by Carter Quinn
In The Crease: I'm Every Goalie
(Three years before ITC)
By Carter Quinn
As I skated toward the offensive zone face-off circle, I glanced up at the clock suspended above center ice and caught sight of the score. Not that I didn't know it, I just didn't need the reminder. It was the last game of the regular season--a home game, no less--and our playoff hopes had hinged on a W. Calgary had won earlier in the day, so only the two points from a victory would guarantee us the eighth and final playoff spot. In the locker room and during the pregame, the team had been energized and focused. The fans were vocal and noisy, pounding on the protective glass separating them from errant pucks every time one of us came near it. But once the puck dropped, we were overwhelmed and severely out-played. We hadn't played badly, but Vancouver had been brilliant--particularly their goaltender, Patrick O'Connor--Trick--my best friend and occasional bed partner.
Sighing heavily, I approached my spot near the hash marks, spinning my stick in my hands to work out that last bit of tension. I was flat-out exhausted. Of the nearly sixty minutes we'd played, I'd spent more than twenty-five of them on the ice, which wasn't unusual for me, but Vancouver was a particularly physical team. I'd delivered and taken more hits tonight than in my last two games combined. Hammer lined up to take the face-off for us against Johnson. I could hear Smithy and Kowalski chirping at each other, as they had the whole game. I looked over at the goal and saw Trick's wide, cocky grin through the bars of his facemask. Forty-two seconds to avoid utter humiliation. I nodded at Trick and I knew he read the intent on my face because his grin grew as he tapped both side posts with his stick.
I tuned out everything and brushed the ice with my stick, waiting for the puck to drop.
Johnson assumed the stance and Hammer followed. The linesman dropped the puck and the two instantly jockeyed for advantage. Hammer won and I felt the vulcanized rubber demon connect with my stick. I passed it smoothly across the ice to Benzo, my defensive partner. Everyone scrambled to their position and I relaxed even more as the familiarity of the play settled over me.
We'd practiced this a million times, used it often in games. It's your turn, Trick, I thought as I moved with the play. Benzo moved the puck along the outside to Smithy, who returned it to Benzo, off to Grabbers who stood his ground in front of the net amidst a scrum of defenders.
Grabbers passed the puck hard to me. I rifled a one-timer that caught Trick in the upper left shoulder. It bounced off him and free, where Johnson gained control and swung around the back of the net with Grabbers in hot pursuit. Benzo and Hammer surged toward Johnson and tied him up on the boards, feet and sticks and shoulders tangling. The die-hard fans in the front row jumped to their feet and pounded hard on the glass, shouting who knows what--encouragement, insults, encouraging insults.
"Time! Time! Time!" I yelled, trying to get the guys in motion as I crashed toward the net --a huge, stupid mistake.
Johnson got the puck loose with his foot. It went sailing over the head of Hammer's stick and landed right on Stackhouse's blade. "Shit!" I cursed as I started after the showboating superstar of the other damn team. He was fast, but Benz and I were quicker. We caught up to him just beyond our defensive blue line with Hammer and Johnson in hot pursuit. Cocky bastard that Stacks was, he couldn't resist putting on a show, moving to the side of the puck to deliver what I knew he thought would be a highlight reel-worthy goal. Instead, I surged forward and poked the damn puck out from under him just before he connected. His stick came down hard on mine, pulling me off balance before I could release it. I crashed face-first into the ice just as the horn sounded the death knell on the game and my team's playoff dreams for the season.
***
An hour later, I walked down the hall, freshly scrubbed and grilled, from the shower and the media, respectively, carefully avoiding looking at the various people who walked by, mumbling my thanks to the occasional, "Good game, Skiis." I was only twenty feet from freedom when Trick's ringtone brought to life the phone in my suit jacket pocket. I shifted my bag to the other shoulder and reached for the phone. I hadn't even got it to my ear yet when I heard him singing, "I'm every goalie. Any shot you want stopped, baby, I'll do it naturally."
