Straight Shooter (Rear Entrance Video, #3)

by Heidi Belleau

  Speaking of gay, if he got kicked out of the house would he lose his job at Vancouver’s gayest porn store, too?

  Not that it paid all that well, and the novelty of working there had definitely worn off since they’d gotten rid of the normal straight-dude porn in favour of lesbian autobiographies and dirty gay comics about motorcycle gangs. But that didn’t mean he wanted to get fired because of Rob. Bobby. Whatever.

  For a while there it had been kind of cool working at a porn store. Free porn. Talking about sex with female customers, some of whom had this habit of getting real candid when they told him about their taste in vibrators and crotchless panties. And as far as the guys on his team went, it was probably the only minimum wage job they’d ever be remotely proud of him for having. Sure, they ribbed him as much as a guy flipping burgers or selling electronics, but there was an air of grudging respect there, too, if only for the pure fucking balls it took to work such an out-there and embarrassing job.

  He wondered if the same respect would come into play if they knew it was now a gay porn store. Not like he was planning on telling them, but it did kinda make him think. Could he really move in with people he couldn’t trust to be cool about such a dumb and basic part of his life? He’d seen what that kind of bullshit paranoia had done to Christian, after all. Turned the guy completely fucking squirrelly, that’s what.

  But if he got fired at the same time he got kicked out, would it even be an issue?

  Could they fire him? Maybe they’d expect him to quit.

  No, because if Bobby was working at the store and uncomfortable with Austin’s “homophobia” in that setting too, then Christian’s aunt would be well within her rights to fire Austin just for that. His eviction from the house wouldn’t even come into play.

  But damn, that was cold. Put a guy out on his ass and cut off his income? He’d have to really kill it with the grades this semester so he didn’t lose any scholarship money.

  Speaking of which, his bus was pulling into the campus loop now. He had an hour and a half in the gym with a few of the other guys, time for a shower, and then it was off to his summer classes, filling all those credit hours he couldn’t take during the regular season when he practically lived on the ice. Summers sucked. Hours and hours of drills, no games, and academics? And now roommate drama on top of it all. Shit.

  When Austin hopped off the bus from downtown, their left wing forward Drew was just getting off his bus from Coquitlam, his SFU Athletics duffel bag over one shoulder. He gave Austin a bleary wave. Hungover, probably. The guy couldn’t resist thinking summer equalled drinking time, even though in a way summer was more hard work than normal. And did he really think Coach wasn’t watching them all, taking note of their off-season behaviour? Not to mention the fact that slacking on summer training meant Drew would let the whole team down when fall rolled around. Austin wasn’t spending this much time in the gym and jogging and choking down fucking protein shakes and five-egg breakfasts for fucking fun.

  “Hey,” Austin said, unable to keep his frustration out of his voice. “Late night?”

  “That obvious?” Drew asked. The guy had huge dark circles under his eyes, still fucking smelled like booze, not to mention had the vague stain of permanent marker he hadn’t quite scrubbed off one temple. Distinctly dick shaped, Austin might add. Not that he was about to mention it. Nope, he’d let Drew walk around with dick face all day, as punishment for his sins against the team.

  “Uh, yeah.” Austin snorted. “You gonna be able to keep up with me today, or am I gonna have to ask one of the girls on the ellipticals to step in for you?”

  “Ha-ha. Looking for a convenient excuse to partner up with someone more your speed, ya fuckin’ pussy?”

  The familiar insult gave Austin the same sick, involuntarily twinge as it had given him since puberty, but at least now he was pretty well practiced at smothering it. Which didn’t help how fucked up it was to have to be practiced with something so twisted, but anything was better than the alternative. “More like looking for a convenient excuse to look at some tits on my spotter instead of smelling your balls all day,” he replied without missing a beat.

  See? Smothered.

  Austin was fine, totally fine. He could definitely live with some of his teammates if push came to shove. His suddenly gay lifestyle—Rob’s makeup and the leather daddy comic books at Rear Entrance Video and Christian and Max making out on the same couch he sat on to play video games—hadn’t quite tainted him yet. He was still in control. He was.

