by Avon Gale
Shane smirked up at him and said, “I want you to come on my face.” He leaned in and took that thick cock all the way back until he felt the head hit the back of his throat—and then he sucked.
Troy gave a muffled groan, pulled out, and jacked himself frantically. Then he grabbed tightly at Shane’s hair and held his head still while he shot all over Shane’s face.
Shane’s eyes were closed, and he wondered if he’d ever actually had anyone do that to him before—on purpose, not by accident. He hadn’t been entirely certain that Troy would do it, but it probably sounded too much like a dare for Troy to resist.
Troy gently ran his fingers through Shane’s hair. “One second. Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
Shane stayed where he was and swayed a little as he undid the button on his pants to ease the pressure on his still-hard cock. He felt something warm on his face as Troy wiped the mess off with a wet towel. Shane let him do it until he felt weird about it. Then he reached up and took the towel. “I got it. Thanks.”
“Thank you,” said Troy as he sat on the couch. “You give great fucking head.”
Face clean, Shane tossed the towel aside and smiled lazily at him. “I thought you were gonna fuck me. Loser.”
Troy sprawled on the couch, his belt undone and his pants zipped but unbuttoned. His arms were splayed on either side, and the sweat on his brow made the top of his dark hair stick up like that punk goalie for the Spitfires. The cuffs of his dress shirt were unbuttoned and pushed up on his arms, and he was breathing hard. “Who said we were done?”
“We better not be.” Shane motioned to his lap. “It’s my turn, and what if I want to come on your face?”
“Then I want a clean dish towel. They’re in the third drawer down next to the sink.”
“And here I wanted to leave you with come on your face like a porn star.” Shane didn’t miss the flare of heat in Troy’s eyes or the way his breath caught. Interesting.
Shane got to his feet only a little unsteadily and rubbed his hand over himself with an expectant look at Troy. “You want to move this to the bedroom? Don’t want you to have kneel if your knees are bad, old man.”
Troy was clearly too relaxed for his scowl to come across as anything but playful. “Brat. I can suck cock on my knees just as good as anyone. But, yeah, come on.” Troy stood up and headed toward the stairs, and Shane followed him. As they made their way to what Shane presumed was the bedroom, they passed an open door and a room that held… a dining room table?
“Why is your treadmill in your dining room and your dining room table upstairs?” Shane asked, brow furrowed.
Troy grabbed his arm and tugged him along. “You want to talk about my furniture placement, Shane. Really? That kind of thing get you off?”
“You never know.” Shane let Troy pull him into the master bedroom. Honestly the only furniture placement he gave a shit about at the moment was the large bed.
Troy unbuttoned and took off his dress shirt. “Take your clothes off and get on the bed.”
Shane complied, stripping down to his boxer briefs, and climbed languidly up on Troy’s very comfortable bed. He wantonly splayed his legs, put his arms behind his head, and thrust his hips up. “Come and get it.”
Troy went still and then laughed. He looked relaxed. Happy. It was a good look on him. Shane idly stroked himself while he watched Troy strip down to his boxers. He didn’t have any tattoos and he didn’t sport the chiseled abs of, say, Xavier Matthews or some of Shane’s other teammates, but he looked damn good and clearly made use of the treadmill… wherever he kept it.
Troy climbed right on top of Shane, kissed him, and bit his way down his chest and lower. He was as good at sucking cock as Shane figured, and while Shane had hoped to up his game when it came to the dirty talk, fuck if he could manage anything that wasn’t “ungh” or “fuck” or “oh, God.” Troy was also a teasing bastard, and he kept Shane on the edge as he backed off and then drove him hard toward orgasm. It made Shane growl and kick his heels against the bed in utter frustration, but he loved every goddamn minute of it.
“You gotta be an asshole in bed too?” Shane panted, the third time Troy almost—almost—made him come.
“You want me to fuck you, I gotta catch up.” Troy gave Shane a filthy smile. “Run your mouth all you want, but you don’t come until I say so.”
Normally Shane would argue, but Troy took him deep and Shane decided to fuck his throat instead. Troy pushed his hips against the bed, and Shane hoped that meant they were getting to the part where Troy fucked him.