I shook my head, but couldn't suppress the smile. Big, tough goalie was a closet Whitney Houston fanatic. It would ruin his reputation if it ever came out--which meant I was sorely tempted to leak that juicy tidbit every time he reminded me. "Can you read my thoughts right now?"
"Every one from A to Z. Now hurry your pretty ass up. I'm waiting in the garage."
I skidded to a stop, my heart starting a staccato beat, as it did every time the possibility of sex with Trick came up. "What?"
"I said I'm waiting in the garage. The team's spending the night here. So hurry up!"
I grinned widely and double-timed it down the hall. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"It's cold as a witch's tit in this damn garage, Nathaniel."
"Well, it is a dark and stormy night," I shot back, knowing that would warm him up.
Since the man was seventeen years old, he'd been known to randomly break into storyteller mode, and his stories always began with "it was a dark and stormy night."
"Hey!" he yelped. "That's my line!"
I laughed and crashed through the garage doors. "Where the hell are you?" I asked into the phone as I scanned the semi-darkness for his familiar, imposing figure.
A hand on my arm yanked me into the wall beside the door and my bag and I both crashed into Trick, sending an involuntary, "Oof!" from his lungs. I laughed up at him, stupidly happy to see him off the ice, despite the shut-out performance he'd just put on. I stepped back to look him up and down, from his gorgeous Black Irish face to those thick shoulders I loved to sink my teeth into, to the narrow hips and his thickly muscled thighs I loved to lick and bite on.
His glorious body was hidden behind what I knew to be an obscenely expensive suit, but I knew every naked detail by heart. It had been three months since I'd seen him properly, the last time our teams had played, and, like always, he seemed more gorgeous to me than he had the last time. "Damn, you look good, Trick."
He grinned seductively and growled lowly, "So do you, Nathaniel." Trick reached out, cupped a hand around the back of my head and pulled my mouth to his. Surprised, I opened my mouth to say...something, but his tongue caressing mine scattered all rational thought from my head--well, one of them anyway. I groaned and crowded against him, longing to feel his big, solid body against mine, bare if possible, but this was good, too. After a long moment, he drew back, taking my bottom lip between his teeth and tugging gently before rubbing his smooth cheek against my stubbly one.
"Mmm, beard burn," he moaned into my ear. "You should have shaved, but I'm glad you didn't."
I chuckled as I palmed his hardness through his suit pants. Ever since we were old enough to shave, Trick had insisted on having a close shave for the last game of the regular season, convinced the hockey gods would be displeased by an early start to the playoff beard every NHL player and fan knew was sacred. "I was hoping you would forget," I mumbled, biting gently on his jawline.
He groaned again and popped my ass with his big, hard hand. "Let's get out of here. If we only have one night, I wanna use all of it."
I stepped back and arched a brow at him. "So, what? I don't even get dinner and a movie?"
He flashed that fuck-me smirk that always promised trouble for me, and a sensuous thrill chased down my spine. "Definitely dinner. And then maybe we'll make our own movie."
My eyes closed and I shivered at the thought of his gloriously naked body captured on film for eternity.
**
After a fantastic pasta dinner we picked up on o
ur way back to my place, Trick and I relaxed with a beer on my third floor balcony, enjoying the thunderstorm that had started just before game time and had continued since. I sat beside him on the swinging bench and snuggled in, figuring that it was late and wet enough any Denver-based paparazzi were already in bed for the night. Trick slid his arm around my shoulders and squeezed briefly.
I loved this. Truth be told, I loved Trick. I'd been in love with him since I was fifteen.
We'd first had sex when we were seventeen, just before we went off to colleges 1100 miles apart.
Since then, we'd faced each other as on-ice opponents many times, but we'd never been on the same squad. Now, Trick was the face of his franchise, a two-time winner of the Vezina Trophy and one year into a six-year, multi-million dollar contract. I was a valued defenseman for Colorado, but I wasn't anywhere near Trick's league. Whenever we could--if neither of us was seeing anyone--we'd spend some time together during the off-season and hook up when our teams played each other, but with the crazy scheduling of the post-lockout NHL, it was never a guarantee that the visiting team wouldn't fly out as soon as the game was over. It was what the plan had been this time, too, and I wondered what had changed.
