“Did he give you his phone number?” Pisch’s tone was level. Like he understood a lot more about what had gone down than Ian did.
The rookie shook his head. “No. But I saw him with Laura once. I really wanted to talk to him, so I got her number from Vanek. And she passed him the phone, and he was all playing like I was calling about a stolen bike. I went along with it, figuring he just couldn’t talk. But when I went to the station…”
“He made it obvious the ‘bike’ was gone. And you should stop looking for it.” Pisch shook his head. “Kid, I’m sorry if you thought there was more, but he was in for that night. It’s over.”
So…there’s no bike? Ian was lost. He kinda got that the cop had fooled around with the kid and hadn’t wanted another round. Why not just say so? Why be so damn vague Richards felt like getting up on stage might get his attention? That was messed up.
People don’t really do shit like that, do they?
The man was a cop. Maybe he was just working hard. But he could have at least tried to find Richards bike. Then taken the opportunity to be straight with him.
“So he used your bike as a way to tell you he’s not into you?” Ian frowned when both Pisch and Richards stared at him. “Sorry, but the guy sounds like an asshole. Did you get a new bike?”
Richards snorted as Pisch muttered something while staring at the ceiling. “I don’t have a bike, White. Never did.”
Okay, that was just sad. Ian had thought Richards had a good childhood. He’d never had a bike?
This one must have been special.
“Bruiser, Richards wasn’t neglected. I’m sure he had a bike as a little boy.” Pisch put his hand on Ian’s shoulder, waiting for Richards nod. “He means there was no bike involved in this situation.”
“But…” Oh. Ian groaned. “Sorry. Maybe it’s just me, but this is a whole lot of drama when the guy could have just said ‘Hey, man, I just wanted to fuck you. No hard feelings?’”
“That would be nice, but unfortunately most people don’t think the way you do, White.” Pisch’s eyes held the gentle, warm look that helped relax Ian. Made it not matter that he’d missed what was obvious to everyone else. Pisch cocked his head at Richards. “You seem all right, kid. I don’t think this will hit the press. And you’re good to drive yourself home. I came here thinking you needed rescuing, but I was wrong.”
Richards ducked his head. “So not true. If White hadn’t grabbed that guy, it would have been bad. I might not have stopped him.”
What the actual fuck? Ian’s jaw ticked. The man probably hadn’t gone far. He could still go kill him. Unless that would be a bad idea? Maybe Richards was into being fucked on stage?
Pisch rubbed his shoulder and laughed. “Richards, did you want that guy to fuck you? Because being vague now is a bad idea.”
Yes. Very bad. Ian hoped Richards was joking. Even though it wasn’t funny.
“No, I would have felt like shit tomorrow. Tonight though?” Richards stared at the floor. “I didn’t care. The man I want doesn’t want me.”
“Come back to my place, Richards.” Pisch led the way out, stopping by his car and unlocking the door so Ian could get in. “We’ll make you forget him. Even if only for a little bit.”
Sitting on the edge of the passenger seat, Ian watched Richards hesitate on his way to a car parked at the end of the regular parking area. The car was new. A freakin’ Zenvo ST1. Which was worth more than most rookies made.
Either the kid had a crazy contract, or he was being stupid with his money. Either way, the boy needed a mentor. And Ian couldn’t be that for him.
Maybe Pisch could though. As edgy as he was, Pisch still managed to be a media sweetheart. He did tons of charity stuff. Got Ian involved in stuff he hadn’t even considered. Ian trusted his agent to tell him what he should do, but the man wasn’t helpful when it came to being generous. He’d stopped Ian from giving to a few charities that turned out to be real greedy and not doing much good, but he didn’t offer alternatives. Pisch was on the ball with the good ones. He and Zovko, a player who’d been a huge buy for the team, but lost his sight after cracking his skull on the ice, took the lead with charities.
Ramos was another guy who was good with donations, but he didn’t go public with anything. Ian had gone to the food bank he supported a few times, hauling around boxes when the man told him that’s what they needed. He’d wanted to give some money too, but he’d dumped all his savings into brain research when his grandmother started getting worse.