It’d been a while since Shane had bottomed but he looked forward to it. He wondered briefly if he should mention that, but he was distracted when Troy stopped sucking him—again, damn him—and moved away from the bed to look for what Shane assumed was lube and some condoms.
“Seriously?” Shane pushed up on his elbows, breathing hard. “You’re not even going to get me off first?”
“Not first,” Troy said, eyes heavy-lidded as he sheathed himself and fisted his cock with lube-slick fingers. “Eventually.” He eyed Shane’s body appreciatively. “You’re in pretty good shape, North.”
He normally only called Shane North at practice or on the ice. Clearly they had stopped pretending the coach/player thing wasn’t getting them both off. “Thanks, Coach. You’re not in bad shape yourself.”
“I want to fuck you from behind,” Troy said. “You okay with that?”
Shane was more than okay with that, so he rolled over and half crawled to the edge of the bed. Troy ran his hands over Shane’s back and over his ass. Then he reached down and gave Shane’s cock a few pumps. “I asked you a question.”
Shane dropped his head and bit back a moan. He liked Troy’s bossiness, but wasn’t sure he wanted Troy to know just how much. “I’m here how you want me, aren’t I?”
“Not… quite yet,” Troy panted. The head of his cock pressed at Shane’s hole. “Almost.” He didn’t push in, just rubbed the head against it teasingly. “But not until I hear you say you want it.” Shane lifted his head and glared over his shoulder. “You’re a fucking bastard. You know that, right?”
Troy’s grin was fierce. The tip of his cock breached Shane briefly, but he pulled back and rubbed against him again. “You expected anything else?”
“Yeah, I want it. Come on, Coach. Fuck me hard.”
“You’re a brat, North.”
“You expected anything… ah… else… oh.” Shane threw his head back and moaned as Troy slowly pushed in. “God, I forgot how good this feels.”
“You okay?” Troy slid a hand around Shane’s neck and squeezed lightly. He paused his slow press inside, and the concern was almost too much for Shane to handle.
“Not quite yet,” Shane mimicked. “Almost.” With that he shoved himself backward and took the rest of Troy’s cock, and they both groaned. It did hurt for a few seconds, until his body accustomed itself. Then Troy began to move in a slow, steady rhythm that gradually increased in speed and strength until he gave it to Shane just as hard as he wanted it.
“Ah, yeah. That’s—fuck, you’re good at this,” Shane said and curled his fingers into the bedding. He moved with Troy’s thrusts, fucking himself back on Troy’s cock, and his eyes nearly crossed as Troy nailed his prostate.
“And you look goddamn good getting nailed from behind,” Troy gasped. “Fucking yourself against my cock like that. You want to get off?”
“You’re kidding me,” Shane managed as sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes. “I gotta ask for it?” His arms shook where he was propped up on his elbows, and the sheets slid around beneath him as he struggled to move with Troy.
“Oh yeah.” Troy held Shane’s hips and pulled him back as Troy snapped forward. “You sure as hell do. Ask me. Come on.”
Shane dropped his head and gave a helpless laugh that was more of a moan than anything. It wasn’t as though he expected Troy to be anything else but intense and bossy in bed. “Fuck you. Make me
come.” That wasn’t really asking, but it was as good as Troy was going to get.
It must have been enough, because Troy’s hand was suddenly on his dick, and it only took two rough strokes and Shane came hard all over the bed. His knees gave way as Troy collapsed on top of him, and Shane lay trapped for a moment and liked the way Troy’s body felt on top of his own as he drove Shane into the mattress with his last few thrusts before he came too. He was dimly aware of the sounds Troy made as he came.
Eventually Shane made an mph sound, turned his head, and gulped for some air. “Dude. Give a guy some space.”
Troy huffed a breath against Shane’s back, shifted slightly, and gently pulled out. Shane winced at the mild discomfort but didn’t move, though he would have to because he was sticky and sweaty and lying in the wet spot. Ew. Sex was always so much better when you were in the middle of things. A few seconds after, it was just messy and—considering he’d just been fucked by his coach—awkward.
Shane eventually got to his feet, stood in the middle of Troy’s bedroom, and wondered what the hell to do. “You mind if I use your shower?”
