Off the Ice

by Avon Gale

  Instead, he turned back to his own group. A dozen sets of eyes stared at him expectantly.

  “Okay, guys. Let’s start with twenty-five jumping jacks! Katrina, why don’t you count them out for us?”

  The little blonde girl smiled and nodded eagerly.

  After a few minutes, they moved on to push-ups. Tristan demonstrated some alternatives to make the push-ups easier and more child friendly, then spent the rest of the time offering encouragement and correcting their forms as needed.

  By the time they left the school, he’d worked up a surprising amount of sweat. Compared to the stuffiness of the gym and the collective odor of a few dozen perspiring preteens, the fresh breeze and low-sixties weather felt like stepping into paradise—or maybe onto a freshly pressed sheet of ice.

  Tristan sighed in appreciation as the wind cooled the drying moisture at the base of his spine. Despite the steadily declining temperatures as late November approached, for a native Wisconsinite like himself, it might as well have been summer. He couldn’t say he missed the brisk autumns or brutal winters of home.

  “Thank fuck that’s over with,” Ryu said as they crossed the parking lot to their cars.

  Bellzie laughed. “I thought you were going to break into hives when that one boy hugged you.”

  Ryu shuddered. “There should be a ‘don’t touch the hockey players’ disclaimer before we’re forced to engage with them.”

  “What are you going to do if they ignore that rule?” Tristan asked with a grin. “Cross-check them?”

  “I wish,” Ryu muttered under his breath.

  Bellzie clapped him on the back. “You’ll survive the cooties, Ryu. Take a shower when you get home.”

  “Oh, I intend to.”

  Bellzie stopped next to his hybrid Lexus SUV. Because of course he’d drive an eco-conscious vehicle. “Sorry to skip out on lunch,” he said as he withdrew his keys from his pocket. “Tabby and I are taking the kids to a birthday party. Rain check?”

  Tristan nodded. “Sure, Bellzie. See you tomorrow.” He turned to Ryu as Bellzie started his car. “Thai?”

  “Yep. Meet you there.”

  * * *

  It was a week before Thanksgiving when Tristan realized he wouldn’t be able to go home for the holiday. The Venom had a game the night before and then a matinee on Black Friday. He’d spend a few hundred on a flight and then have to leave immediately after dinner. If he was lucky, he might be in Wisconsin for a grand total of twenty-four hours. As much as he wanted to spend the time with his family—and he did, after not having seen them in months—it seemed more logical to save the trip for the Christmas break when he’d be able to stay for a few days. But that meant he’d have to make other plans. He didn’t want to spend the day alone is his apartment with a frozen dinner instead of homemade turkey and stuffing.

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” he asked Sebastian over dinner that night. They were at Sebastian’s favorite Puerto Rican restaurant in Marietta, which he’d introduced Tristan to on a date last month.

  Sebastian looked up from his plate of rice and bacalao. Thanks to the menu, Tristan knew that meant codfish. Tristan had ordered the roasted pork shoulder and extra tostones—crunchy, salty fried plantains that he wished he could eat by the dozen.

  “Nothing special,” Sebastian said. “Grading papers.”

  “You won’t be going to visit your family?”

  Sebastian shook his head and gestured vaguely with his hand. “I spoke to my mother earlier this month, and she told me they were going to spend a few weeks in Puerto Rico with her cousins. Honestly, I’m not sure I would have gone back anyway. My father never quite manages to hide his disappointment, and my mother continually invites her friends’ daughters over to shove them in my face.”

  Tristan winced. His mom asked about his love life, but she at least never tried to set him up with random women. “But she knows you’re gay.”

  Sebastian sighed. “Yes. Hope springs eternal. She also laments her lack of grandchildren. Loudly and often. Puerto Rican mothers do enjoy a good guilt trip.”

  Tristan chuckled. “Isn’t that all moms, though? Mine does it too.”

  Sebastian’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “I suppose so. Are you going to your parents’?”