He wouldn’t tell any of the guys, except maybe Pisch, but he was broke. A doctor in the States had told him he could help his grandmother. Between funding the research and paying his grandmother’s full time care, Ian could barely afford his own apartment.
Ian had gotten a notice last month about his phone being on the verge of being cut off. Some guys hired someone to handle all the bills for them, but Ian wasn’t making that kinda money.
So, yeah…he drooled over Richards’ car a little when the rookie pulled out and waited for them to pass. He might not drive, but he still appreciated a nice ride. His grandmother loved classic muscle. She’d taught Ian how to drive, and when he’d gotten signed, she’d talked about buying a real classic. Told him his dad would have been all over working on it with him when he had the time. Would have taught him how to take apart an engine.
She didn’t remember those conversations anymore. But he did. And maybe if he proved himself in the playoffs, this summer he could visit and tell her all about his new car. Which he’d somehow manage to drive.
And she’d be well enough to get out and enjoy the ride. She’d remembered his name last time he called. She was getting better.
“Talk to me, Bruiser.” Pisch pulled up in front of his apartment complex and parked, turning sideways, his focus on Ian. “You hurting?”
Hurting? He dropped the towel he’d been pressing to his nose every time he felt it leaking. It was better. Tomorrow, before the game, Doc might ask him about it. Tonight? He was sore, but in one piece.
“I’m good. Just looking at Richards’ car. Grandma would love it.” He smiled, even though he was a little sad. “My dad would have too.”
“You should get yourself a nice ride.” Pisch got out of the car, waiting for Ian on the sidewalk. “I know you don’t like driving, but one day you might…I don’t know, see it differently? If you do well during the playoffs, your agent could push for a sweet contract.”
“He could, but there’s some new research that doctor was telling me about—”
“I’m sure there is.” Pisch sighed and shook his head. “I think the man’s milking you, Bruiser. But I get why you’re doing this.”
“Thanks.” Ian bumped shoulders with Pisch as they joined Richards on the walkway leading to the apartment entrance. “So you guys wanna try out the new Assassin’s Creed? Got some sick graphics.”
Richards bit his bottom lip as Pisch pressed the button to call the elevator. When Pisch ignored the confused look the rookie was giving him, Richards turned to Ian and cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’m here to play games, man.”
Pisch chuckled as he stepped onto the elevator. Arms folded over his chest, he gave Richards a lazy smile. “I wouldn’t say that, kid. I’m just rigging the game so everyone wins. You’ll learn to play my way.”
Ian’s pulse picked up a notch. He swallowed hard as he watched Richards’ cheeks redden and his eyes glaze with lust. The way the rookie tongued his bottom lip sent heat surging down. The elevator suddenly felt way too small to contain the hot wave of arousal coiling around them.
Which was pretty fucked up. Richards did absolutely nothing for Ian. Yeah, the kid was attractive. Moved his body in a way that had Ian’s thoughts taking a nosedive into the gutter, but he’d had his mouth on Ian’s dick and the lack of chemistry had been pretty damn obvious. And embarrassing.
With that in mind, Ian’s blood cooled. He stepped off the elevator first, wondering if he should tell Pisch
to have fun and take off.
Richards needed whatever Pisch wanted to give him. Needed a chance to put the asshole he was crushing on out of his head. He wouldn’t ask Pisch for more than tonight.
That wasn’t enough for Ian. He couldn’t pretend to be okay with watching them together. Not yet.
Will you ever be okay with it? Richards ain’t the first, and he won’t be the last.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Ian inhaled a slow, even breath. He didn’t know the answer to that question, but he wasn’t in a hurry to find out. He let out a rough laugh, shrugging when Pisch stopped at his side.
