by Avon Gale
When he returned to Atlanta a week into September, he texted Sebastian to let him know they’d landed as the plane taxied to the gate.
His phone buzzed while he waited in baggage claim about ten minutes later.
I’ll see you soon.
Tristan grinned down at the screen and rubbed his thumb over the words. Sebastian always texted using complete sentences and flawless punctuation, and he hated emojis enough to rant about them. No C U soon or winking smiley faces from him. Tristan found it oddly charming...which was a sign he was probably in over his head, because since when did he give a shit about another guy’s texting habits, let alone find them charming?
Tristan shook his head and put the phone away so he could grab his suitcase. Morley was waiting for him outside in a cherry-red Hummer about the size of a small garage.
The sheer bulk of Hummers had always struck Tristan as absurdly showy, though he’d never say as much to his friend. If Morley was overcompensating for something, Tristan couldn’t comprehend what it would be. He’d seen Morley naked enough times to know the man had a cock well in proportion with the rest of his six-foot-seven frame. It was why most of their teammates called him Tripod. Tristan and Ryu refused. But it was hilarious to watch Morley scramble to come up with random, family-appropriate stories whenever reporters asked him about the nickname. He couldn’t exactly answer, I have a wine-bottle dick, on national television. At least not without suffering the wrath of the league.
“Hey, Holtzy!” Morley greeted him with a smile and a back-slap that nearly pitched Tristan into the dashboard.
“Hey, man. Thanks for the ride.” Sebastian had wanted to pick him up, but a faculty meeting conflicted with Tristan’s arrival time. He’d offered to bring dinner over to Tristan’s apartment after his final class instead. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine. I saw Bellzie the other night,” Morley said, referring to the Venom’s captain, Daniel Bellamy. “A few other guys are already in town for training camp too. I can’t wait to be back on the ice, bro. Summers are great and all, but, fuck, I’d rather be playing.”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Tristan looked forward to reconnecting with his teammates, even if it meant he’d have less time for Sebastian. The guys were his second family, and he missed them whenever they scattered to their respective home states or countries for the off-season. And Bellzie, well, he’d always been an inspiration to Tristan, and later, a mentor. The very first jersey Tristan had bought with his allowance said Bellamy on the back. He still had it hanging in his closet, though now it sported Bellzie’s signature above the logo. A few of his teammates had given him shit for requesting that autograph during his rookie year on the Venom, but Tristan gave zero fucks about that. He hadn’t been willing to pretend Bellzie was anything less than one of his personal hockey heroes.
“Want to grab some lunch?” Morley asked when they were past the airport traffic.
It was early enough in the day that Tristan agreed. They stopped for a quick meal at their favorite sub shop before Morley dropped him off in front of his apartment building.
Tristan showered, unpacked, and started laundry to pass the time until Sebastian arrived. When Sebastian stepped into his apartment bearing a bag that smelled of Italian food, Tristan barely let him get across the threshold before he went in for a kiss.
It caught Sebastian off-guard, and Tristan silenced his startled laugh by slipping him the tongue. Somehow they got the takeout and Sebastian’s messenger bag on a tabletop as they stumbled to the couch, where Tristan shoved Sebastian down onto the cushions and settled on top of him.
Sebastian slid his hands past the waistband of Tristan’s sweatpants and made a soft, pleased sound at finding Tristan completely bare underneath. He pulled back and grinned up at Tristan, his mouth wet from Tristan’s kisses. “I think that greeting deserves a solid ninety-five percent, Mr. Holt.”
Tristan growled. “I’ll show you ninety-five percent.” He rubbed his hard cock against the bulge in Sebastian’s pants and laughed breathlessly when Sebastian groaned and arched up to meet the pressure, as if he couldn’t help himself.
Sebastian squeezed one of Tristan’s ass cheeks. “Maybe I can spare another point for the lack of underwear.”
“Only one? Who are you giving the rest of my points to, Professor Cruz?” Tristan delivered a sharp bite to Sebastian’s chin. “Have you already found another student you want to slip some extra credit?”
