When I get back to the bed, he’s looking up at me hungrily. There’s some desperation in his eyes which look bright blue and less full of the heavy weight of exhaustion they held minutes ago.
I pop the bottle cap open and pour a generous amount of lube into my palm, then smear it up and down my erection, giving myself a good coat. With what’s left in my hand, I rub it around his, then slot myself back between his legs so I can bring our dicks together.
His eyes close as I begin to move at a slow and steady rhythm. A small sigh escapes his lips. “Fuck, that’s good,” he says as his hips thrust to meet mine.
Yeah, it is. This right here is exactly what I needed. One of life’s simplest pleasures, when you’ve found the right person to share it with.
But as predicted, I’m not going to be able to draw this out. I can already feel my orgasm building. It’s fine. This summer there will be plenty of days to fill with long, leisurely sex. Tonight is for resetting all systems by enjoying the quick pleasure we can draw out of each other’s bodies.
I pick up my pace and grip us firmer so there’s no way we can slip apart in my hand. I can feel my orgasm building. I’m right there and I’d love for nothing more than for us to reach bliss together.
“Are you close?” I ask.
“Very,” he says, moaning.
“Me too,” I say, my voice strained as the pressure builds. Seconds later, I feel the first spurt come from me, followed immediately by his. I stroke us through it and look down between us as I watch us make an absolute mess of his abs that before this even started I wanted to run my tongue all over.
No better time than now. I let go of our dicks, crawl down his body, and lick him clean. He laughs through it all.
“Stop that,” he wheezes. “You’re tickling me.”
So I do and rise to get a warm towel to finish the job.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Ryan
No one ever tells you what a grind the playoffs are. We’ve basically been put through a blender at this point. There’s a reason why the Stanley Cup is considered the hardest trophy in sports to win. Now, I truly understand why.
After winning game six at home in St. Louis, we’re back in Buffalo now for game seven. All the pressure I thought I was feeling before was nothing compared to the hum of nerves right now. Strangely, it’s the national anthem that is keeping me calm.
It’s funny. Being a professional athlete, I hear the national anthem practically every single day. Hell, some days I hear both ours and Canada’s. For the most part, it barely even registers to me anymore.
Except right now. Tonight, in Buffalo, the crowd is singing along. Clapping and cheering when the Blizzards’ in-house singer hits the long high notes. Like damn. It’s got me feeling a certain way. Emotions, tensions, expectations, hopes, dreams, wants, and wishes are culminating at this moment. This is it. This is game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. A moment that everyone on thisice has thought about since we were kids. There isn’t a hockey player on the planet who hasn’t fantasized about playing in this game. About being the one to net the game-winning goal.
Everyone in this barn, player or not, is ready to be a part of something truly special. At the end of this game, one team is getting that cup. One team is getting their names engraved in the sterling silver rings to be immortalized forever. One team gets a parade, a celebration, a banner for the rafters, glory.
The other team will get nothing. The same as every other team in the league who didn’t make it to this moment.
As soon as the singer finishes, the arena erupts into applause while the players on both teams start tapping our sticks on the ice in front of us. Each tap feels like ticking away part of a countdown. Each tap brings us closer to the beginning of the end.
“Bring it in, boys!” Coach Chris yells from the bench.
I take a quick glance at the Blizzards’ bench on my way to ours. They look calm and confident, which I suppose makes sense. Everyone on that team except for Connor has been here before. They won this last year. And as for Connor, why would he be nervous? He’s Connor fucking Kennedy. He has no reason to ever be nervous on the ice, or off of it, now that he has Gavin watching his back instead of trying to crush it.
Which, speaking of…
“Listen up,” Coach Chris says. “The refs are going to put their whistles away for this. The last thing they want is for a penalty to be the deciding factor in tonight’s game. So keep your heads on a swivel and know where Marshal is at all goddamn times. No one is coming to save you. You will all have to keep an eye out for each other. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach!” we all say together.
“Good.” He nods his head. “Now, as for your other problem tonight. Keep the puck away from Kennedy. Don’t give him an inch to make a play. Defense is the key to us winning tonight. Don’t leave Ivanov alone out there to be shelled. Put your bodieson the line. After tonight, you have the rest of summer to heal any wounds. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Coach!”
He smiles at us. “Now go have some fun! This is the game you’ve all been playing your whole lives for. Enjoy every second of it.”
Brandon
