17. Bryson

Smitty pumped his hips, thrusting harder and deeper as he reached around, swatting my hand away so he could jack me himself. I flattened my hand on the kitchen wall, whimpering at the slide of his thick cock in and out of my hole. He kissed my shoulder and licked the shell of my ear.

"I want my cum inside you. I want you to feel me all day, all night. I want you to remember how fucking good this is. You're my sweet little fu?—"

"Ungh! I'm gonna come," I roared, spilling my seed over his fist.

Smitty gripped my hips with both hands and held me still, bucking and grinding through his orgasm.

If I hadn't been leaning on the wall, we would have toppled over for sure. And geez, we made a mess. We were both tested recently, and no-condom-sex was fabulous but, there was cum on the kitchen floor and on the khakis pooled at my ankles. Probably on my new Italian loafers too. I didn't care. Not one bit.

I tilted my head back to rest on his shoulder and caught a glimpse of us in the sliding glass window. My tattooed bad boy with his joggers pushed to his knees, his hands on my hips, nuzzling my neck. Right next to the toaster and the microwave oven.

Kitchen sex was awesome. And not something that had happened in this kitchen in…well, ever.

No, I'd never had sex in this kitchen.

We'd fucked in every room of Smitty's rental, which made me feel vaguely weird since I knew the owners, but it obviously hadn't stopped me. I was a complete and utter slut for this man. A version of my former self—minus the rampant drug use and senseless partying.

The old me had been a daredevil with a reckless lust for life. I hadn't seen much of that guy in decades, but he'd made a grand reappearance. Let a wicked genie out of a bottle and all hell breaks loose. This mess was my doing. I couldn't help it. I had no control over my desire for the sexy high school hockey coach.

The second I saw Smitty out front shoveling the meager bit of snow that had fallen from Dale's porch, I had to have him. He was every sporty fantasy I'd ever had come to life. The December evening was cold, but he didn't have a coat on—just a blue plaid shirt that emphasized his biceps and broad shoulders, his perfect ass in those black joggers, and a blue beanie on his head.

I told myself to go for a run or jump on the treadmill in my home gym. I told myself to call Jake or start dinner. I told myself to stop wanting him so damn much, but I couldn't do it.

Christ, Smitty was my new drug. I was addicted to his smile, his audacity, his easy confidence, his surprising shows of sensitivity, and yes, his body could have been chiseled by Michelangelo…with a bigger penis.

So, I'd invited him over, pulled him into my kitchen, and climbed him like a tree. And you know, I'd do it again…as soon as my ass allowed.

We'd been going at it like bunnies since Jake left for Syracuse. I loved my son to the moon and back, and I was always happy to see him, but he had a job that required intense training and he needed to be with his team. Not skulking around Elmwood. I didn't think Jake had missed any practices, but he'd probably missed some bonding time with his buddies to babysit his dad.

No, I wasn't an idiot. Jake had thawed a teensy bit toward Smitty, but he was still wary of him and suspicious of our friendship. It made me uneasy. On one hand, it was killing me to be dishonest, but the truth was scary. I'd never felt this way about another man. Ever.

The heart palpitating, gooey, silly buzz of being in Smitty's orbit got stronger every day. What would I tell Jake, though? I'm desperately in lust and possibly falling into something more dangerous with the closeted bi man you hate. Nope. That wouldn't work. Or maybe it would if we tried to give things a chance.

It wouldn't be easy.

This was a very small town, and Smitty was the new guy. People would talk. They wouldn't care that he was bi, but another queer pro hockey player settling in Elmwood might bring outside attention. Did he want that?

It would put a direct spotlight on our fledgling program at the high school, but they wouldn't be talking about his skills as a coach. No, they'd want to know all about his personal life with the local real estate agent whose son also happened to be a pro hockey player. My story would become Jake's story by default.

Our friendship was already becoming a minor point of interest in town if my jet-setting ex-wife noticed.

"You see him a lot, don't you? Smitty. The new coach. He's cute," Piper'd commented at Jake's last game, flashing a knowing wink.

I'd rolled my eyes and diverted her attention to the action on the ice. "Let's go, Milligan!"