"I'm sorry, Skiis," Trick's voice rumbled beneath my ear. His use of my on-ice nickname told me this was a hockey-related conversation instead of the relaxing personal one we'd had through dinner.
"For what?"
"For taking you out of the playoffs."
I sat up to look at him. He looked genuinely contrite which was ridiculous. "Trick, you did your job. We should have played harder and smarter earlier in the season. It's not your fault."
He flashed a quick smile and pressed a kiss to my lips. "I'm glad you don't hold it against me."
"Trick," I sighed, exasperated already. "We've been in the League for eight years. We both know what it takes to get to the playoffs. We had 82 games to make it happen. We didn't do it. You had nothing to do with that."
He cupped my cheek in a calloused hand, caressing the rough pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. "As long as you know it wasn't personal."
I scowled at him and moved further back, out of contact. "What's going on, Patrick? When has winning or losing to each other ever been personal? We're athletes on opposing teams. One of us has to lose. It's the way it goes."
He smirked. "You're right. I'm sorry." He patted his left pec with his right hand and I was about to snuggle back up to him when he said, "I guess it just sucks for you--you know, to always be on the losing side."
I sucked at my lips to keep the smile from spreading across them. "And what makes you think I lose more often than you do?"
He shrugged and gestured boyishly with his bottle. "I looked it up."
I sat back, surprised but intrigued as to where his crazy brain was going to take the conversation. "And what did you find out?"
Trick blew across the top of his bottle, then hummed a little off-key, as if trying to match the tone. He cleared his throat and repeated the process. He grinned and sang, using the bottle as a microphone, "You get so emotional, baby, every time you lose to me-ee-ee!"
Before he could start the next line, I launched myself at him, covering his lips with my own. When he tried to keep singing into my mouth, I went after his ticklish spot, high on his ribcage. He quit singing and kissed me hard, reaching out to settle me on his lap. I ground our crotches together, reminding him why he was here. I broke the kiss and got off him, pulling him to his feet.
"I'm gonna fuck you so hard, Trick," I threatened.
He tried to hide the shiver behind a cocky smile, but I saw it. "If you can't get a puck into my net on the ice, Nathaniel, you don't get to put your prick in my ass now."
I laughed and looked up into those devastating hazel eyes. "Now, why would you punish yourself like that, Mr. Power Bottom?"
He chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to my forehead. "Damn. Good point, Robin." He took me by the hand and pulled me to the door.
"Wait! You don't get to go from Whitney Houston to Batman in the space of a couple of kisses!"
He swung around, laughing, and took me in his arms, pressing his hard body against mine. He palmed my ass, bringing our erections together. I angled my mouth up to receive his kiss, but he just nipped at my jaw instead. "Why so serious?" he growled gutturally into my ear.
Roleplay? my mind screamed. That was new.
**
An hour later, Trick rolled his sweaty, well-fucked body off me, collapsing onto the pillow, breathing like he'd run a marathon. Oh, I'd put him through his paces alright, the evidence of which was still cooling on my chest and belly. As we both struggled for breath, he snuggled up against me, his head next to mine. I turned my head so our foreheads touched and closed my eyes, reveling in the feeling of lying there with the man I loved more than anything. I loved him even more than hockey, which I would have never thought possible. Hockey had been my life since I was six years old. I hoped and silently prayed that once our playing days were behind us, Trick would be my life for the rest of it. In all these years, neither of us had ever spoken of our feelings and I knew now wasn't the time. We were separated by an international boundary, for Pete's sake, let alone all the subterfuge that came with being a closeted gay athlete.
I knew Trick loved me in his own way. Whether that way was the forever-after type I hoped it was or not, it was pointless to ponder. Someday, maybe, we could have that conversation. Until then, I would take what I could get from my best friend.
