14. 14

14

Robbie McGuire

Well, I’m super happy. We won our game, I just won ten grand, and I got to suck Decker’s dick again.

Not going to lie. Decker letting me blow him last week and then trying to cut me off the next day was a shock. He’s upset me a lot since I joined the Vipers, but that little stunt might have been the thing that got to me most. It wasn’t until he said we couldn’t do it again that things really fell into place for me. The second he started that bullshit apology, a bunch of stuff came into crystal-clear focus. As he spoke, I realized what this is to me.

I realized what I want. Not just want. Need.

This curiosity, or whatever you’d call it, cropped up quite a bit when I was younger, but it’s mostly lain dormant for the last few years. Even when I was younger, it was more of a quiet murmur than something that demanded attention. It was a question that raised its head now and again but was happy enough to go unanswered. It was there but easy to ignore, especially since my attraction to women has always been strong.

In the past, it was confusing when a guy tripped my switch. Uncomfortable almost. No, not uncomfortable, unsettling. A skin-deep, hard-to-place feeling of wanting something unnamed from certain guys. Their company. Their approval. I was never really sure if it was a case of hero worship or more. It was always one of those Do I want to be him ? or Do I want to do him ? vibes.

It was like that with Decker when we met. I straight-up hero-worshipped him. He was the best player I’d ever played against by a long way. He was huge. And dark. And enigmatic. He was only a kid himself when we met, but something about him made him seem older. Like he had his shit together. Like he could call himself a man, and people wouldn’t laugh if they heard him say it.

He was different back then. Less angry. Less of a dick. More friendly.

God, I looked up to him.

Once, at junior league hockey camp, I hit a really good backhand, and Decker said, “Nice shot, McGuire,” and I swear to God, I felt like I was floating. It was the second I knew hockey was more than a sport for me. More than a dream. That off-hand comment from Decker was all it took to make me believe I had what it took to go pro.

I followed his career like a hawk for the first few years after that camp. It’s embarrassing to admit, but for a while, I had a picture of him on my bedroom wall above my desk. For a long time, I felt a muddled pull whenever I looked at it. It’s mortifying to think of it now, but I even told my mom all about him. I told her he was the best, a nice guy, a great player. I obviously misread him. I took a couple of meaningless conversations and a compliment or two and built it into a charged friendship in my mind.

I left the picture of him up forever. I only took it down when it became absolutely clear to me that he was a dick.

I feel different now.

There’s no more confusion. I’m on my knees, cleaning up the mess I just made. I have the taste of Decker’s dick in my mouth and my throat hurts when I swallow. I’m more clear-headed than I’ve been in weeks. This isn’t a murmur. It isn’t uncertain, and it can’t be ignored. It isn’t a low rumble, and it isn’t skin deep. It’s bone-deep. It runs through my marrow, heating it and making it sizzle. The question has been asked and answered.

I know what I want.

I know who I want .

I want Ant Decker.

My dick doesn’t care that he is a dick. It wants him.

I know exactly what this is too—sexual attraction. I don’t want to be him. I want to do him.

And more to the point, I want him to do me.

He’s still sitting in the armchair, but he’s finally started to move again. He’s managed to get himself upright, though he seems a little unsteady on his legs. He turns away from me and pulls up his pants. Every time he moves, the ink on his back ripples. It moves like it has a life of its own. The vines and roses grow and change before my eyes.

Sadly, his compromised state isn’t enough to stop him from talking. His voice is deep and lacks its usual animation, a low, monotone whirr that lists all the reasons we shouldn’t be together again.

“…teammates…guys uncomfortable…unprofessional…totally unprofessional…”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, nodding supportively. He’s talking out of his ass, and I don’t really have time for this nonsense, but I don't want to argue. “Unprofessional, huh?”

“Yeah, completely unprofessional…er, definitely not going to ha ppen again.”

When I finish cleaning up, I dunk the paper into the trash can in the corner of the room and move to where he stands. I run my hands gently up one of his arms to get his attention, scouring my palms on the coarse hair I find there.