  “Don’t lie. You fuckin’ love the smell of my balls, pussy boy.”

  Shit. Maybe Austin wasn’t quite as well practiced at smothering his reactions as he thought. Shit, shit, shit.

  You fuckin’ love the smell of my balls, pussy boy.

  He paused mid-crunch to shudder in reaction to that familiar, heady mix of nausea and horniness that had dogged him for years. Pictured himself on his knees, leaning in—

  No, fuck no, he was not doing this here and now.

  He grimaced and clenched his abs, forcing his back off the floor. It fucking hurt. His abs spasmed like they’d been electrocuted. At least his uncooperative dick softened a bit.

  The workout schedule for that day was gruelling: crunches and side planks and squats and one-legged Russian dead lifts, and it still wasn’t tough enough for Austin. Maybe it would have been, if he hadn’t had that exchange with Drew, or if he’d at least reacted to it better, but now that the not-so-proverbial hammer had dropped, there could be no mercy.

  He’d doubled up on his reps, which ate into his allotted time for rests, but fuck it. He’d upped the weight on the dumbbells. He’d huffed and puffed, muscles screaming with strain, body running with sweat, but he hadn’t let himself stop. He wanted to hurt. Wanted to wake up tomorrow morning still hurting; the kind of hurt you didn’t forget.

  Beside him, Drew half assed his way through the same sets, occasionally pausing between wussy shallow squats to give Austin a bug-eyed look.

  It’s called putting out an effort, he wanted to say, You should try it.

  Except he really had no right to talk. Oh, sure, busting ass like this looked good to the rest of his team—especially Warren Phillips, newly promoted to team captain—but it was all a lie. As hard as he was pushing himself, hockey was the last thing on his mind right now. After all, if he was really thinking about his game, he’d be working out smart instead of working out hard. But he wasn’t chasing power or endurance or flexibility, all important qualities on the ice.

  He was chasing pain.

  Punishment.

  Sometimes it felt like he’d spent his whole life punishing himself. Cold showers to start with, as stereotypical as it was to take one when you were turned on but didn’t want to be. Banging his head against hard surfaces, although that was more an impulse thing than a planned punishment. Which led to a short-lived affair with cutting himself, always on the inner thighs so he wouldn’t have anybody asking questions. The fact that his chosen spot was so close to the source of all his troubles, well, that was just a bonus.

  Cutting yourself was fucked up, though, and it didn’t work anyway. But he’d eventually figured out a kind of equation, a way to balance shit out. Get turned on by being treated like a pussy and a fag? Do something ultra manly to even the scales. So he worked out. Hard. And if it left him too fucking tired and sore to jack off, all the better.

  And it had worked. Worked so well, in fact, that it had been months since the last time he’d had to do this to himself and longer still since he’d had boner timing this bad.

  You fuckin’ love the smell of my balls, pussy boy.

  So much for his winning streak.

  “Watch your elbows,” Warren said, and knelt down beside him on the mat. Austin fell back onto the floor like a sack of potatoes and wheezed. Shit, he was massively out of breath. How much of it was overexertion and how much was the ball-smell-related horniness he was still (unsuccessfully) fighting off? Warren’s eyebrows knit
ted together. “Are you okay, man?”

  God, fuck, the last thing he needed was Warren’s people skills. Asshole. “Yeah,” Austin puffed. “Just pushed myself too hard, I guess.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Warren scolded him gently, in that way he had that never made you feel bad or humiliated, only determined to prove yourself and make him proud. “Although at least somebody here is pushing himself . . .” He cast a mildly aggravated look across the gym to where Drew was standing by the ellipticals, unsuccessfully chatting up some chick in short-shorts who still had her earbuds in.

  “He was drinking again last night,” Austin blurted, half out of genuine resentment for the guy’s lack of commitment and half out of a need to get Warren and his look of genuine concern away from him pronto. “I saw him this morning majorly hungover with a dick on his face.”

  It worked. Warren shook his head, fully focused on Drew now. “That guy. What am I going to do with him?”