“You two have fun. I’m gonna head home and—”
“Ian.” Pisch moved closer to him, backing him into the wall. His tone gained a depth that reached straight into Ian’s core, like his voice alone lit a long fuse, one Ian couldn’t snuff out. All he could do was watch it burn until ignition, blasting down the crumbling remains of Ian’s resistance. All that by simply saying his name. And he didn’t stop there. “You’re breaking the rules. Either we all play, or no one does.”
Pressing his eyes shut, Ian rested his head back against the wall, praying for some relief from the intensity of fear and desire and need. For a break from all Pisch represented. All he couldn’t hold on to.
He exhaled after a long silence, mentally accepting Pisch’s offer. He’d been dealt a strong hand. He could stay in the game a little longer at least. Figure out what he had to gain if he didn’t fold.
“What are the rules, Pisch?”
A smooth gentle warmth pressed against his lips. His head spun as he realized it was Pischlar’s lips touching his. Too lightly to really be called at kiss, but close enough to give him the dizzying sensation of zipping around the loop of a roller coaster.
“The rules, Ian?” Pisch released a soft laugh. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m making them up as I go along.”
Chapter 7
There was a strange sense of calm that came over Shawn when he settled into his element. Inside his own home, with two men he knew very well, any doubts he’d had disappeared.
White was a wild card, but one Shawn knew exactly how to play. Not the careless way he might with someone who wasn’t invested in the game, but…
You might want to stop considering this a game, Pisch. He asked for the rules for a reason.
Very true, but it didn’t have to be all or nothing. Not tonight.
Tonight, White would get a taste of what Shawn meant by them being open. See all the benefits to not putting a hard, cold label on whatever was between them. They could enjoy what they shared, for as long as it lasted.
No one had to get hurt.
You sure you won’t be when he finds his perfect girl?
Of course not. Shawn was in complete control. The same way he played on the ice. Reading every move like a chess player, always one step ahead.
He slipped into the kitchen, taking White’s last three beers out of the fridge and carrying them to the table. When he set them down, he sensed White watching him.
“You’ve only had two. You’re permitted to have another.”
Ian’s lips quirked at the edges as he took one of the beers. “I’m permitted, am I? Your accent just got real thick, buddy.”
Had it? Shawn frowned, annoyed for some reason that he had a tell that he hadn’t known about. He’d lived in the states since his early twenties and had spoken English quite well even when he’d lived in Austria. His accent had faded to the point his mother noticed when he called.
He cleared his throat and took a swig of beer. “Would you like a beer, Richards?”
Richards glanced between them and then nodded, taking the last beer without a word.
“So…” White rested his hip on the edge of the table. “Just to be clear, are we just having fun, or do we gotta call you Master?”
Apparently the man had shoved aside his reservations and was in the mood to test his limits. Which pleased Shawn. He didn’t want to spend the entire night trying to convince White to enjoy himself.
“I’m not training Richards, so no, he doesn’t have to call me ‘Master’.” Shawn smiled at White over the rim of his bottle as the man reddened. “I have a gag you may use if you’re uncomfortable with protocols.”
The color faded from White’s cheeks so quickly, Shawn wasn’t sure if the man would hit the floor. But he recovered just as fast and shook his head. “Naw, man. I’m good. Master, Sir, whatever. Can I put gags on my hard limits contract thing?”
Shawn had to fight not to laugh. Damn, White was adorable when he was flustered. Still big and tough, but cute. “Since you’re not usually chatty, I’m not sure it needs to go on your list of hard limits.”
“I think it does.”
All right, this was the first time he’d ever felt the need to debate a hard limit. Not that he considered gagging White a priority—hell, he needed to force the man to speak up half the time—but if a gag was a hard limit, anything that truly tested White’s boundaries would be near impossible to attempt.
So he took a few gulps of beer, watching White swallow his own down, his throat working hard, knuckles pale. The issue wasn’t the gag. “Are you afraid I’ll go too far if you can’t speak?”
