Wait up. Got a stitch.”

Miles stops, but Killer doesn’t. He wants to keep going and cries when the leash pulls tight. For a little prince, he has some damn energy. He’s Miles’s twin.

Miles keeps jogging on the spot. “Stitch? How old are you, old man?”

“I …” I heave. “Hate.” Heave again. “Running. Put me on a bike, on a stair climber. Anything. Just don’t make me run. And let’s not forget we have practice this afternoon for our game tomorrow. I can’t be exhausted before we even hit the ice.”

“Aww, let’s get you home so you can have your 4:00 p.m. dinner, get your walking cane, and head to the practice rink.” He pats my shoulder, but when he sees my glare, he takes off in the direction of my place.

“You better fucking run.” I contemplate chasing him, but I know I’ll lose, so I wander back at my own pace.

When I reach the house, Miles is on the stoop of the porch with Killer panting happily beside him.

“I was about to send out a search party. Worried you’d fallen and broken a hip.”

I can’t help but smile. “You’ll pay for that. And all the old jokes you’ve been making.”

“Did you see the last press conference I had to do after the game? I was very complimentary of your age, thank you very much.”

“You said you were surprised how fast I was given my advanced age.”

“Still a compliment.”

“Why do I put up with you? Honestly.”

“I think it’s my ass.”

I huff. “Probably. You heading home before practice, or are we driving in together?”

He’ll head home. He always does.

But he surprises me when he says, “We may as well go in together. By the time I get home, shower, change …” He stands. “It’ll be much easier to shower here and go.”

“Easier, yes. Quicker? No.” I step closer to him. “Because if you think you’re getting in my shower alone, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

We rush inside, and Miles gets the shower going while I refresh Killer’s water bowl. By the time I’m closing the bathroom door behind me, Miles is naked in my shower, and his skin is lathered with foamy soap.

After our date, things have been more open between us. Before, when we were trying to pass it off as just sex, there were certain things I was conscious of doing, like looking at him too long or touching him in an affectionate way instead of sexual.

Back then, it was all about physical touch to get him off. Now …

I strip out of my clothes and step in behind him. I know he wants sex, and yeah, I’ll get him off before we’re done, but before that, I want to touch.

Kiss.

Explore.

I lean in and kiss a trail up his neck while I wrap my arm around his waist. He tries to push my hand toward his cock, but I chuckle against his skin. “Patience.”

“Fuck patience.”

“Hands on the wall. You’re not allowed to move an inch until you’ve come.”

Even though he whines in complaint, I know he loves it when I take control. Though with how torturously slow I plan to be, he’s probably going to hate it this time. This isn’t about getting off. This is about exploring a whole new side of our … brolationship.

One where I don’t have to think or hold back.

So I ignore Miles’s impatient whines and take what I want. Inch by inch, I explore his back with my mouth and his front with my hands. I pinch his nipples, caress his abs, and only when I’ve had my fill do I wrap my fingers around his hard cock and jerk him off until he comes.

I love the way he shudders in my arms and leans back against me with his head on my shoulder. His whole body trembles, and the gasp that comes out of his mouth makes my cock leak onto the skin at the base of his spine. But as impatient as he was to get off, I want to keep doing what I’m doing now: easing him through his orgasm and loving the feel of him against me.

Miles has other ideas. As soon as he’s recovered, he drops his hands from the wall, spins, and falls to his knees.

I come embarrassingly fast down his throat, and when he stands back up, I anticipate the onslaught of mockery over being so old that I come faster than a teenager, but it doesn’t happen.

Miles just stands, turns us to push me against the wall of the shower, blankets my body with his, and then seals his mouth over mine.

The kiss is slow but passionate. He presses in close, hums into my mouth, but everything about it is gentle. Almost like a thank-you.

“Ready to head to practice?” he asks against my lips.

Ugh. No. “I want to stay like this.”

He pulls back. “Now, there’s a way to get the team talking.”

“Fine. I guess we’ll get dressed and wear clothes to practice and whatever.”

Our shared orgasms and the easiness between us put us both in good moods, but I can tell something’s on Miles’s mind when we get to the arena. There’s a complete shift from his usual frat boy energy to … this uptight aura about him.

“You okay, or are you worried about your game?”

We’ve had a string of losses and some wins, and I know the losses get to him more than they should, but that comes with the amount of experience he has. One day, he’ll stop blaming himself for every shot that goes past him, but it’s probably not going to happen during his first full rookie season.

“Nah. It’s just a practice. It’s fine.”

Before I can ask more questions, he gets out of the car and doesn’t wait for me to catch up.

Maybe he’s regretting choosing to arrive together. I’d understand if that was it, maybe be a little disappointed, but I didn’t expect him to ride with me in the first place.

He does, however, hold the players’ door open for me, so there’s that.

Once we’re in the back halls of the practice rink, Miles practically runs away from me. At first, I think he’s being a bit ridiculous. We’re friends. We can walk side by side, but then when he starts talking to Stoll, I realize it’s not about us as a couple at all but him being a tormenting little shithead.

“So, I made CB go for a run this morning to warm up, and he practically collapsed. I thought being a first-line winger, he’d have to be fit. Are we sure he doesn’t use his stick like a walking cane on the ice?”

Stoll throws his head back and laughs while Miles winks at me over his shoulder.

I’d threaten him and say he’ll pay for that, but I’ve used that threat countless times today already, and the worst I did was make him wait longer than usual for me to make him come.

I barge past them, giving both of them the finger as I do. When I enter the locker room, I give everyone the heads-up. “Don’t listen to anything the rookie says. He lies.”

While they get dressed and Miles, of course, tells everyone how old I am, I decide to fuck with him and the team.

I head for the training rooms, where one of our team trainers is organizing supplies in his cabinets.

“What’s up, Cody?” Dustin says. “Got an injury you want me to work on? Tight muscles?”

“I’m good. I just had an idea to mess with the guys. You got one of those walking stick things for when we injure ourselves and need assistance?”

He hesitates. “I do, but I’m scared to ask what you’re going to do with it.”

“I want to use it as my hockey stick during practice.”

“If anyone asks, you snuck in and got it yourself.” He pulls one out of the buckets of crutches, canes, and other assistance items.

“Yes, sir.” I make sure to leave it outside the training room and only collect it once I’m dressed. Which I do very slowly so I can be the last one on the ice.

People in the area are allowed to come watch us practice because we have it at a public rink, so I have no doubt photos of me playing with a cane will get out. And when reporters ask? I’m going to tell them it’s because Miles Olsen called me old.

He thinks he can out-smart-ass me?

Good luck, Rook.