  “No. That’s why I asked, actually. It’s not feasible because of the schedule.” Tristan scooped some rice onto a plantain and popped it in his mouth. “We should do something together,” he added once he swallowed. “Neither of us can cook, but I’m sure we can buy something to throw in the oven. One of those prepared packages that comes with stuffing and cranberry sauce and all that.”

  “I like that idea,” Sebastian said with a slight smile. “As long as you don’t plan to make me watch football.”

  Tristan scoffed. “Of course not. There are hockey games that day too.”

  * * *

  The packaged-dinner idea ended up being a stroke of genius on Tristan’s part. Everything came precooked with instructions for reheating, and it was pretty much impossible to screw up, even for a pair of guys who weren’t exactly proficient in the kitchen.

  Tristan ate way too much turkey and devoured almost half of a surprisingly good pumpkin pie before slumping onto the couch in Sebastian’s living room. He groaned when he saw the score on the television screen. The Memphis Marauders were destroying the Miami Thunder, which pissed Tristan off because the Marauders had taken the Venom out of the playoffs last season. Plus, he actually liked the Thunder. Unlike the shithead Marauders, they weren’t a group of raging assholes who dove and threw dirty hits.

  Tristan’s irritation added to the day’s melancholy tone—or at least it felt that way to him. He’d been slightly off all afternoon, missing his family, though he tried to ignore the feeling and focus on his boyfriend and sharing their first holiday together. Sebastian seemed relaxed and happy to have Tristan there. It should’ve been enough.

  Annoyed at himself, Tristan left Sebastian to his paper grading and went to the kitchen to load the dishwasher. He’d just finished pouring in the detergent and starting the cycle when he noticed his phone buzzing on the counter.

  Tristan snatched it up, and the name on the screen brought an automatic smile to his face. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie. Happy Thanksgiving! How did your food come out? Did you and your friend enjoy it?”

  “Happy Thanksgiving. It was fine. I didn’t burn anything, so there’s that.”

  His mother laughed. “We missed you today. Your father and Brian are watching football. Well, Brian is. Your father is snoring in his La-Z-Boy.”

  Tristan could perfectly envision the picture she’d described, and it set off a pang in his chest. “I miss you guys too. I would’ve come up if not for the game tomorrow.”

  “It’s okay, honey. We’ll see you at Christmas. It’s not like you control the schedule, and it doesn’t make sense for you to spend all that money to be here for one day. We understand.”

  “How’s everyone? What’s Hannah up to?”

  “She’s right here, waving for me to give her the phone. You have a good night. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”

  His mother passed the phone to his sister, and Tristan spent a few minutes listening to her talk about her classes and the guy she’d been seeing since the Homecoming dance. He eventually got handed off to Brian and then his groggy-sounding father.

  Tristan ended the call after another half an hour. The ache in his chest had intensified until it felt stifling, and he had to take a few breaths before he could rejoin Sebastian in the living room. He slumped onto the couch next to Sebastian, who glanced up from his laptop and gave Tristan a long, considering look.

  “What’s wrong?” Sebastian asked.

  Tristan shrugged one shoulder, grumbling something indistinct. He didn’t want to bitch to Sebastian about missing his family
when Sebastian’s parents hadn’t even bothered calling him and probably would’ve made him feel like a disappointment if they had.

  Sebastian set his laptop on the coffee table and turned to give Tristan his full attention. “Come here.”

  Tristan wasn’t really in the mood for much of anything aside from lazing on the couch, but he couldn’t resist the command in Sebastian’s tone. He slid a few inches closer, and Sebastian cupped his nape, giving it a light squeeze.

  “Here.” Sebastian looked pointedly at his own lap.

  Tristan stared for a moment, his heartbeat stalling before kicking into overdrive. Sebastian tugged on his nape, and Tristan took in a shuddery breath and allowed himself to be maneuvered until he was draped across Sebastian’s wiry thighs.

  Sebastian pulled down Tristan’s sweatpants until the waistband rested around his knees. The jock left his ass bare, and as the cool air hit his skin, Tristan shivered, his cock stiffening.