Sebastian reared back. When he spotted Tristan’s smirk, his incredulous expression darkened into something hot. He yanked Tristan’s sweatpants down and swatted at his ass. “Fucking brat.” He smacked the same cheek in a different spot, harder this time. “I should spank you, leave my handprints all over this fine ass.”
Just like that, Tristan could see it—his body draped across Sebastian’s lap, his skin sore and burning, covered in Sebastian’s marks. With a helpless groan, he jerked and came abruptly, as he hadn’t done since his early teens when it hadn’t taken much more than a dirty thought or two to send him over the edge.
“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. God.” Mortified and trembling from the shock of how quickly it’d happened, Tristan buried his heated face against Sebastian’s neck. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Sebastian didn’t laugh, as Tristan feared he might. Instead, he stroked Tristan’s back. “No need to apologize. Do you have any idea how amazing it is to watch you come from only the thought of me doing something to you?”
Tristan still couldn’t lift his head.
“You’re sexy as hell, Tristan,” Sebastian said, his voice rough. “I like getting you off, no matter how it happens. This isn’t something you should ever feel ashamed about. Not with me.”
Tristan gnawed anxiously at his lower lip, but he pulled away so he could meet Sebastian’s eyes. “Okay.”
Sebastian searched his face. “Is that something you want? For me to spank you?”
Tristan swallowed thickly. “I... I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.”
Sebastian raised his brows. “Which is it?”
“Yes.” Tristan knew his blush had intensified into a deeper, brighter red, but he forced himself to go on. “And that thing you did at the rest stop? Um, when you smacked my cheek with your dick?”
Sebastian nodded but didn’t speak.
“I sometimes think about you doing that with your hand.” Tristan stopped and had to clear his throat before he could continue. “Slapping me, I mean. But... I don’t want to have to ask for it. I want you to surprise me. I want you to do it when the moment feels right.” He stared down into Sebastian’s unreadable face as embarrassment twisted in his stomach. “Uh. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing. If you want to.” Tristan cleared his throat again. Might as well go for broke at this point. “And I really liked it when you called me a cocksucker. If you wanted to...call me other things, I’d be okay with it. I mean... I’d like it. I think.”
Sebastian stayed silent for so long Tristan had to fight not to squirm.
“I’ve done that before,” Sebastian said finally, right when Tristan was considering taking everything back. “Not seriously, though. Not formally. I can be as controlling as you want, and I’m perfectly willing to humiliate you or spank you if it turns you on. I don’t deal with safewords or contracts. You say stop and we stop. Anytime, no matter what the circumstances.”
“But will you enjoy it too? I don’t want you to do it just for me.”
Sebastian rubbed a hand over one of Tristan’s bare ass cheeks and tapped it lightly. “Oh, I’ll enjoy it,” he said with a wry smile. “Immensely. I may not consider myself a Dom in the technical sense, and I’m not officially involved in the lifestyle at all, but if you hadn’t noticed by now, I am a domineering bastard. I’d love to beat your ass raw. I’d love to slap you across the face and call you my little cock slut.”
Tristan’s shiver shook them both. “Y
eah,” he whispered as his eyelids slid shut. “Do that. Say that.”
“I will.” He felt Sebastian touch his cheek. “But it’ll be on my time, as and when I choose.”
Tristan smiled. “Good.” For him, there wasn’t any need to discuss it further. They both knew he wanted Sebastian to take charge. He was more than fine with allowing any kinky play to happen on Sebastian’s terms. He didn’t want to have to think about it or ask for it. But if that ever changed, he wouldn’t hesitate to say so.
“Now get cleaned up,” Sebastian ordered. “The food’s getting cold.”
Tristan opened his eyes in surprise. He reached between their bodies to cup Sebastian’s erection, which hadn’t flagged during their talk. “But what about you?”
Sebastian smiled. “You’ll be taking care of me later, don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll see if you can get that grade up to a hundred.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sebastian stood next to the glass in the Philips Arena, arms crossed over his chest and staring out at the ice. R.J. stood next to him, drinking an overpriced beer and grinning.