He splutters and appears to run out of steam. Thank God, because much as I love fighting with him, I’m a little lightheaded from how hard I blew my load, and I’d rather not get into it with him until I’ve recovered.

“Want to see if you can win your money back?” I offer as a concession.

I regret making a bet with Decker for the second time. The first time, it was impulsive and I couldn’t help myself. The second time, I should have thought it through more. Ant Decker is competitive as fuck, and if anyone should know that, it’s me.

He’s given me the widest berth imaginable since our last away game. We’ve had a day off, a practice, and a home game since then. I didn’t see him on our day off obviously. I chilled pretty hard. Spent most of the day at home wishing I had a sofa and trying to shop for one online. When I was unsuccessful, I resorted to stalking my own socials to see if Decker had looked at my profile again. He hadn’t. He hardly even looked at me at practice. He didn’t insult me at all, didn’t give me constructive criticism about my game, or even call me a show pony, and when I purposefully bumped into him on the way to the locker room, he apologized.

It was bullshit.

The game was bullshit too. We lost. We played like “utter crap,” as Coach eloquently put it. I feel bad as I was off my game in a big way. I missed an easy goal, and I don’t even want to talk about the penalty I gave away. The second it happened, I knew it would be one of those things I’d relive for years. You know, the kind of thing that wakes up randomly every few months, makes you break into a sweat and want to go back in time and slap yourself for being so stupid. It was really bad. On our way to the locker room, Bodie threw an arm around me and said, “Don’t worry, bud. It wasn’t as bad as you think it was.”

Coming from Bodie, that means it sucked balls and then some.

Most of the team went out to drown our sorrows after the game. We went to Snake Bite, a dive bar a couple of blocks from the arena. It’s a Vipers institution. It’s one of those places that looks grimy outside and smells like burger grease and beer inside, but the vibes are good. The regulars know us by name. They’re awesome, they don’t get in our faces, and they make sure fans give us enough space that we can let our hair down a little.

Decker was there, dark and broody, sitting at the bar, staring off into middle distance. It was annoying. It was like when he’s on the ice and I can feel where he is. Every time I got into a conversation with anyone else, I’d feel this dull pull toward him. I couldn’t stop looking at him. I did it so much that Bodie asked me twice if I was okay. Decker was sitting at the bar with Katz and Bennet. Bennet was doing most of the talking. He was amusing if Katz’s reaction was anything to go by. He must have been because Decker cracked a smiled three times and said, “Hmph,” once. He ordered a pale ale and drank it quickly. The closest he came to making eye contact with me was looking at a spot a couple of inches above my head.

He was the first guy to leave.

I dreamed about him last night. We were on the ice. Just us. No one else was there, not even Coach. We had our skates on but not the rest of our gear. We were wearing plain clothes, normal clothes, jeans and T-shirts. That struck me as odd, even while dreaming. It felt strange, unrestricted, and more naked than I usually feel on the ice. More freeing too. For the first part of the dream, we were playing with a puck, passing it back and forth to each other, but then one of those odd, dreamy things happened, and the puck wasn’t there anymore. I still had my stick, but Decker didn’t have his. It took me a second to realize what had happened. He was the puck. A dark streak of menace darting a few paces ahead of me. Hard, tacky rubber compressed and put under intense pressure, moving at speed away from me.

I woke up sweaty and panting, feeling confused. It was a weird dream. Kind of fucked up.

And very unrealistic.

In the dream, I couldn’t catch him.

I was shitting bricks before I hit the ice tonight. There’s nothing worse than letting your team down, and I needed a win badly to convince myself I belong here. Thankfully, I played a lot better. The game went into overtime and shootouts, so it wasn’t easy, but I scored the game-winning goal and didn’t make any major fuckups, so that was a huge relief.

I should be riding the high of the W, but I’m not. We’re in the lobby of our hotel in Philly, a cavernous, ornately lit space that echoes when people speak, and I’m more nervous now than I was before the game.

I have my hands in my pockets because I picked my cuticles so much on the bus I almost drew blood. I haven’t done that in years. Not since I was a kid. My anxiety is through the roof. My palms are clammy and my heart is beating so hard I’m finding it hard to focus on anything else.

