**This is our gift to you, our readers. If you find a small error here and there be gentle… let email@example.com know and we can fix. **
Miller Normandy smiled at me before he knocked my skates out from under me. Miller and I had a long history, one that went back to our ECHL days. He hated me. I hated him. The reasons were varied. On his side I think it was because I was black, queer, and vocal about what a stupid caveman he was. On my side it was because he was a stupid caveman, a relic, the type of player that a team let off the leash when they were struggling. An enforcer. Miller was a dying breed. He knew it, I knew it, the league knew it. The fans? Well, many of them were still clinging to the outdated theory that every team needed a Miller. I, as a goalie, found little use for players like him and his love of crashing the crease at every opportunity.
In the past, him knocking me on my backside would have resulted in me beating him over the head with my stick. Tonight, I merely laid there, grinning at his mulish face as he lay atop me. Within seconds my teammates arrived and a huge scrum took place. I got to my skates, straightened my sweater, skated to the side, and waited for the men in black and white to pull all the players apart and assess penalties. When he was led to the sin bin Miller gave me the oddest look, as if he were confused. Perhaps he was. I’d changed the dynamics of our relationship leaving him looking the buffoon.
“You okay?” Taz asked when we left the ice, leading the St. Paul Marmots by three with another twenty minutes of hockey to go.
“I’m fine. Why?”
He handed off his sweaty gloves to an equipment manager who placed them on a glove drying rack. “I just…Miller ran your net. I mean, on purpose, with evil intent. And you just laid there. The last time—”
“The last time was not this time. You want me to pull a goaltender’s penalty that you or Goog or someone else has to serve?”
“No, of course not I just…” He stared at me with an arched brow. “You look less tight. You taken up meditation or something?”
I laughed and patted his sodden head with my catcher. “Silly boy. Can you picture me meditating? Truly?”
He snorted. “No, I guess not.”
Goog ran past, desperate to go pee and call his husband, but that was a secret. No one but me knew he hid a phone in the men’s room under the extra rolls of toilet paper. I’d heard a buzzing text come in before the game as I was using the urinal next to the supply closet and investigated. Goog’s phone case was unique and so I knew who it belonged to. Young newlyweds were silly. Imagine not being able to go three hours without talking to a man. Such foolishness. At my age I was well beyond that stupidity.
You didn’t see me rushing to sit on a toilet while pretending to shit just to whisper sweet nothings into Sacha’s ear. My man would brook no such folly. He would reprimand me for not focusing on hockey. I had no wish to anger Sacha as I was feeling centered and calm, the ugly emotions in me at bay for the moment. That I credited to him and his firm hand. If I acted out, he’d know, as he was out there watching. I had no doubts any asinine behavior would result in my ass being warmed. A hot lick of lust raced over me. Perhaps being a little naughty might not be sobad…
We went on to crush the Marmots 6-0. Returning to our hotel, I slipped into my room, a solo suite. It was tidy and quiet and had no sloppy, stupid rookie mussing things up. Sometimes being a hothead has its perks. I removed my shoes, tie, and jacket, placed them on the end of the bed to fold neatly, and sat in the big blue wingback, sipping on some cranberry seltzer water from the gift shop, and watching the lights of St. Paul flicker in the dark, dark winter night.
My phone vibrated silently in my pocket. A smile curled the corners of my mouth when I saw Sacha was reaching out to me.
“Hello,” I purred into the cell. He had said he loved my accent so I wanted to speak to him as often as possible, to keep my voice in his ear. To please him.
“Hello. You had a magnificent game. So centered and focused,” he said, igniting a soft glowing ember of appreciation in my chest. His approval made me feel good. “That split you did to stop that wraparound attempt made me hard.”
“It did?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Oh yes, such limber hips, wide and open. I’d like to investigate just how far you can spread your legs when you’re not on the ice. Interested?”
I grew slightly dizzy from all the blood in my body rushing to my cock. “Yes, that would be…I’d be most interested.”
“Good. Dinner Monday night at my place. Seven on the nose. Bring a change of clothes and your personal items. Do not be late. Tardiness is a pet peeve of mine. It shows disregard for the person you’re meeting.”
“I’ll be there on time.”
“Good man. We’ll talk more then. Goodnight, Alfie.”
I wanted to say more, something, anything, but then I thought that perhaps I was sounding like Goog who had to gush and coo into the phone. I didn’t think Sacha would like fluffy confessions of longing, so I kept that to myself.
“Goodnight, Sacha,” I replied, waiting for him to end the call before I tapped the red phone icon with a hearty sigh.
Monday seemed a long way off. Perhaps I could skip the fifteen hour plus bus ride and simply hop on a jet at my own cost? No, that would be too forward. Sacha had said Monday and so Monday it would have to be. I glanced down at the hard-on in my trousers, sighed theatrically, and went to touch it then pulled my hand back. No. I would wait for Monday night. For Sacha. I pulled up a webpage of the league’s goalie stats and began reading, my eyes blurring around player number twenty’s QS percentage. My dick was as flaccid as this miserable webpage. The things one did for a new lover…
*a new episode appears each Sunday, check the master list for updates.