“This is so cool,” he said, for what had to be the sixth time. “And, somehow, that still makes you glare. Are you nervous, Sebastian?”
He wasn’t trying to glare—at least, until R.J. said that thing about being nervous. “Why would I be nervous?”
“Your boyfriend is going to play hockey?” R.J. smiled. Luckily, Tristan had been fine with R.J. knowing that he was gay, understanding that R.J. was a trusted friend who would never out him to anyone.
“Yes, but again, why would that make me nervous?” Sebastian glanced at R.J., who—of course—was wearing a Venom T-shirt. Sebastian owned no hockey-themed clothing at all, except for a shirt of Tristan’s that Tristan had left in his apartment. It was too big on Sebastian and it was from Tristan’s college team, not his professional one. At some point, Sebastian thought, he should buy something supportive. Like the shirts he saw with players’ names and numbers on them, though the thought of wearing Tristan’s name on his back was vaguely ridiculous.
Though it was sort of hot too.
They were at the arena for the Venom’s opening night game, and Tristan had given Sebastian a couple of tickets. He’d of course asked R.J. to come with him, and they were waiting for the team to come out on the ice for a warm-up skate (R.J. had been the one to tell him to show up early for that, and Sebastian had to admit he was curious to see Tristan on the ice in all that gear of his), and were joined by a few other fans. All of whom were wearing Venom shirts and jerseys—though there were a few for the Marauders, the hockey team from Memphis that had taken the Venom out of the playoffs last year. Some young women were there with their phones and a few signs too.
The whole thing was decidedly out of his comfort zone, but the sociologist in him was fascinated. Sebastian had never been immersed in sports culture, and if nothing else, this would be an excellent observation opportunity. The buzzer sounded before he could mention that to R.J., who’d struck up a conversation with a couple of children. Sebastian never had any idea what to say to children younger than his college students. Somehow they took one look at him and decided he wasn’t the kind of grown-up you talked to. Sebastian couldn’t say he was sad about that.
There was a cheer from those assembled along the glass as the skaters came out, and Sebastian’s eyebrows went up as he saw how tall and imposing Tristan’s team looked on their skates. Fascinated, he leaned closer and watched as they began skating laps around the rink. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever been on a pair of ice skates. Probably not. Roller blades a time or two as a kid, maybe, but he’d not been very good at it.
R.J. nudged him. “Hey, there’s your... Tristan,” he amended quickly, now that they had a bit more of a crowd.
Sebastian frowned. Was Tristan his boyfriend? That title always seemed a bit juvenile to Sebastian, regardless of how old he—or his partner—was. He and Tristan were dating, certainly, and it was admittedly a bit more serious than casual. But partner seemed a bit too formal—not to mention, Sebastian would never be comfortable using that for someone who was closeted—and yet there was no other word to use. He put it out of his mind, vaguely chagrined that R.J. had spotted Tristan before he had, and focused on his...fine, his boyfriend skating by.
Sebastian smiled as some of the kids pounded on the glass to get the players’ attention. He wouldn’t be able to stand that if he were out there.
As if reading his mind, R.J. said, “I’m imagining you stopping and lecturing those kids about ruining your pregame concentration.” He grinned.
Sebastian rolled his eyes, but a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You’re probably right.” He watched as Tristan flew by in a green-and-gold rush, moving fast and looking even broader than usual in all that gear.
As he skated by for the third time, Tristan met his eyes through the glass. Sebastian raised his hand from his crossed-armed position to give a bit of a wave, though he had no idea if Tristan saw it or not, given how fast Tristan was going. But on his next pass, Tristan tapped the glass with his hockey stick right where Sebastian was standing.
Something warm flared up in Sebastian’s blood and blossomed in his chest. It wasn’t lust, though he couldn’t lie and say that Tristan didn’t look hot as fuck in that uniform. That little stick tap, the acknowledgment that he’d seen Sebastian...
“Oh, my God, the look on your face, dude,” R.J. murmured, a laugh caught in his low voice.
“Shut up or I’ll scalp your ticket,” said Sebastian, but he was smiling.