“Of course not.” Troy sat up at the edge of the bed, and they were both… not avoiding each other’s eyes, exactly, just….
Yeah, no. They were avoiding each other’s eyes. Shane slipped into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and hoped like hell he hadn’t just fucked up everything. He was surprised when, a few seconds later, Troy pushed the curtain aside and got in with him. Shane blinked at him through the water.
“Let’s just go ahead and make the most out of this mistake.” With that, Troy grabbed him by the back of the neck to pull him in and kiss him.
For once Shane didn’t even want to argue.
Chapter Eight
“SO,” QUINN said. “I think we could probably stand to shift up the lines a little. Maybe get North skating on the second line, try it out in the third period? He’s got good stamina.”
You have no idea. Troy nodded and firmly told himself not to think about fucking Shane North. It wasn’t easy. That had been one of the most intense and sexually satisfying nights he could remember since… fuck. Since ever. It was rare he hooked up with someone who was so totally in synch with what he liked in bed. Or who could talk about attack angle drills until two in the morning after fucking.
But Quinn was supposed to contribute actual ideas to their team, so Troy really needed to pay attention and encourage him. “Yeah. I think you’re right. We’ll try that when we’re in Wichita next week.”
They had an excruciatingly long road trip to Wichita coming up, which was proof the ECHL schedulers were evil, sadistic creatures who wanted Troy to suffer.
“You okay, Coach?” Quinn asked, brows creased. “You haven’t been yourself the last few days. Looks like maybe you’re coming down with something.”
Just a bad case of stupid. “I’m fine,” Troy said. He tapped his pen on his notebook. “You don’t have to call me coach, you know.”
Come on, Coach. Fuck me hard.
“Oh sorry. That’s what Coach—ah—the other guy wanted me to call him.” Quinn flushed, clearly worried he would make Troy mad.
Which it did, because Troy’s patience was thinner on the ground than usual. “Jesus, Quinn, you can say his name. He’s not Lord Voldemort. I just meant I didn’t want the guys hung up on what he told them, that’s all. And you can call me Callahan, or Cally, or even Troy if you want. I don’t care. Just… you’re a coach too. Okay? You’re at the grown-ups’ table, for fuck’s sake.”
“Gotcha.”
It didn’t escape Troy’s notice that Quinn neatly avoided calling him anything. Troy rubbed his eyes briefly and then tried to “be nice” to his assistant coach, in a probably ill-conceived attempt to build some rapport between them.
“You married, Quinn?”
Quinn looked briefly alarmed, and Troy bit back a cruel laugh and the instant response of “Don’t worry. You’re so not my type,” but the expression eased back into Quinn’s usual neutral pleasantness so quickly that Troy thought maybe he’d imagined it. With his hair-trigger temper lately, he probably had.
“Divorced.” Quinn’s mouth set. “I have a daughter. She’s twelve. Lives with my ex in Denver.”
“You get to see her a lot?” Troy didn’t recall ever noticing a girl of that age around.
“She used to come visit for a few weeks every summer,” said Quinn in a tight voice. Clearly his kid was a no-go subject.
For some reason Troy was still trying to find some kind of common ground or conversation that wasn’t about hockey. “Seeing anyone?”
“Been out on a few dates, but nothing serious.” His mouth bent into an ugly shape, and his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “You’re lucky you’re gay. Women are fucking impossible to figure out. They don’t know what they want from a guy.”
It was such an un-Quinn-like thing to say that it took Troy completely aback. “Not like that’s limited to just women, Quinn. Believe me.”
Troy knew exactly what he wanted—or whom. He was in the locker room, listening to terrible thrash metal—whoever’s day it was to pick the music needed a bag skate—and sweaty from the practice they’d just finished.
“Sure,” said Quinn, and once again he was back to the smiling, pleasant, boring guy Troy knew him to be. “It’s just, sometimes I think maybe you gay guys got the right idea. Men are way less complicated.”
Troy stared at him and wondered if he could explain to Bowie why he’d stabbed his assistant coach to death with a cheap Paper Mate pen. He tried to figure out how to elucidate the myriad problems in that sentence, in words small enough for an idiot to understand, but he came up short.
