Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  “Tonight?” Christian asked. At Ronnie’s shrug, he frowned. “I don’t know. Going home, going to sleep. You?”

  Instead of answering, Ronnie asked, “Why don’t you come on over to my place? We can hang out a bit, grab a bite to eat. Maybe get to know each other a little better. What do you say?”

  What could he say? He tamped down a silly grin that threatened to split his face, but his heart fluttered and, in the confines of his jeans, his dick stretched itself awake at the prospect of scoring off the ice, as well. “Sure.”

  * * * *

  The first thing Christian does when he’s released from the penalty box is skate to where his coach stands on the sidelines, watching the game. He skids to a stop by the boards, breathless, his gaze watching the puck zoom across the ice. “Hey,” he says, “put me in. I can sink that shot.”

  But when he turns to skate into play, the coach grabs the back of his jersey and holds him in place. “Easy there, Magic. Your shift just switched. Sit down and wait your turn.”

  “I got this one,” Christian says, trying to shake free from the coach’s grip. Ronnie’s out on the ice, and he wants nothing more than to face off against that man. He tells himself it’s because they’re on opposing teams, but something in those eyes, that wink, has him bothered. Ramming the man into the boards a time or two might be just what Christian needs to get that out of his system.

  But the coach is a no-go. He hauls Christian back into the player box, off the ice and out of play. “Ass on the bench,” he growls, steering Christian toward the end of the line with the rest of his shift. “This ain’t a personal vendetta, kid. Sit down and wait your turn or I’ll throw you from the game.”

  With a scowl, Christian falls onto the bench, arms crossed awkwardly before him. He finds Ronnie on the ice without difficulty and glares out at his former teammate. Suddenly it’s hot in here, too hot, so he yanks off his helmet and throws it to his feet.

  “Magic,” the coach warns. “Save it for the game.”

  A mess of sweaty blond waves curl down into Christian’s face. Roughly he brushes them back, out of his vision, then fists his hand in their thick depths and pulls hard in frustration. He knew going into this game would be difficult, but he’d had no clue just what he’d be up against.

  With both hands now, he cradles his forehead, the span between his palms dark and comforting. When he left Richmond, he thought he’d left everything behind, Ronnie included. Three months later, he’s surprised the guy can still tear him up inside.

  Fuck it. Play the game. Go home. Get over it already, can you do that? Get over him. He’s just psyching you out and you know it.

  But is he? Is he really? Because Christian saw something in that cool gaze when they stared at each other through the glass surrounding the penalty box, something that makes him think Ronnie might not hate him completely, the way the other Rebels seem to. Something that hints at so much left unsaid, and so much more between them.

  Christian pushes his hair back and sets his chin on his hand to watch the game. The moment he looks up, Ronnie is passing in front of him, the puck fast against his stick, angling for the goal. Sticking out his lower lip, Christian blows the curls off his forehead. Ronnie glances over, sees him, and misses his shot.

  The puck goes clear around the back of the goal and comes out the other side. Several of Christian’s teammates scramble for it, but the ref’s whistle stops them short. Above the hockey rink, the announcer’s voice rains down like judgment. “Niedermeyer’s called for icing. Would have been a great shot, too, if only he’d have kept his eyes on the puck. There is some tension in the air tonight, folks! Are you ready to r-r-r-r-r-r-r-rumble?”

  Tension. Christian smirks as Ronnie skates for the penalty box. The air’s so thick around him, he thinks he’ll suffocate before the night is through.

  * * * *

  That first visit to Ronnie’s townhouse, Christian didn’t know what to expect. He followed behind Ronnie’s pick-up truck out to one of the newer communities being built in the West End. As Ronnie pulled into the garage, Christian coasted his sporty convertible to a stop in front of a brick townhouse that sat in the middle of a row of identical homes. He locked his car but left the top down, just to show off a bit. Then he trotted up the steps to the front door, which opened when he raised a hand to knock.