  “So fucking perfect,” Sebastian said, almost idly. “I think it’s time I tan these cheeks, don’t you? Put my mark all over them.”

  Tristan moaned quietly, his dick going from half-interested to fully hard in a matter of seconds. “Yes. Please.”

  “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

  That was his only warning before Sebastian began to spank him—quick, light taps at first. A warm-up.

  Tristan squirmed, torn between embarrassment and arousal. He’d never been in this position before, not even as a child. His parents didn’t believe in corporal punishment. His father had never, ever put Tristan over his knee.

  Partially it was humiliating. Tristan couldn’t imagine what his teammates would say if they could see him right now, in the middle of the living room with his sweatpants around his knees, being spanked by his boyfriend like a naughty little kid. The thought made Tristan flush and wriggle even more.

  And yet...it also thrilled him, the idea of them finding out, of them seeing, knowing. As long as it was something that only happened in his head, it turned Tristan on to picture how they’d react.

  Sebastian delivered a sharper slap, and Tristan jumped and yelped. Heat diffused through his ass cheek afterward, making his cock flex against Sebastian’s thigh. He groaned, swiveling his hips.

  Sebastian hit him again, harder. He didn’t focus on one particular spot but spread the blows evenly across Tristan’s ass, on his upper thighs, and even the sensitive crease where they met.

  Tristan knew he was making noise, maybe even babbling. The words themselves were meaningless. All that mattered was the sensation—the heat, the pain that somehow morphed to pleasure, the resounding crack of a palm against his skin.

  For a while, Tristan lost himself.

  When awareness returned, Tristan had tears streaming down his face, though he couldn’t remember when he’d started crying. Sebastian was gently stroking his back, murmuring softly, nonsense Tristan couldn’t comprehend. His ass fucking burned, and even Sebastian’s palm felt hot as it coasted along Tristan’s spine. In spite of the waterworks, his cock was still rock-hard and slippery from sweat and the pre-come he’d been leaking on Sebastian’s denim-covered thigh, but Tristan didn’t feel inclined to try to do anything about it right then.

  He let Sebastian soothe him, and basked in the attention. Eventually Sebastian led him to the bedroom, where he made Tristan lie facedown on the bed, and rubbed some sort of cream on his ass that instantly eased some of the stinging.

  “You should be fine by morning,” Sebastian said. “I don’t think there’ll be anything for your teammates to wonder about. I’ll go harder next time, if you want, when you have a few days off.”

  Tristan could only respond with a hum. He drifted in a dreamy haze as Sebastian went back out to the living room to turn off the TV and prepare for bed. He didn’t stir until Sebastian joined him and caressed the side of his face.

  “Are you okay?” Sebastian asked, his eyes dark and fond. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Tristan turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sebastian’s palm. It took a moment to order his thoughts so he could put them into a coherent sentence. “I... I dunno. I was being a baby, I guess. This is the first time I wasn’t able to go home for Thanksgiving. Like, ever. It didn’t make sense to go when everything would be rushed, you know? I didn’t think it would affect me so much, but then I talked to them, and...”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tristan said. “I didn’t mean to spoil your night.”

  “You didn’t spoil anything.” Sebastian stroked his cheek again. “Did you like what we did? I thought it might be a good distraction.”

  Tristan fought the urge to bury his face in the pillow. Instead, he met Sebastian’s gaze directly. He didn’t really want to have a discussion about being spanked—couldn’t they just do it and not talk about it?—but it was probably necessary. “Yeah. I loved it.”

  “It wasn’t too much?”

  “Not at all.” Tristan nuzzled Sebastian’s palm. “I’ll stop you if it ever gets to be too much, or if I’m not in the mood. I promise.”

  “Okay. Good.” Sebastian kissed him lightly. “Sleep now.”

  Surrounded by Sebastian’s scent, with his arm a strong, comforting presence around Tristan’s waist, it was easy to obey.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Tonight’s game between the Atlanta Venom and the St. Louis Spirit is going to be entertaining,” the announcer enthused. “Atlanta’s a young defensive team known for their heavy forecheck. The Spirit bring a lot of speed and a potent offense, and this should be a heck of a good matchup.”

