Page 47 of King of the Crease

“No—shit. I didn’t mean that. I meant that when I’m done with you, you’re going to be sore tomorrow. Fuck. Not that either.”

Nick’s eyes widen, a little bit of panic and a little bit…something else. And now I’m thinking about the thing I’m not supposed to be thinking about.

Friends, Hank. Friends. Like the Jennifer Aniston show.

“What I meant is that your inner thighs—nope, I’m definitely not finishing that sentence.”

Why is it that hockey works all the most sexually adjacent muscles in your body? Who knew Canadians were so horny?

“We’re going to have a hard workout,” Nick offers.

“Yes. A…hard workout. Hard as in difficult. Not erect.”

I really wish Nick hadn’t kissed me. It only makes me think about other things we could do, other places for his tongue to go.

“Why are we talking at all? Exercise can be a silent activity,” I say.

Nick puts his leg out and sinks down slowly. When he starts to tip over, I hold his torso to keep him upright. His body is warm and thick. His cedary deodorant and body wash smell like they came from a country club locker room.

“That’s good,” I say in a low voice. My hands are dangerously close to his round ass. His shirt rides up. The waistband of his boxers peeks out from his shorts. I want to gnaw at it.

I step back when he seems balanced.

He drops into the squat some more, long legs folding clean, balance locked in. When he shifts sides, his butt muscles flex in a way that is extremely unfair to the general public.

And…yeah. His ass.

I do not mean to look. I really don’t. I am a good man. A respectful man. A man who is absolutely staring at Nick’s ass as he sinks into a lunge.

For a man with little hockey experience, he definitely has the butt for the sport. It’s a bit bigger than his slim and trim frame would hint at. A nice, round curve to it. His shorts dip into the hollow of his crack.

I cough and look at the wall. The wall is very interesting. Beige. Slight crack near the outlet. Someone should have that looked at. You don’t want the building to crumble. That wouldn’t be good.

“Looking good,” I say, aiming my eyeline safely above the waist.

“Really?” he asks, pushing up into a forward lunge, knee hovering just off the floor.

I glance back.

Mistake.

His form is perfect. Back straight. Core tight. And his ass—firm, controlled, doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. Like it trained for this moment specifically to ruin me. Each second I stare at it, I gain a point on the gay scale. I’m reminded of the scene in Mrs. Doubtfire when Robin Williams desperately shoves his face into a cake.

“How’s this?” Nick asks.

“Mrs. Doubtfire.”

He cranes his head around. “Huh?”

“Good,” I say quickly. “Strong. Controlled. Uh. Drive through the heel.”

I demonstrate, lunging forward, then switching legs. Deep. Clean. No problem.

“See?” I say. “Flexibility’s about practice, not size.”

Nick nods, focused, copying me. Sweat darkens his shirt. His breathing turns heavier. Real. Manly.

Something warm and stupid settles in my chest.