I saw a lot of my ex-wife during hockey season. We sat together at Jake's games, cheering our son on the way we had since the day he was born. First smile, first steps, first T-ball game, first lost tooth, first time on skates, first game, first goal, first win…first everything. We did our best to equally share parenthood—the good, bad, ugly and beautiful.

We'd raised an extremely cool and accomplished human, which I liked to think said something about Piper and me. But I was very aware the stakes weren't the same for us. She had less to lose…always had. She'd remarried a nice guy and no one had batted an eyelash or asked how I felt about it. I was gay…what did I care? Truthfully, I liked Eric, but I'd been wary of having a new "dad" in my son's life. Not just wary—mildly freaked out of my mind was a more apt description.

But I refused to be sidelined. I refused to be less than. Not when it came to Jake. That meant I had to be Dad of the Year all day every day. I still felt that way. Piper was happily married, traveling the world, and I was hiding the best thing that had come into my life because the world judged me differently. Even in this safe haven, I was judged by a different set of rules.

I forgot the rules when I was with Smitty.

Like right now—his hands on my hips, his lips on my neck.

"Spunk cleanup, all aisles," he joked, licking his thumb obscenely.

"Gross." I pushed his chest, but I sucked cum from his fingers and moaned like a ho.

Smitty snickered, biting my chin before stepping toward the sink. He used a wet paper towel and wiped lube from my ass, pulling my briefs and khakis up as he cornered me against the wall and kissed me till I saw a new constellation of stars. His gaze was heated and hot. Knowing Smitty, he was about to say something rude to make me blush or laugh or?—

"I need dad jokes, babe. What do you got?"

Uh…okay.

"What? Why?" I washed my hands and righted my clothes, then reached for a bottle of Pinot and two glasses.

Smitty made himself at home, preheating a skillet and opening the package of ground beef I'd left out to thaw in the sink.

"We've lost every game so far, Denny is clamming up more than ever, Niall is playing tense, and Adam—don't tell Tracy, but I don't think the kid likes hockey. They're clicking in practice, but they can't stay loose during games. They need a weapon. When I was younger, I played mean and dirty." He grabbed a wooden spoon and broke the meat into small pieces, thanking me when I slid a glass of wine on the counter next to him. "I had so much angst I needed to get out. The older I got, the more everything hurt. I had to play smarter. I started heckling opponents with dumbass stuff to get under their skin. And I was shocked at how damn effective it was."

"Jake might have mentioned that," I snorted.

Smitty winced. "He told you? I had no fucking idea you were hot. I mean…c'mon. Talk about a direct hit. I'd just wanted to distract him and I did. The boys could learn from my devious, masterful ways. Play like you're in it to win it, and have a secret surprise pop to throw 'em off guard when things go south…without being complete dicks."

"You think they should tell jokes on the ice? You think that'll work?"

"No, but I'm willing to try anything. Advice is welcome too."

"I think you know what you're doing. You just have to be patient and have a sense of humor."

He nodded. "And that's where the jokes come in. What'd ya got?"

I leaned against the counter, sipping my wine thoughtfully. "Hmm. Why are skeletons so calm?"

He shook his head. "This is painful. Okay…why?"

"Because nothing gets under their skin. Get it? 'Cause they don't have skin."

Smitty groaned while I snickered merrily.

"Nope. Can't do it. I'll have to think of something else."

Buzz buzz

He balanced the spoon on the edge of the skillet and pulled his cell out. "Shoot. I better take this. I haven't talked to Jimmy about my holiday plans. Will you take over here?"

"Of course."

"Yo, man," Smitty answered. "Sorry, I meant to call you back. I'll be there. I want to check on my mom and see your family, but I can't stay long…" Pause. "Yeah, that's great." Longer pause. "Oh. What's wrong?"

I picked up the spoon and lowered the heat, shamelessly eavesdropping. It wasn't hard to do. His friend's voice carried through the connection.

"…baby girl. I thought I should tell you, but I don't know. Maybe that's weird," Jimmy rambled.