  The Fox Sports South music started playing, and Sebastian took the beer the bartender put in front of him with a faint nod of thanks. He was idly watching the fifteenth car commercial in a row when R.J. slid into the seat beside him at the bar, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

  Like Sebastian, R.J.’s only concession to the early winter weather in Atlanta was a zip-up hoodie. R.J. was from Chicago, and also like Sebastian, enjoyed—and mocked—the South’s version of winter.

  Sebastian’s response was a slight smile and a raise of his beer. “Can’t complain.”

  R.J. grinned and ordered his own beer, and they chatted about the end of the semester and the flurry of activity that went along with it—grades, faculty meetings, the obligatory parties neither of them wanted to attend. The talk gradually died down as the game started, and Sebastian’s attention strayed to the large television mounted above the bar.

  “How’s being a hockey boyfriend going?” R.J. asked, nudging him.

  “It’s fine,” Sebastian answered, wincing as the Spirit scored two minutes into the game off a bad defensive turnover. His eyes narrowed as he heard a low grumble from the assembled patrons who were also watching the game. He’d heard that this place, the Blue Line, was the only dedicated hockey bar in Atlanta. He tended to watch Tristan’s away games at home while grading, but as their relationship progressed, it was quickly becoming apparent that he couldn’t do that anymore. His students weren’t getting his full attention, for one. For another, he tended to pace.

  R.J. was giving him a look, so Sebastian rolled his eyes and said, “Fine, it’s... I’ve never been a sports person, especially team sports. So I’m not used to caring about the outcome of a game.”

  “I—”

  Before R.J. could finish, the crowd in the bar suddenly started cheering as the Venom captain, Daniel Bellamy, flew down the ice on a breakaway and scored. Sebastian wasn’t the cheering type, but he did half rise off his barstool in solidarity with the excited crowd.

  “You being a hockey fan is my new favorite thing,” said R.J., who’d not only stood up and cheered when the Venom scored, he’d given a high five to the bartender.

  “It’s stressful,” Sebastian admitted, as they watched th
e game. “There’s a lot of ways Tristan could get injured on the ice. None of them are pretty.”

  “Want me to tell you the statistical likelihood of him sustaining anything more serious than a broken tooth or a bloody lip?”

  “No, I absolutely do not want you to tell me that,” Sebastian said, firmly. He finished his beer and nodded when the bartender asked him if he wanted another one.

  The game stayed tied at one-one for most of the first period, but with two seconds left on the clock, one of the Spirit forwards slipped the puck behind the goalie and gave the home team a two-one advantage. There were some good-natured groans from the crowd, but not too many.

  That all changed in the second period, though. For whatever reason, the Venom weren’t able to counter the Spirit’s last-second goal and found themselves giving up another in the first five minutes. That turned into a three-goal deficit ninety seconds later, and Sebastian winced visibly as the Spirit’s goal horn sounded and the hometown crowd cheered on the television.

  They were the only ones cheering. The atmosphere in the Blue Line was a lot different, with groans and a few muttered curses filling the air.

  “So you’re learning that being a sports fan will only bring you heartache and pain.” R.J. sipped his second beer. “I think only chicken wings will solve this pain. Want to split some?”

  Sebastian was too tense to eat anything, which made him feel ridiculous. It was a regular season game, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the Venom lose before. He’d been to games where they’d lost, both close games and ones like this, where the opponent’s lead seemed insurmountable.

  “You need practice before the playoffs,” R.J. said wisely. He patted Sebastian on the arm. “It’s a good thing you have me, your hockey guru. All I ask is some sweet tickets for all the playoff games and when the Venom make the finals.”

  “They’re not going to make the first fucking round if they don’t fix their fucking defense,” the bartender muttered, wiping at the counter in front of Sebastian like it would effectively erase the Spirit’s lead.