I’m worried about everything. Some of it makes sense, some of it doesn’t.

I’m worried because we played well tonight, and Decker and I haven’t so much as had a minor argument in three or four days, so there’s a good chance Coach is going to think we’ve figured our shit out and stop making us room together. As much as that seems like it would be a good thing, if we’re not forced into a small space together, how the hell will I be able to get myself into a situation where I’m alone with him ?

I’m also worried Coach will stick to his guns and throw us into a room together again, and this time, it will be even more awkward than it was the first time. I’m worried I’ll start talking if that happens, and if it does, there’s no telling what I’ll say. Literally none. I could say the most embarrassing shit of my life and not have any way to stop it. It’s happened to me before when I was less stressed than this, so I know it’s a possibility.

I’m worried Decker will be a stubborn asshole and nothing will happen between us because of the stupid bet I made. And then I’ll die of some rare and terrible ailment caused by one’s dick getting so hard their brain stops working and they fall into a coma, or something like that, and that would be a horrible, embarrassing way to go. Just think of my mom and dad, having to live through something like that. The press would have a field day with it. They’d camp outside our house. My family would never hear the end of it. The trauma would be unreal.

God, it’s too loud in here. And too bright. There are so many tiny bulbs on the giant chandelier hanging overhead that they’ve seared a pattern into my retina. I see little yellow dots every time I blink, and it’s making me feel worse than I already do .

I’m almost beside myself by the time Warren calls out, “Decker, McGuire, you’re in 502.”

I’m hit by a storm of emotion when I hear the words, nerves and relief, trepidation and jubilation. I flick through each one so hard and fast that I almost forget to wipe the smile off my face as I step forward to take the key card from Warren.

My hand shakes as I swipe the card on the keypad of our door. Decker is standing behind me, a little too close and a little too far away. I hold the door for him. He enters and goes straight to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him and locking it for good measure.

He takes his sweet fucking time in there. The shower runs for twelve minutes and the sink faucet goes on and off three times. Listening at the door does nothing to calm my nerves, so I hit the mini bar, crack a beer, and prop myself up on a pile of pillows as I wait on my bed for him to come out.

By the time the bathroom door lock finally turns, my legs have that achy post-game feeling. Maybe I should’ve stayed in the ice bath for longer, but instead, I’ve sunk two inches into the mattress, and I can’t imagine myself moving any time soon. The feeling evaporates the second I see him. I’m not sure what one would call the feeling it’s replaced with, but it’s unusual, that’s for sure. Decker, that’s Ant Decker, Vipers right-wing and one of the NHL’s most infamous bad boys, has just emerged from a cloud of steam and moseyed into the room clad head to toe in checked flannel pajamas. I don’t mean flannel pants with a tight, sexy jersey-knit T-shirt. I mean the checkered jammies you’d usually see on kids under the age of four years old or on your grandad. I mean a blue-and-white button-down set. For good measure, he has them buttoned all the way to his neck.

“What the fuck are those?” I ask before I can censor myself.

He keeps his gaze four inches to the left of me and says, “They’re pajamas, McGuire. Sleepwear. You know, the kind of thing commonly worn so as not to make people around you uncomfortable.”

“Hate to break it to you, bud, but those aren’t pajamas. They’re jammies .”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he lets out a tiny gust of air through his nose from the effort it costs him to remain silent.

“Feel free to use the bathroom.” He holds one hand out primly, showing me the way with the stick-up-his-ass posture of a man who’s been an usher at many staid, black-tie events in a previous life .

The bathroom is spotless. The floor, sink, and even the shower appear to have been wiped down. Decker’s toiletries are packed away in his toiletry bag, and the only signs he’s used the room are the damp towels hung neatly on the hook on the door and the light scent of citrus and man musk in the air.

For want of anything better to do, I brush my teeth and take a shower, even though I showered after the game and two showers in such a short space of time isn’t usually something I feel is essential.