  Inside, Ronnie gave him an enigmatic grin. The light behind him threw his face into shadow, but his eyes were bright and clear, and fixed on Christian. He wondered how pale they would look upon waking, or how dark Ronnie’s unkempt hair would be splashed across his pillow. The thoughts surprised him—though he’d been getting signals from Ronnie since he joined the team, Christian had never let himself actually think of his teammate in a sexual manner. He hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up only to be disappointed. What if Ronnie’s flirtatious banter was nothing more than tough talk? How would a relationship off the ice interfere with them working together on it? And what would happen if either of them were ever traded to another team?

  But here, on Ronnie’s doorstep, Christian’s hesitation was short lived. Ronnie stood aside to let him into his home, and the moment the door was shut behind them, Christian found a warm hand easing into his, strong fingers curling around his palm. With a playful squeeze, Ronnie smiled at the faint shock that must’ve been evident on Christian’s face. “Thanks for coming over,” he said, as if his hand in Christian’s didn’t hint at anything more than a social visit. “Let me give you the tour.”

  Downstairs was the garage and a utility room. Ronnie didn’t release Christian from his grip as he led him around. He pointed out the washer and dryer, but Christian saw most of the utility room was given over to Ronnie’s love of hockey. Clean uniforms hung on one wall, while others littered the floor, mingled with piles of clothing vaguely separated into whites and colors. A street hockey goal took up one corner—hockey sticks lay across the top, and goalie’s pads were tossed into the net itself.

  “You play?” Christian asked.

  Ronnie clicked off the overhead light and guided Christian to the stairs that led to the next floor. “Sometimes me and a few of the guys practice on rollerblades. You know, when the Coliseum is unavailable, or when it’s off-season. It’s a lot of fun.”

  Bitter jealousy rose in Christian, the same sourness he’d tasted earlier that evening, when no one on his team had acknowledged his role in winning the game. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything, but his hand grew uncomfortably warm in Ronnie’s, and he wondered how many other players had been given this same tour in the past. The lower level, then upstairs to the second, and ending where? Ronnie’s bedroom?

  It’d been a while since Christian had had sex, and when Ronnie invited him over, he’d been hoping to get lucky. But he wasn’t just another nameless player on the ice, and he sure as hell didn’t plan to be another notch in the bed post, either. At the top of the stairs, they entered a dining room and Christian pulled his hand from Ronnie’s grip. Then he tucked both hands into his back pocket to keep them to himself.

  Ronnie glanced back at him, a slight frown on his face that creased his brow. “You thirsty?” he asked. When Christian shrugged, Ronnie pointed to a doorway on the right. “Living room’s that way. Let me get us something to drink.”

  They parted ways, Christian heading right, Ronnie disappearing through a similar doorway to the left. The living room looked comfy, with overstuffed chairs and a long sectional sofa that faced a large television. On the floor sat an X-Box game system, connected to the TV but pushed up against it, out of the way.

  Bookcases eclipsed one wall—Christian drifted over to browse the shelves, his head cocked to one side to read the titles on CD cases and book covers. Mostly dance albums, some techno stuff, music one usually only heard in a club. Or at a hockey game, Christian thought. The announcers liked to play fast tunes to get the crowd involved. The books were mostly sports-related, no surprise there.

  Something icy touched
the back of his neck.

  Christian whirled to find Ronnie behind him, two bottles of beer in one hand, the other resting on Christian’s shoulder. Even through his shirt, he could feel the damp chill coming off Ronnie’s fingers. Without removing that hand, Ronnie angled one of the bottles out toward Christian like an offering. When Christian took it, Ronnie tipped the other bottle to clink against his. “To you,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “Great game tonight.”

  Christian nodded and sipped at the beer. It was cold and tingly in his mouth, but warmed as he swallowed it down. When Ronnie’s hand didn’t fall from his shoulders, he shrugged.

  Ronnie didn’t take the hint.

  Clearing his throat, Christian asked, “So do you do this after every game?” Ronnie gave him a quizzical look, and Christian explained. “Take the MVP home, show him around, booze him up. Then what?”

  That faint smile on Ronnie’s face faded. “You think that’s what this is?”

  Christian shrugged again. Instead of dropping his hand, Ronnie moved it to Christian’s nape and let his fingers play over the ticklish skin just under the short cut of Christian’s hair. The touch sent shivers down Christian’s spine, but a heaviness in his groin kept him from shaking Ronnie away. Trying to keep his voice light, he said, “Nice place you have here. Why’d you invite me over?”