“No! Fuck, I trust you, Pisch. You know that, right?” White set down his beer and scowled. He looked like he wanted to close the distance between them. Shifted forward, then groaned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Tell me what to do. I guess a gag wouldn’t be so bad. Honestly, I don’t know my limits. I’ve seen stuff at the club, but…but it was always a big ‘Hell no!’ because I couldn’t picture any of them, any of those Doms, doing that stuff to me.”
The ‘I would let you’ was unspoken. But it was there.
A heavy sense of power threatened Shawn’s steady balance, but he regained it with a slow nod and a smile. “Fair enough. Then let’s set the limits for tonight. You can join in the conversation any time, Richards.”
Richards choked on his beer. Poor kid had probably felt completely ignored. And quite comfortable being so. He sucked in a breath. “Umm…I don’t like pain. And I don’t top. And I want my limits to include White warning me if I piss him off, because if he punches me, I’m done for the season.”
White winced. “Damn it, kid. I’m not gonna hit you.”
“You sure? Because I wanna suck your man’s dick. Prove I ain’t all that bad.”
“You—damn it, am I ever gonna live down that night?” White grabbed his beer and tipped it back against his lips. “I’m sure you’re awesome at giving blowjobs. I just don’t like them from guys, okay?” His face went crimson when Shawn arched a brow at him. “That ain’t fair, Easy. Consider yourself the exception.” He lifted his beer to his mouth again. “And by the way, rookie. He ain’t ‘my’ man.”
Glad that’s cleared up. Shawn grinned, not minding the discussion turning to his dick at all. The blood was pumping into his cock, nice and steady. It was about time they moved this party along.
“I have condoms in my night table, Bruiser. Be a good boy and go fetch them.” He was careful not to react when White spilled half his beer over the front of his black Ultron T-shirt. “There are a few options for flavor. Pick your favorite.”
Jaw ticking, White set his beer on the edge of the table. The very edge.
Richards caught it before it hit the floor.
Nice save.
Shawn was absolutely positive White would tell him to go fuck himself. Instead, he got to enjoy the sexy view of the man’s round ass as he strode out of the room. Fuck, he needed to talk White into wearing tighter jeans, but even those baggy, threadbare, faded blue jeans couldn’t hide the biteable curves.
Richards hopped up to sit on the edge of the table, letting out a rough exhale. “Dude, this is freaking me out. I never would have made a play for White if I’d been sober. He’s like, uber-straight. What the hell are you doing?”
Snorting, Shawn rested his hand on the table by Richards’ hip. “You
sucked his dick and you’re still convinced he’s ‘uber-straight’?”
The rookie’s forehead creased. “Yeah…either that, or I’m really that bad.”
“I promise to be a fair judge of your performance.” Shawn rubbed the rookie’s rumpled, pale brown hair when the kid blushed. “Don’t worry about White. Are you okay? I got the impression you didn’t get the reaction you wanted from the cop?”
Wrinkling his nose, Richards shook his head. “No. He saw me, I made sure of it. But he just watched for a bit. Then walked out. You saw him.”
“I did. I was hoping he’d intervene before I was forced to.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. He didn’t.” Not that Shawn could really blame the man. Richards was a nineteen-year-old boy, only just beginning to accept his own sexuality. From what he’d expressed so far, he wasn’t the least bit attracted to women, but he’d slept with them to maintain his image. Even if the cop was ready for a serious relationship, the rookie had nothing to offer.
He still needed to grow up. Run a little wild.
Too young for a commitment, but old enough for Shawn to enjoy without regrets.
“Richards, I will be very clear with you. Tonight will be all about pleasure. I may push your limits. I will make sure you’re able to play tomorrow. I consider you a teammate and a friend, but don’t expect more from me.” Shawn had lost count of how many times he’d had this conversation. The fact that the ‘teammate’ addition wasn’t new was interesting. He really should stop messing around in his own backyard.
The rookie’s lips spread into a nice, relaxed smile. “Is this the speech? I’ve heard people talk about it.”
“Have you?” Shawn snorted. “Apparently my lovers have big mouths. But it does save time with you knowing what to expect.”
Line Brawl: The Dartmouth Cobras #8 Page 8