My dick has been hard since I got on the bus, and being naked with the knowledge that Decker is in the next room is doing nothing to make it subside. I consider rubbing one out so I’ll have my wits about me to best navigate the strange jammies situation I have on my hands. I think better of it because I’ve jerked off so much in the last few days that I’m starting to suspect it’s doing more harm than good.

Instead, I fuck around with my phone, taking some footage for my socials. The video I end up with is a little more in your face than usual, but I like it. Let’s see if Decker can keep up his boycott of my TikTok in the face of no shirt and gray sweatpants.

My heart is beating out of my chest by the time I leave the bathroom. I’ve played out at least eleventy billion scenarios in my mind of what’s likely to go down the next time Decker and I are in a small space together, but still, nothing could have prepared me for what I find.

Decker is in bed with the covers pulled up under his armpits, still as a corpse. Not only that, he has a slightly oversized travel eye mask covering the top half of his face.

“What are you doing?” I ask, half in dismay, half in disbelief.

“It’s called leading by example, McGuire,” he replies curtly, a thread of tension tugging at the corners of his lips, turning them downward. “It’s called putting the needs and well-being of the team first. It’s called thinking with your head, not your dick.”

“Oooh.” I make it sound like I’m agreeing or at least giving the matter serious consideration. The tension around his lips fades slightly. It pleases me. It’s exactly what I was hoping for, so I go in for the kill.

I walk over to his bed and come to a stop close enough to it that my knee digs into his mattress, jostling it slightly. I’m not touching him, and I won’t unless he stops this jammie-eye-mask nonsense, but I want him to know I’m nearby. I want him to feel me the way I feel him. On the ice. And in bars. And in locker rooms and hotel lobbies. I want him to feel me like I feel him all the time. Everywhere .

And he does. He must because before I open my mouth to talk, his entire body tenses. His chest rises sharply and falls slowly.

I keep my voice soft. Non-threatening and sweet. “Would you like me to blow you?”

“No!” His voice cracks, and he quickly tacks on a breathy and too quick, “Thank you,” which comes out sounding more like one word than two.

“Okay.” I pad over to the luggage rack near the TV where my bag is. I get my lube out, making sure to hold it where he’ll be able to see it on the off chance there’s a gap in his mask and he happens to be peeking at me. He doesn’t move or breathe funny, so maybe there isn’t.

I ease onto my bed and flick the lube cap open without making any effort to do it quietly. I have a feeling Decker is the kind of guy who will recognize the sound of someone lubing their dick, and I’m not wrong. Beside me, I see him stiffen. He doesn’t move at all. Not his hands. Not his head. Not even his ribcage.

I play with the waistband of my sweatpants for a while, snapping the elastic a couple of times before easing them over my hips.

“W-what are you doing?” he asks.

“Jacking off,” I reply, taking care to keep my tone breezy. I let out a sorry little sigh as I start stroking. “I have to. I’m so hard and horny, and I can’t fall asleep with my dick like this.”

Decker’s Adam’s apple travels up his throat and hovers. When he swallows, he does it so hard I hear an audible gulp. I like knowing I’m affecting him. It gives me a dizzying surge of power that goes straight to my head. At the same time, I know I’m crossing a bunch of lines here, and even though I’m enjoying myself more than I have all week, a really dumb part of me wants his permission to do this.

“D’you want me to go to the bathroom?”

“Uh, erm, nah. I mean, no. It’s fine…I’m fine .”

Relief washes over me. My limbs go lax at the sound of his voice. He’s okay with me being here. Doing this.

I’m lying on my back, with my head on the pillow, face turned toward him. I keep my eyes on him as I start to stroke and feel the first warm breath of good things flowing through me as my hand travels up my shaft. I bring it down slowly. Firmly but not too firmly. I want to make it last. I want to make myself feel good, and ideally, I want to drive Decker completely crazy as I do it.

There’s a gentle flutter. A light prickle. Papery wings on my skin. It strengthens and morphs as I touch myself. At first, the sounds I make are for him, exaggerated and chosen for his benefit. Meant to agitate him. To disturb and excite him.

And then they’re not. They change. They’re for me now.