“We’re already here. You can’t scalp the ticket.”
“I didn’t mention that Tristan said I could have two for every home game?” Sebastian gave R.J. an innocent look. “Mea culpa.”
“No, you did not mention that, so yeah, tua culpa.” R.J. hit him lightly on the shoulder, and they watched as Tristan—after skating up and shooting pucks at the goalie—came over to the glass again.
This time he flipped a puck up and over the glass, sending the kids scrambling for it. He met Sebastian’s eyes and grinned, then nodded hello at R.J. Sebastian was ridiculously pleased Tristan didn’t do the stick-tap thing for anyone but him.
Boyfriend, indeed.
Sebastian watched the warm-ups until the buzzer sounded, then he obediently followed R.J. up to their seats. Tristan had already explained that the seats were in the so-called “WAGs” section—which apparently stood for “wives and girlfriends”—and they were seated next to a young woman wearing a Bellamy shirt.
“That’s the captain,” R.J. whispered.
“Shouldn’t she be on the ice?” Sebastian whispered back. He ignored the jab R.J. gave him and focused instead on the pregame ceremony. It involved a lot of loud music, flashing lights and a bombastic announcer. It was a heady atmosphere, and Sebastian found himself enjoying it—especially when they announced the starting players and Tristan’s face flashed up on the jumbotron.
He looked like such a jock. Sebastian smiled to himself, remembering how he’d completely misjudged Tristan back at the beginning of the summer. He was hot, but there was a brain to go along with that taut body and those pretty blue eyes.
“Who are you here for?” asked the woman next to him, the one in the Bellamy shirt. She was pretty—all the women in the section were pretty, whether they were younger or closer to Sebastian’s age—with auburn hair and warm dark eyes.
His breath caught and a zing of panic raced up his spine. Sebastian had to work to keep the glower off his face. He knew exactly how unapproachable it made him look, but it’d been a long time since he’d felt that moment of fear at being discovered for being gay.
Calm down. People give tickets to their friends. There are other men in this section. “Tristan Holt is a friend of mine.”
“This guy,” R.J. broke in, smoothly, “has never seen a hockey ga
me, can you believe that? Tristan was kind enough to get us tickets.”
Technically true, but it bothered Sebastian to have his relationship cast in such a light. He wasn’t sure that was fair of him, though, because he and Tristan...well. It wasn’t time to think about that, now. But it was obvious by the woman’s shirt and the rock on her finger she was married to one of the players—probably the captain, Bellamy—and Sebastian couldn’t help the flare of irritation that his own relationship had to be so carefully hidden.
Then again, he could be misjudging the situation and making assumptions. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had his perceptions challenged, he thought wryly. “Yes. He was a student of mine this summer, and wrote some really thoughtful papers on life as a pro athlete.”
“Oh, he’s such a sweetheart,” the woman agreed. “My name’s Tabby Bellamy—my husband, Daniel, is the captain.” There was a little one next to her, peering up at Sebastian with her mother’s pretty dark eyes. Next to her was a slightly older boy, who must have taken after his father, with his curly brown hair and blue eyes. “This is my daughter, Gretchen, and my son, Nate.”
“Hello,” said Sebastian, giving a somewhat awkward wave. “I’m Sebastian, and this is R.J.”
“They’re friends of Holtzy’s,” Tabby told her children, who shyly peeked at him and then went back to watching the ice.
“Daddy!” The little girl pointed happily. “Look, Mama.”
“I think they could recognize Daniel’s number before they knew his first name wasn’t ‘Daddy,’” Tabby joked.
Sebastian’s tension eased at Tabby’s friendliness, and he answered a few questions about his job as a professor; agreed that, yes, Tristan was a smart kid; and ignored the grin he could feel R.J. aiming in his general direction whenever he talked about Tristan.
The game seemed to be taking forever to start, with more announcements and some sort of ceremony before the puck dropped involving a community leader and both captains from the team. Then they had to stand for the singing of the anthem, the inclusion of which in sporting events Sebastian didn’t quite understand, and finally—finally—it was game time.