"No, no, it's fine. Thanks," Smitty replied, clearing his throat. "Anyway, how are the kids? Are they excited for Santa?"

I seasoned the beef and tuned out the rest of their relatively short conversation, casting furtive glances at my lover, who seemed like his normal, relaxed self.

"Everything okay?" I asked when he put his cell away and sidled close to inspect my taco seasoning proportions.

"Yeah, it's all good. Rachel had her baby, and Jimmy wanted me to know. So fucking awkward," he huffed. "Mmm, nice job. Who's cutting onions? One, two, three, nose goes."

I rolled my eyes at the grown-ass man touching the tip of his nose like a kid.

"Fine. I'll be on onion duty." And I almost had the entire thing chopped before curiosity overwhelmed me. "How are you doing? I mean…are you okay with that news? About the baby?"

Smitty dried the cilantro, smiling wanly as he picked up a knife. "Yes, I'm fine. I honestly, don't feel anything. I'm happy for Rachel, but I'm not sad for me. If that makes sense."

"It does."

"A few months ago, I might have wanted to get drunk or something, but…" He shrugged and continued mincing the cilantro. "My happiness isn't attached to hers."

I nodded thoughtfully. "That's a healthy way to look at it."

"I got that straight from my shrink. You know how it is when people give you great advice and helpful sayings to process everyday bullshit. In one ear, out the other. I've been waiting for a long time for that particular sentence to feel true. My happiness isn't attached to hers, and it hasn't been for a long time. But I admit, I've been quietly sitting on pins and needles, waiting for that call." His voice took on a manic tone as the knife hit the cutting board with a rapid chop, chop, chop. "I thought the news would break me. I expected a knife to the heart, a punch in the gut, and a nasty pity party, but…I don't feel it. I really don't feel sad or empty or anything ugly or negative. I'm not jealous, I'm not pissed off, I'm just…I don't know—I'm happy for her."

"Good." I left the onion and moved to his side to kiss his cheek.

"You know something else? I'm glad it ended when it did. I don't think we would have made it in the long run, even if we'd had kids. If your relationship is primarily based on checking off items on a ‘things married people do' list, you're going to run into problems. No matter how legit and cool that list might be, there's got to be more to your relationship." He stilled the knife for a beat. "We didn't have it."

"Piper and I came to that same conclusion. Although according to her, our marriage would have been better if she had a dick."

"That's funny." Smitty chuckled, sobering a moment later. "You know what I hate about divorce? Losing. I hate to lose. I lost a wife, I lost kids I couldn't give her. I lost all the fucking time. I'm not losing anymore. I'm in a good place, and so is she. A second chance is a fuckin' gift and all that."

"You have a good attit?—"

"Fuck it. Who am I kidding? I'm not okay." He tossed the knife and leaned against the counter.

"Oh."

"It stings. I wanted that, damn it. I wanted it bad." Smitty's voice broke as he tilted his chin skyward, his eyes suspiciously wet. "Not one kid…I wanted two or three. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe I wanted a chance to rewrite my own childhood. I dunno. No kid of mine was gonna worry about having enough to eat or have holes in their shoes. I would be at every fuckin' event—big and small. Kindergarten graduations, recitals, T-ball games…you name it. I'd have moved mountains. Hell, I was ready for it. I wanted to build forts and fix tutus and learn how to braid hair. Fuck, I just—wanted a chance."

"I'm sorry, baby," I whispered.

Smitty rubbed at his nose and sighed. "Me too. I thought I'd be a good dad."

I swiped at the moisture on his cheek. "You'd be the best."

He quirked his lips. "Yeah, but at the end of the day…she wasn't the one. I can be angry that she hurt me, but…I gotta let it go."

"It's not too late to have a family of your own, you know."

"Hmm."

A heavy silence fell. I didn't know how to fill it, so I tugged at his T-shirt. "Can I hold you?"

Smitty flashed a watery smile and dropped his head on my shoulder.

I snaked my arms around his waist and held on tight.

We swayed in the kitchen, sharing the weight of old burdens. We didn't speak, but words weren't necessary. It was enough to just….be.

He hadn't lost anything and he wasn't alone.

Not anymore.