Instead of breaking the spell by talking, I scooped up some of the evidence of his pleasure and brought it to his lips. He opened for me, running his tongue over and moaning around my finger. Trick loved cum. We'd discovered that quite by accident when we were nineteen. I hadn't warned him of my orgasm in time and I'd shot off in his mouth. Since then, it was the one thing we shared that he swore he didn't do with any of his, well, tricks.
I pressed a quick kiss to his lips and rolled out of bed to dispose of the condom and clean up. I was running a wash cloth over my chest when Trick's reflection appeared magnificently naked in the mirror. I could see the bruises I'd left on his thighs from my licks and bites--the man had the most amazing thighs--and I smiled at him.
He wrapped his arms loosely around my waist and bent to kiss my well-marked neck.
"Hurry up, okay? I wanna talk to you about something." He kept his eyes down, not looking at me, and my heart dropped. The warm, satisfied feeling I'd just been wallowing in replaced by a cold dread.
"O-okay," I stuttered, forcing my hands into motion again.
He kissed my temple and wrapped his big fist around my flaccid cock, giving it a couple gentle strokes. "It's okay. It's good. Or I hope it is, anyway." One more quick peck to the temple and he left me alone.
I took my time cleaning up, unable to stop my mind from dwelling on what he could possibly want to talk about. Maybe he'd finally found a new boyfriend--make that potential boyfriend, because if he was dating someone, he wouldn't have just been in my bed. Or maybe he was actually considering coming out and wanted to warn me. He'd always been the braver of the two of us in that aspect. Or maybe he just didn't want to go on our annual off-season trip, which would suck, but wasn't horrible so long as I got to see him some time. There were so many possibilities and not a single one of them all that good.
I pulled on a t-shirt and basketball shorts and made my way into the living room where I found Trick similarly attired in clothes borrowed from my dresser. If ever I needed a visual reminder of how much bigger he was than me, dressing him in my clothes would definitely do it.
I liked my clothes a little loose--not baggy, just comfortable--but on him, they were like a second, not-as-sexy-as-the-original skin. He sat on the sofa, drinking deeply from a bottle of water. Seeing a good diversion, I cut to the kitchen and grabbed us both a fresh bottle from the refrigerator.
When I re-entered the living room, Trick was grinning. "You look like someone shot your grandmother."
I tried a half-smile and handed him his bottle. He grasped my wrist and pulled me down on his lap.
"Relax, Nate."
I nodded and smiled. "You know the best way to grab a guy's attention is to say we need to talk, right? It's never a good thing. So what's up?" I struggled briefly and he finally let me up.
I sat sideways next to him on the couch so I could face him.
Trick sighed and reached out to cup my cheek, caressing my bottom lip like he always did. He dipped his thumb in my mouth and I sucked on it eagerly, stroking it with my tongue.
"Jesus, Nate, what you do to me," he groaned before bringing our mouths together in one of the most sensual kisses I'd ever experienced. It wasn't meant to be erotic, the way his tongue caressed my teeth and tongue, but every nerve in my body called out for him. I brought my hands to his face, needing to feel him, to map and memorize his every feature, just in case this as the last kiss. When he drew my bottom lip back with him, I knew I was worried about the wrong things. That gesture had always been our promise of more, now or later.
Trick rested his forehead against mine and breathed heavily. "I love you, Nate."
I was so shocked, my head jerked up and I shoved him away with both hands to his shoulders. "What?"
His widened eyes told me he wasn't quite sure what to make of my reaction. "I said I love you."
"But...?"
He frowned briefly. "No buts. Well, I guess there is if you don't feel the same way."
I poked him in the chest. "Wait a minute. Do you mean like 'Love ya, bro,' or like 'I'm in love with you, Nate'?"
He laughed. "I see the error of my ways now. Yes, Nathaniel, I'm in love with you."
I sighed and collapsed against him. "Well, it's about damn time you realized it." I turned my head up to look at him. "I'm in love with you, too, ya know."
"Good," he smiled. His arms closed around me and we settled more comfortably against the couch.
