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Episode 8


The next week was a solid blur of hockey, bus riding boredom, and three-star hotels. No four-star hotels because we’re not pro. No jets because we’re not pro. No single rooms because we’re not pro. Not that I had anything against sharing a room with Goog. I loved the big, dorky goof but having to hide under the covers with a pillow between my teeth to jerk off was getting old fast. And I was doing a lot of jerking off. Each JO session fueled by various images of me and Mike in lurid, sweaty, semen-soaked fantasies. I couldn’t stop thinking of that sexy stat man’s mouth stretched around my dick. I had it bad, no denying it.

When I wasn’t tugging my cock, I was on the ice doing my best to ensure Goog and I played as a cohesive pairing. My other winger, Rick Primula, had joined in on my little scheme, gladly willing to help Goog out. Rick was a good guy, typical polite Canadian, cute as a bug with big brown eyes and short red hair. Rick and I opted not to tell Goog about our little plan for a couple reasons. One was that Goog would be mad we felt he needed our help. Two was that he’d be freaked out if he knew the GM was itching to unload him. This road trip had been a good one in terms of wins. We’d grabbed six points on three wins, only dropping one game in overtime. Alfie was not pleased with himself giving up that OT goal but reined in his anger and only busted several of his sticks over the boards and not anyone’s head.

Playing well was crucial in helping us maintain our position in the middle of the pack. If we fell any further, we’d be hard pressed to claw our way back up. Also, and this was a big also, when we returned home we had a day off and then the Cayuga Cougars rolled into Carlisle. They were leading our division and had some off-the-wall skilled players; gritty ones, fast ones, older ones who liked to knock forwards like me into the boards just for shits and giggles. If we could somehow beat them it would be a huge morale boost for the team.

Rolling into Carlisle felt good. We filed off the charter bus, bleary-eyed but happy to be home. Goog and Rick hustled after me as I jogged to the player’s entrance of the CBC, which was still lit-up after a sporting expo earlier in the day. Deep down I knew Mike wouldn’t be here at ten o’clock at night, but I had an invitation for him.

“Uh, why are we going into the barn?” Rick asked, on my left as always.

“I wanted to invite Mike to Butterball’s tomorrow night.” I slipped inside, giving Dom, the security man usually stationed by the players entrance, a knuckle bump.

“Who’s Mike?” Goog asked, ambling along at my right. A man couldn’t ask for better wingmen. They were always up for anything I suggested. Sometimes that probably wasn’t wise, but they seemed willing to back me up no matter how stupid my ideas.

“The stats guy,” I replied, pausing outside Mike’s office door while I dug into my trouser pocket to find the slip of paper I’d prepared on the bus.

“A stats guy? Taz, why would we want some numbers guy joining us at Butterball’s?” I gave Goog a quick look while working the wrinkles out of the invitation. “They’re always so boring and snobby.”

“Well, Mike’s not boring or snobby.” I wanted to say more about Mike, like that his lips were a work of art and tasted of sinful pleasures, warm coffee, and chocolate. I couldn’t, but I wanted to. “He’s cool. And smart.”

I bent down and slipped the paper under his door. Mike would love Butterball’s. It’s a wickedly cool place two blocks from the CBC that was part pub, part eatery, and part arcade. The Rush and whoever was in town playing us always filled Butterball’s to eat, drink, wheel chicks – or guys depending on your taste – and play air hockey, foosball, or pinball.

When I straightened, I caught my wingers giving each other that “This is dumb but if Taz says it’s cool then we’re in” look.

I gave them my most charming smile. “Trust me, Mike is okay. Now, let’s go home and get into our own beds.”

“Yeah, I’m tired of hotel beds. They’re too soft,” Rick said around a yawn.

“Mine are always too hard,” Goog complained as we stepped outside, a cold wind slapping us in the face.

“Great, so that leaves me to play the role of Momma Bear. Okay, I can do this. My beds are just right,” I said in a stupid falsetto voice. Both my wingers howled in laughter. “Who’s Goldilocks?” I asked, jogging to my frosty truck.

“Alfie. Only he’s Scarylocks,” Goog shouted from his car.

Rick and I both laughed at that one then climbed into our chilly rides. I sat there outside the arena, rubbing my hands together, blowing on my fingers, waiting for my Toyota Tacoma to thaw the windshield enough to leave. Hopefully Mike would accept my neatly penned invitation to fun and games tomorrow night. A hot little fantasy wiggled into my brain. Mike and me in that buttery-blond colored men’s room, him spread over the sinks, pants around his ankles, and me buried balls deep in his ass. Oh, he was liking it too. Yeah, he was. He was begging for me to go deeper and faster and–

“Fuck,” I sighed as my dick lengthened. My cock was going to be calloused if something didn’t change soon…


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