  “Why’d you come?” Ronnie countered.

  Christian raised his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and trapped Ronnie’s hand in place. The beer in his hand was already half gone—when had that happened? “I don’t know,” he murmured, downing the rest of the bottle. “Maybe I should go.”

  Softly, Ronnie brushed his fingers across Christian’s nape. They combed up into his hair, tickling his scalp, then rubbed to one side, behind his ear, before curving around his neck to stroke his jaw. His arm lay heavy on Christian’s shoulders, and with a gentle nudge of his knuckles, he turned Christian’s face toward his.

  This close, Ronnie’s eyes looked see-through, transparent. They were the same barely-there shade of blue as the winter sky, pale and crisp, almost white. Christian couldn’t stare into them for long; he felt himself disappearing in their gaze, yet try as he might, he couldn’t seem to look away. He glanced at Ronnie’s thick, sleepy lashes, the dark eyebrows above them, the pinked excitement coloring his narrow cheeks and his too-red lips, but he was drawn to those eyes, again and again.

  “Stay,” Ronnie murmured, so low Christian would’ve thought he imagined the word if he hadn’t watched those lips form it. “I like you.”

  Christian raised his bottle between them, but it was empty. Ronnie offered him his instead. “Thanks,” Christian sighed as he took it, setting his own on a nearby bookshelf. The glass was cold against his lips, the beer frothy in his mouth. In two gulps, he downed half the bottle. Lowering it, he picked at the label and tried again not to meet Ronnie’s gaze, but couldn’t. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

  The smile was back. Ronnie plucked the bottle from Christian’s nerveless fingers and set it beside the other one on the bookcase. Christian watched it go, vaguely discomfited with nothing to hold onto.

  A gentle hand touched his chin, turning his face toward Ronnie’s. Christian found his teammate’s eyes shut, lips parted. The arm on Christian’s shoulder held him in place as Ronnie leaned in, closer. His nose brushed over Christian’s, an Eskimo kiss. Then his mouth touched Christian’s lips, soft, alcoholic.

  Christian’s hands rose between them, smoothing over Ronnie’s chest before grasping at his T-shirt and tugging him closer. He opened his mouth for their next kiss, and Ronnie’s tongue slipped into him. He dipped inside, testing Christian, tasting him, licking away the tiny moans he elicited from his teammate. One knee eased between Christian’s legs and bent, rising, to press against the budding erection in the front of Christian’s jeans. Another, louder moan escaped him at that touch.

  Ronnie kissed Christian’s lower lip, his chin; Christian laid his head back, letting those kisses trickle down over his throat and into the collar of his shirt. His hands rubbed up Ronnie’s chest, grabbed at his shirt, then ran up another few inches to do it all over again. “Ronnie,” he sighed. He didn’t know what else to say that wasn’t please and yes and God, just fuck me now.

  Against his neck, Ronnie’s breath danced over Christian’s heated skin. “Let me show you the bedroom.”

  This time when Ronnie took his hand, Christian didn’t shake him off. But when they reached the doorway leading into the dining room, Christian stopped. Ronnie must have felt him tug on his hand because he turned, a question written in his eyes. Christian wasn’t one to prolong things—he wanted Ronnie, now, and from his teammate’s advances, he knew Ronnie was interested in him, as well. So why trek through the rest of the townhouse wasting time? Why not get busy here?

  A slight pull on Ronnie’s hand brought him back to Christian’s side. Walking backward, Christian led him away from the door to the sofa. When the back of his leg bumped against the cushion, he stopped; Ronnie kept walking, eyes smoldering with lust, as he came right up on Christian. His hands touched Christian’s waist as if holding him in place, and his forehead leaned heavily against Christian’s own. “What do you have in mind?” Ronnie murmured.