  Austin was angrier than he thought, because he sat up and said, “Put him on the fucking bench until he gets his act together. Calabresi would jizz himself if you gave him Drew’s spot. And he’d probably play better too.”

  “Language!” Warren snapped, but then he nodded. “I might have to. His grades are slipping too. I practically had to write his papers for him last semester just so he could keep his scholarship.” His eyes widened. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. Shoot.”

  “Make me alternate captain, and then you can,” Austin tried. God, he wanted that. To finally get recognition for his three years’ dedication to the team. To contribute even more than he was already. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so inadequate all the time and his weird fetish would disappear, too. He’d belong. Be normal. Being alternate captain and winning games and—God, he fucking wished—getting drafted would put so many points on the manly side of his inner scales that they’d be permanently tipped in that direction. He’d be cured.

  “Maybe,” Warren hedged, and stood, striding across the gym in Drew’s direction as he shouted out, “Hall! How’re your squats going over there?”

  Austin gave his head a shake and got back to his grind.

  Someday . . .

  Until then, doubling up on his crunches would have to suffice.

  The last thing Austin wanted on a day like this was to shower with his teammates, so when they all headed to the changerooms, he made up some bullshit excuse about needing to work in some cardio because he’d gone to Vera’s for a cheeseburger last night. Then he hit the treadmill, pumped up the incline, and ran until he felt like his legs were going to give out.

  By the time he hit the shower, it was clear of his teammates. He soaped his body—trying not to clean his dick too thoroughly—rinsed off, and got the fuck out of there.

  He caught up with the team in the cafeteria closest to their next class. Got his plateful of lasagna and an energy drink and joined them. Sat as far as humanly possible from Drew, which meant squeezing in next to Ben Kibby, their goalie, at the opposite end of the table.

  “’Sup,” Ben said, then turned back to defenceman Tim Cooper, who was in full redneck mode wearing his Confederate Flag ball cap and picking his teeth. “I’m telling you, it costs a couple hundred bucks, but I hear it totally works. You do a web conference with this guy for an hour, and he gets you more pussy than you know what to do with.”

  “I already get that much pussy. They’re called puck bunnies.” Tim examined the lump of whatever he’d managed to catch on the end of his toothpick then threw the thing over his shoulder onto the floor. “Don’t know what your problem is that you gotta pay some dude to get you some.”

  Ben frowned. “It’s not the same for Asian dudes, man. Girls don’t want us. They all think we got small dicks.”

  “Get a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m half-white,’” Calabresi advised.

  “Yeah,” Austin piped up, trying to get into the swing of things. “With an arrow, you know?” He pointed downward with both hands.

  Calabresi and Tim both laughed, but Ben scowled. Man, the guy wouldn’t be so down on himself if he knew what Austin was going through sexually.

  “At least you’re not a fuckin’ virgin like Warren over there,” one of the other guys added.

  “If you think I’m going to be ashamed for saving myself for marriage,” Warren said evenly, not looking up from where he was cutting up a chicken breast into bite-sized pieces, “you’re sadly mistaken. And anyway, at least I’m not wasting money or time chasing after meaningless sex. Maybe that’s why I’m team captain, and you spent most of last season on the bench, eh, Ortega?”

  “Buuuuuuurn,” Riley Campbell shouted obnoxiously. A table of Asian girls all looked over their shoulders to scowl at him.

  “Wow,” Ben said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Good for you, Campbell, you contributed!”

  “Yeah, way to get those two brain cells rubbing together!” someone else said.

  Austin shovelled a few mouthfuls of lasagna into his mouth, wondering which would be worse: living with this band of horny idiots or in the Gayest House in Vancouver.

  “So did everyone get the assignment done for Professor Walton’s class?” Warren asked through his teeth, obviously trying to direct the conversation back to a more palatable topic. The table responded with a chorus of Yeahs and Mostlys . . . except, predictably, for Drew.

  “Oh shit!” Drew said, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Was that today? I totally forgot.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Oh come on, Drew,” Warren moaned. “Homework is worth thirty percent in this class, and you’ve already missed two out of three assignments.”

