Warm and wet and unmistakablyhis—his saliva, his taste, sitting on my tongue—and something about that undoes me in a way I am unprepared for. I'm tasting him. I'mwearinghim. The guard fills my mouth, and I have to swallow around it, and the motion makes his eyes darken.
"Good," he murmurs, thumb still resting at the edge of my mouth, pressing enough that I can feel the pad of it against my lip. His eyes hold mine with that look, the one that sees everything I'm trying not to show. "Be a good boy and wear that for me tonight."
I don't move.
I don't breathe.
I don't know what my face is doing and I don't have thecapacity to care because all I can focus on is peppermint and the weight of him in my mouth and the filthy intimacy of what he's just done.
Fuck, I didn't know peppermint could taste so good.
He searches my eyes for one long, devastating moment. Then he leans in, close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek, close enough to smell the sweat on his skin, the musk of him.
"Think about me," he whispers, "every time you bite down."
Then he drops his hand. Picks up his helmet. Rolls his shoulders like he didn't just bust through every wall I had, as if he didn't just leave me standing here, a complete mess, hard and aching. And walks toward the tunnel.
I'm a fucking puddle for Rhys and I'd let him walk all over me in this moment.
I stand there in the empty locker room with my heart in my throat and peppermint on my tongue and the weight of something that was just in his mouth sitting against mine. Every breath I take moves the guard, reminds me it's there, reminds meheput it there. My cock is pressed against my cup, throbbing with every heartbeat, and I can't do anything about it.
Four seconds.
Five.
I follow him out.
And I can taste him the whole time. The entire game. Every check, every shift, every time I bite down on the plastic and feel him there.
????????
First period. We’re down 1–0 off a power play goal that shouldn’t have happened and it’s already sitting wrong in my chest. I pick up the puck and start moving. Kowalski is on my right. Their defenseman is closing in. And on myleft—
Callahan.
Open.
It’s obvious. Clean. The right play.
I shoot instead.
It goes wide.
The puck kicks off the boards and they take it the other way. I’m already skating back, jaw tense, not looking at him. Not thinking about it. Just the game.
Second period. Bryce ties it and the bench explodes and for a few minutes it’s just hockey again. Fast. Easy. The way it’s supposed to feel. Then I get the puck along the boards and I’m looking up and—
He’s there. Back door. Open again.
And he knows it.
He’s not smirking. Not pushing. Just there, waiting. Focused in that quiet way he only is on the ice, like everything else about him disappears and it’s just instinct.
I see him.
I turn away.
Drive it into the corner instead. Take a hit I didn’t need. Lose the puck. Fitch is yelling something from the bench. I don’t catch the words. I don’t need to.