  Easing his arms around Ronnie’s neck, Christian hugged him near to claim another kiss. This wasn’t tentative any longer, nothing unsure between them now. Christian kissed Ronnie as if they faced off against the ice—hard, driving, playing to score. To win. With his hands fisted in Ronnie’s shaggy hair, he held his teammate to him and pressed his advantage. His tongue bullied its way between Ronnie’s lips, demanding. Now Ronnie’s moans spurred him on, lost between them, and they clung to each other in a desperate attempt to become one.

  The hands at Christian’s waist dipped into the back of his jeans. Cool fingers slid into his underwear to cup his ass. He leaned toward Ronnie, his kisses insistent, his hands dropping from Ronnie’s hair to bunch the collar of his shirt. Finding the top button at Ronnie’s throat, Christian unbuttoned it, then the next, and the next. Ronnie’s hands rubbed around him to the front of his jeans, where they plucked at the button there before easing down his zipper.

  “Yes,” Christian sighed into Ronnie as sure hands cradled his cock and balls through the thin material of his briefs. “Ronnie, please—”

  “The bed’s more comfortable,” Ronnie whispered.

  “It’s so far away,” Christian told him, “and I’m so damn close, you just don’t know.”

  With a gentle squeeze, Ronnie fondled Christian’s hard cock through his briefs. “Oh, I think I know.”

  Christian kissed him silent. Ronnie’s hands worked Christian’s briefs down, exposing his thick erection, which stood like an exclamation between them. Pushing open Ronnie’s shirt, Christian played across the undershirt beneath the button-down—his fingers picked at the hard nipples hidden beneath the thin fabric, and in response, Ronnie’s hands tightened around his dick and balls.

  “You do this with all the rookies?” Christian asked. He tweaked Ronnie’s nipples again, interrupting his response. “Or am I just lucky?”

  “You’re Magic,” Ronnie joked. “I’ve never met another player like you before.”

  Christian preened at the compliment. Tugging at Ronnie’s shirt, he demanded, “Take this off. And this.” He indicated the undershirt as well, tugging it free from where it was tucked into Ronnie’s jeans. Unbuttoning his fly, Christian teased, “Let me see what I’m working with here.”

  With a laugh, Ronnie pushed Christian’s hands away. “It’s my house,” he said, shrugging out of his button-down shirt. “You’re the guest. Let me please you first.”

  Christian couldn’t argue with that. He let Ronnie take off the sweater he wore, and the thin T-shirt underneath. Then, grabbing Christian’s open fly, Ronnie hooked his fingers into Christian’s briefs and commanded, “Sit.”

  As Christian obeyed, his jeans were shucked down his legs, and he plopped bare-a
ssed onto the sofa. His hard cock stood up from his groin, stiff and ruddy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He raised his legs to kick off his sneakers as Ronnie shucked off his jeans, one leg at a time. With his hands on Christian’s knees, Ronnie held his legs apart as he knelt on the floor before him. Christian’s hand drifted to his crotch to play with his balls, the sac soft and warmed from Ronnie’s touch. “So now what?”

  Ronnie leaned forward in response and took the tip of Christian’s dick into his mouth. Strong lips massaged his cockhead as Ronnie’s tongue licked out, down the underside of his length, then back up to the twirl around the tip. “God,” Christian sighed, leaning back against the couch. Ronnie’s hands were on his thighs now, spreading his legs wide. Christian grasped at his teammate’s disheveled hair, tugging at the dark tufts as he pushed himself farther into Ronnie. “Yes, yes.”

  With lavish attention, Ronnie circled Christian’s dick, first nuzzling the tender knob, tracing under the flared head with his tongue, licking the slit as beads of white cum bubbled from the tip and trickled down the trail left by Ronnie’s saliva. Then he kissed his way down the thick, veined length—first a bevy of little kisses, from tip to base, then wetter kisses, sucking back up his shaft.

  Christian writhed beneath the sensations that shot through him, lust and desire, an aching need for release. Ronnie’s hands were between his legs now—he sprawled down on the cushions, one leg thrown over the arm of the sofa, the other propped up on the wooden coffee table beside Ronnie. Strong fingers rubbed into sensitive skin, tracing intricate patterns into his balls, tickling lower to rim over his trembling anus. Christian gripped Ronnie’s head in both hands as his hips rose unbidden off the sofa, thrusting at his teammate.