They’re because I’m here, half-naked with my cock in my hand, and Ant Decker is here too. He’s close. He’s on his bed, arms ramrod-straight at his sides, clutching at the bedcovers. I see it. Big hands on soft linen, balling it up, squeezing it rhythmically. Crushing it, tugging at it because he can’t help himself.

He can deny it all he wants, but he wants me as much as I want him.

I know it.

“Decker,” it’s an offer, an olive branch, “d’you want to watch? It’s okay if you do.” His head lolls to the side as though he means to shake it, but once it’s turned in my direction, he forgets to move it back the other way. “I want you to.”

He reaches up, defeated, and pushes his eye mask up. His hair is disheveled, and he blinks hard, like someone or something emerging from a long hibernation. He watches me like that for what feels like forever but is probably only a few seconds and slinks off his bed. His feet are on the carpeted floor between our beds for two beats, and then the mattress dips and he’s on my bed. On me. Straddling my thighs, holding me down with his body, watching intently as I jerk myself off.

Butterfly wings and light flutters quickly turn to tingles. My limbs lock, toes tensing as my hips thrust to get closer to him.

Aside from the weight of him on my legs, he doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t need to. I feel his gaze harder than I’ve ever felt anyone’s touch. It’s heavy and thick. Hot like honey that’s been in the sun. It runs up my thighs and down my chest, meeting in the middle and doubling in intensity.

He’s looking down at me, tracking my hand as it slides up and down my length. His lips are ajar. A soft hint of pink in a forest of dark hair. From where I lie, his eyes almost look closed. Shadows are splayed out on his cheeks. Dark lashes and messy hair. Nerdy pajamas and rough, rasping breaths.

It’s too much. Too hot. Too close and not nearly enough.

“Please,” I whimper. “Decker, please .”

My orgasm is close, circling me. Strangling me. An unstoppable force swelling inside me. A force that needs to let loose.

I buck beneath him, frantic, feral because he’s here, in my grasp, but he’s not touching me. “ Please ,” I say again, this time through clenched teeth with my neck and chest arching off the mattress.

My eyes are open and wild, stinging because of how much they need to clamp shut to stem my impending release. Decker’s head drops forward, still not touching me but almost close enough to kiss me, and his next breath is punctured by a soft groan. I feel that groan under my sternum. I feel it at the base of my skull. I fuck into my hand once, twice more, and then drag my hand off my cock even though I know damn well that if Decker hesitates, if he takes so much as two seconds to react instead of one, I’ll have ruined my own orgasm.

He doesn’t.

Say what you will about the man, but his reflexes are fire. He circles my throbbing cock without hesitation, holding it tightly, pumping it hard, and catapulting me into another dimension.

I come so hard it’s almost painful. Almost violent. I’m still in the throes of it when Decker’s weight shifts. He moves over me, hands and knees on either side of me as I thrash under him, and straddles my chest. I arch beneath him, straining for more contact. He pushes his pants down, and as he does, I raise both hands above my head and cross them at the wrists. He takes it for what it is: an act of surrender. He leans over me, taking both of my wrists in one hand, and starts stroking himself with the other.

I struggle like crazy. At first, I do it purely to improve my view of his cock with so much of his fucking pajama top blocking my view, then I do it to test his strength. It’s impressive. A dead weight, a solid slab of ice holding me down. It’s more though. It’s not just confinement, not just restraint. My body fights, thrashing and writhing as hard as I can. Each time I do it, I’m met by an unyielding wall of resistance that makes me let go of something. Something small, something big. Something I didn’t realize I was holding on to at all.

I don’t blink the entire time. His cock is aimed straight at my face, head dark red and leaking profusely. Pulsing in his fist as he manhandles it. I still as his strokes quicken, and when I do, I become aware of a soft chorus of begging and pleas.

They’re coming from me.

I know what’s about to happen. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, but still, I want to make it clear that I understand my position. I know Decker is about to choke the life out of his cock and blow his load all over my face. I know it. It’s humiliating as fuck, but there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s holding me down. I’m helpless .

What’s of interest to me, even now, even in this animal state, is that I’m not sure how much I mind. I’m not sure I mind at all. In fact, there’s a chance I’m not begging him not to do it.