He knew St. Savoy probably called Quinn an idiot all the time. While maybe—just maybe—they might agree on that, Troy couldn’t bring himself to do anything but say, “So, about the line combinations,” and hope Brian Quinn never said anything about the opposite—or same—sex to him ever again.
As he left the office, Troy caught sight of Shane standing by Xavier Matthews’s locker along with Evan Snyder and Cory Martin. They were talking about something that Troy couldn’t quite make out because of the music.
“Who picked this shit?” Troy yelled. It was terrible, as though a bunch of hyped-up third graders had been given electric guitars and then handed the mic to their irate older brother so he could whine about their dad. “Is this even music, or did someone record their car in a fight with a screeching metal monster?”
“I told you it sounded like a monster truck rally,” Wes Kelly said triumphantly. “I hate it too, Coach.”
“Then when it’s your turn, don’t make us listen to NPR,” said T.J. Clarke, which made it the first time Troy remembered ever hearing the tall, acne-prone defenseman speak without first being spoken to.
“I’m sorry none of you care about the world we live in,” Wes huffed as he turned back to his locker.
“I care about the world, dude, but like, come on.” Cory threw what appeared to be a balled-up sock at their goalie. “That’s some seriously boring shit you made us listen to.”
The balled sock sailed past Wes and hit defenseman Ryan Muse in the head. “Shouldn’t you have stopped that?” he accused Wes, affronted. He tossed the sock at Wes, who caught it deftly. “You’re the fucking goalie, man.”
“Shouldn’t you have stopped that dude in Evansville from getting a breakaway off a bad turnover?” Wes asked, all wide-eyed. He was quiet and unassuming most days, but his snappy rejoinder made Troy smile despite himself.
Still, the coach in him wouldn’t let that one pass. “Kelly’s right about that game in Evansville, Muse. You should’ve stopped that play. And you’re gonna, next time, or you can try out the press box and see how that suits you.”
“Yes, Coach Cally.” Muse looked appropriately abashed but not destroyed by the criticism. “But dude, Kels. You know everyone goes low glove side on you when they get a breakaway.”
Wes reached
out to playfully shove at Muse’s shoulder. “And here I was gonna see if you wanted to catch a ’Canes game with me ’cause I scored some sweet seats. But not if you’re going to be an asshole.”
“Fuck the Hurricanes,” said Muse, who—if the Capitals sweatshirt he pulled on was any indication—was not a fan of North Carolina’s NHL team. “But I’ll go if you buy me a beer.”
Troy listened to them banter, and his anger all but dissipated at the sight of his hockey team acting like a team. In his opinion that meant they could turn off the music. “None of you are doing anything but a bag skate if you don’t make that goddamn racket stop. I’m not fucking kidding.”
T.J. Clarke picked up his phone where it was lying on the bench, next to the speakers. He pressed something, and the music stopped. The silence was blissful.
“They have really meaningful lyrics,” T.J. informed them all.
“I didn’t realize there were lyrics,” said Xavier. “Do you have something less thrash metal for when it’s your turn to pick the music again?”
“I got some Danzig,” T.J. said, and he started an embarrassing air guitar performance.
“The next time one of you wants to nail something to my office? Make it a door and save my poor fucking ears.” Troy smiled to show he was mostly kidding, and he waved a hand. “Have a good weekend. Be here on Monday by six thirty or you’ll be walking to Wichita.”
“Yes, Coach Cally,” they all chorused and went back to their conversation. Their record might not be as stellar as previous years, but the change in his locker room from the beginning of the season was remarkable. He’d like to win more games, but that would come in time. Or he’d start playing some of his parents’ Gordon Lightfoot and see how his team liked hearing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” on repeat. Maybe even while they were on the ice for practice.
Troy turned and saw Shane leaning against the locker, arms crossed, giving him a look that Troy chose to interpret as “Bend me over and fuck me.” The little smirk on his mouth meant he was doing it on purpose, and Troy was so tempted to do it. The morning after they slept together, Troy took Shane to the mechanic’s and informed him they couldn’t do that again. Shane snorted, rubbed Troy’s cock through his pants, and kissed him so thoroughly that Troy had to go home and jerk off before he headed to the arena. Motherfucker.