  “It slipped my mind, okay?” Drew’s tone was peevish. He turned to Austin’s end of the table. “Hey, Ben, do me a solid and let me copy your answers, bro. I’ll play wingman for you at this party Friday if you do. Won’t even charge you two hundred bucks.”

  “Wingman, eh?” Tim guffawed. “You gonna stand around telling all the chicks that he’s only half Chinese?” Ortega high-fived him.

  Ben glowered. “Forget it, man. I already got in shit last semester when you came into that open book exam with a binder of my photocopied notes.”

  “Fuck you too, man. You’re the world’s worst Asian,” Drew complained. “What about you, Tim?”

  Eyes on his tray and with a mouth full of lasagna, Tim said, “I don’t need your help to get pussy.”

  “Not the wingman thing. Can I copy your homework?”

  “You want mine?” Riley asked, as desperate as an SPCA puppy.

  Calabresi snorted. “Nobody wants to copy your assignments, man. You probably do them in crayon.”

  “Nobody’s giving you their homework to copy,” Warren finally announced. “Nobody on this team is cheating. On anything. Period. And Drew, you need to get your stuff together if you’re planning on playing on the team come next season.”

  “Stuff?” Drew taunted. “You mean shit, Warren? The word is shit. C’mon man, this is a hockey team, not your fucking Sunday school. Shit. Say shit.”

  “We’re not talking about my religion right now. We’re talking about the fact that you need to start taking things seriously on and off the ice. Austin says you got drunk last night.”

  Drew rounded on Austin while their teammates stared. “Oh did he, now?”

  “Come on man, leave me out of this,” Austin protested weakly, wishing he could slither under the table and disappear. Just what he needed to add to his roommate drama: team drama. Because even if he was right about Drew, betraying a teammate that way wasn’t done. Your teammates were your brothers, and that meant sticking by them no matter what. Drew may have needed to get his fucking act together, but for Austin to narc on him like this? That was the worse crime by far, and it showed: his teammates glared at him.

  Drew, sensing his advantage, laid his victimhood on thick. “What the fuck else did you tell him, huh, Austin? You tell him I don’t say my prayers at night?”

  Warren was lookin
g seriously exasperated now. “You know I keep my beliefs off the ice.” His voice was calm, but his nostrils were flaring. “Look, we talked about your drinking already, Drew. The drinking, the missing assignments, and then today I had to remind you that you were in the gym to work out. It’s the last straw. You need to be a team player.”

  “I need to be a team player? I need to be a team player? What about Ben, who won’t help me with my schoolwork, huh? What about Austin throwing me under the bus? Don’t they need to be team players?”

  “Team player doesn’t mean letting you get away with everything. You need to shape up or ship out.”

  Drew cast a glower around the table. “Seriously? You’re all just gonna let him sit here and chew me out?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Tim?” Drew tried. “Calabresi? C’mon, Ortega? You at least gotta have my back, Ortega.”

  Nothing. But Austin didn’t take their silence as approval for his behaviour, either. His punishment would come.

  “We want to win games, Drew,” Warren said solemnly. “Maybe even place. We want to get drafted. We can’t do any of that if you’re dragging us down with your slacking.”

  “Oh, I see how it is. You’re the new team captain, and you need to make an example of somebody. And Austin’s sucking your dick, so it can’t be him.”

  “Oh, fuck off!” Austin shouted, fury fed by the sick twitch his dick did in his pants. “Everybody’s sick of your me-me-me fucking attitude, Drew. Sick of it. We’re sick of picking up after you. We’re sick of losing games because you won’t fucking practice hard enough. And yet we’ve all put our necks out for you by helping you fucking cheat at school so you can keep your scholarship, even though you don’t even contribute to the team and you’re not worth the fucking effort. And you know why? It’s called fucking loyalty, man.” One of the other guys snorted at Austin’s use of the word, but Austin barreled on with his speech. “It’s called sticking to your fucking guns. It’s called standing by your teammates even if they’re total fucking douche bags or you don’t like them or they’re fucking weird.” He gasped for air. Realized he was standing, chest heaving, and everyone at the table was staring at him. Scratch that: everyone in the entire cafeteria was staring at him.