There’s a good chance I’m asking for it.

I keep my eyes open when he goes quiet and the stillness around him sucks the air out of the room. And I keep them open as his slit parts and opens. It’s only when I hear the gruff sound of his pleasure that I tear my eyes off him and let my lids slam shut. I wait for the splatter. The wet burst, the hot spurt of shame.

I wait.

And wait.

It doesn’t come.

When I open my eyes to see what the hell happened, I see him convulsing with both hands between his legs, one hand around his shaft and the other clutching his tip, catching what he made.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask dreamily.

He leans over me, face inches from mine, eyes darker than usual, and shakes his head and smiles as if the joke’s on him.

“’Cause, Princess”—he takes my face in his clean hand, squishing my cheeks so hard my lips climb over each other. It’s a rough action that’s in direct conflict with the tone of his voice—“this face is too pretty to fuck up.”

“I wanted you to do it.” My voice is still dreamy. So soft and melodious that I can’t tell if I’m more surprised by my admission or how little I sound like myself.

Heat flares in his eyes, a bright flame in a long night. He’s angry. At me, at himself, I can’t tell which. Either way, he dusts my face with his hand like he did that first day on the ice. He does it exactly the same way. Only this time, I’m different. I understand the game now, so I don’t get angry. I get even.

I look him dead in the eyes, dip my finger in the puddle of semen pooled at the base of my throat, and raise it to my mouth.

Decker’s thighs tighten around my ribs, and he lets out a low rumble.

I reach for the pool of cum again, this time with three fingers, scooping up as much as I can.

Before I have time to taste them, he takes hold of my wrist and wrestles it above my head. I let him. I don’t resist at all. Instead, I strain my head toward him and snap at his chin and cheeks until my tongue finds his mouth.

“McGuire,” he growls, “don’t be a slut.”

“Why not?” I pant, lips hot against his .

“Don’t you know what happens to sluts?”

“No, I don’t.” I like this game, this kind of talk. I didn’t think I would, but holy shit, I do. It’s giving me life, and I want him to keep talking. “What happens to sluts? Tell me.”

He moans into my mouth and shifts so his full weight is on me. “Bad things,” he murmurs as he leans in to kiss me.

It’s a hard, bruising kiss that leaves me winded. I wind my free arm around his neck and deepen the kiss. He growls again but seems to catch himself before he lets go completely, pulling away, dragging himself off me like he’s come into contact with a live ember.

“Decker!” I hiss at the back of him as he hurriedly makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t respond or show any outward sign of having heard me. The familiar hot rip of fury flares in my chest and blends with the remnants of lust that still seep out of me. “Get me a warm towel, asshole. I’m drenched in cum.”

He disappears into the bathroom and half of him reappears a second later. A single, scowling eye, a clenched jaw, and a thick, beefy arm appear around the doorframe. A wet, well-wrung-out white hand towel flies through the air and hits me square in the face .

The lights are out and Decker is back in his bed by the time I’ve composed myself. Though I warn myself strenuously not to say anything, I can’t resist the temptation. Maybe it’s because I like winning, or maybe it’s because if I’m really, really honest with myself, I’m as competitive with Decker as he is with me.

I have one up on him now, and I can’t let it go.

“You owe me twenty thousand dollars.”

An exasperated breath fizzles through his teeth. “I know.”

“Good thing you earn almost as much as me, huh? So I don’t have to feel too bad about taking it from you.” He doesn’t reply, but I can tell from the weight of the silence that he’s likely plotting my murder, so to distract him, I hit him with, “Wanna go double or nothing?”

He’s quiet for so long that I think he might have fallen asleep.

“No, I don’t,” he says eventually.

“Cool beans,” I reply, though I’m not sure that’s something people still say, and it’s certainly not something I’ve ever felt the need to say aloud before. “Does that mean I get to blow you whenever I want now?”

“No.” A slow, sultry puff of air is released in my direction. There’s ice in his voice. Fire too. “It means you get to blow me whenever I want.”

Oh damn, that’s hot.