An image came to mind of Karter underneath me in the back seat of his car, his body stretched out while I pushed in deep. He gasped as I fucked him, while his hips lifted to meet mine, pulling me closer like he couldn’t get enough.
His eyes had locked on me, heated and steady, even as I started thrusting harder, the car rocking with us. With his hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, he’d made these low moans, half-broken, that said he was right there with me, taking it all and wanting more.
Back in the present, my breaths came out in short gasps as I stroked my cock faster, the slide of skin warming my belly, sharper with each stroke.
Thoughts of pinning Karter beneath me like that, feeling his ass tighten around me with every move, his legs spread for me as I pounded into him.
It all rushed back.
His body had trembled under me, while I drove into him again and again.
Then the memory switched on me.
Gone was the car’s back seat, replaced by images of the attic of the Ice House. My own voice echoed back, calling Karter a distraction, a mistake. Words I’d said while I stood in my room, duffel bag in hand.
Everything dropped hard in the present. My stomach twisted up, and my hand felt wrong now, too rough and cold. The heat drained out fast, leaving nothing but disgust.
Shame gripped me tight, but I kept my hand moving. Finishing would clear my head, let me draw in a full breath.
The rhythm on my cock turned rough and uneven as the high kept slipping away. I gripped harder and picked up speed, desperate for friction to drown out the guilt. My other hand, meanwhile, twisted into the bedsheet as the buildup of my orgasm coiled low in my groin, all wrong but unstoppable. That is until a deep throb finally ripped through me.
My back arched off the mattress, every muscle locking tight. “Karter,” his name slipped from my lips as I climaxed, spilling hot cum inside my boxers.
A single tear slipped down the side of my face as my body began to relax into the mattress, my breathing beginning to slow. Calling Karter a mistake hadn’t made it true. It only made the empty space on the mattress beside me feel ten times colder.
Chapter 23 - Karter
My lungs burned as my skates bit into the chopped ice for the final ten seconds of the third period. The scoreboard showed us up by one as a deafening roar pressed against the glass from the student section.
The final horn cut through the noise, and just like that, we’d locked in a spot at the Cold Quartet—the four-team tournament that decided who walked away with the biggest trophy in college hockey. Gloves and sticks rained down onto the ice. Guys swarmed the crease and buried our goalie under a pile of bodies.
This was supposed to be the high point of the whole season, but I just felt numb.
Before I could carve a clean path toward the tunnel, somebody snagged my jersey and yanked me into the team photo huddle. I stared straight into the lens while the celebration churned around me like static.
Escaping down the tunnel a minute later, I was met by the suffocating wall of heat inside the cramped locker room. My teammates shoved past me, shouting and slamming their hands against the metal doors. However, keeping my head down, stripping off my sweat-soaked pads and getting back to my room was my only goal. But two steps away from my stall, I came to a stop.
A single pink figure skate sat perfectly centered on the wooden bench, its bright synthetic leather practically glowing under the lighting overhead.
Somebody had gone out and bought the prop, snuck it past the coaches, and set it up so the whole room would watch me find it.
The joke was impossible to miss. Heat prickled the back of my neck as I fought the sudden urge to grab a hockey stick and smash the cheap boot against the concrete floor.
I forced my hands to unclench. Giving whoever did this a reaction was exactly what they wanted, so I gave them nothing. Instead, I grabbed the toe of the skate and tossed it into the nearest trash can. It hit the plastic bottom with a hollow smack as I heard faint chuckling coming from somewhere behind me.
Sitting down, I stared at my boots and focused on the frayed edges of my laces, unthreading them with slow, deliberate pulls. Guys kept shouting and laughing from across the room, but I just pulled the strings tight. The rough friction was the only thing keeping my hands from shaking.
“Nice new gear, Karter.” My teammate, Dominic, projected his voice at me over the noise. He sat sprawled across two premium stalls, leaving his custom skates blocking the aisle while a freshman hurried out of his way.
My mouth stayed shut while I kept my focus on pulling off my skates.
A few minutes later, I decided to skip the shower, throwing my street clothes and winter jacket over my sweaty skin just to get out of there faster. Dragging stiff denim and a winter jacket over a layer of drying sweat felt gross, but escaping this locker-room mattered more than getting clean.
I grabbed a towel and ducked into the communal bathroom, heading for the sinks. Cold water hissed into the basin. Bracing both hands on the porcelain, I splashed my face and let the grit rinse off my skin.
Steam had fogged the entire mirror. Someone had dragged a bare finger through it, scrawling two words right at eyelevel. A sharpNO, followed by a short, homophobic slur. Dirty condensation gathered at the base of the leadingFand dripped slowly down the mirror.
Two guys walked up to the adjacent sinks, bumping shoulders and laughing about a missed pass. They glanced at the defaced mirror, then looked away. Neither of them reached out to wipe the glass clean. They simply turned on the faucets and let the slur hang there.
