Page 77 of The Goalie in Room 1

“You bought decorations too,” I said, gesturing at the boxes.

“Of course. A Christmas tree without lights and ornaments is just a damn tree. Besides, your selection sucked,” he said jokingly, the melancholy look he wore moments ago gone. It was replaced by a gorgeous smile and sparkling eyes that reminded me of the sun hitting the Pacific in the early morning.

“You went through my storage closets?”

He nodded with a blush.

“Which one?”

“All of them. It was quite eye-opening.”

“Cash.” I laughed , not even sure what I planned to say next. I rubbed a hand over my beard. And that’s when I noticed what he was wearing. And what he wasn’t.

Holy fuck.

He stood in the living room wearing my Fighting Irish hockey sweater and, given the long, naked length of his legs, likely only underwear underneath.

My brain…

Short-circuited.

Fried to a crisp.

The image of him in my jersey with nothing else on multiplied, and each new mental picture contained a subtle change from the one before. Like those flipboard stories. The visual was so real that I heard the images flipping in my head. It got louder and louder and faster and faster until it took over, and all I could think about was doing what was depicted on those cards.

When his treatment and time as my patient ended, I promised myself I’d put him in my hockey sweater and fuck him—hard and fast, my name on his back, my lips on his neck, his mouth—until he screamed and begged. And then, maybe, I’d let the little fucker come.

“Fucking brat,” I growled, walking away, my fists clenched to keep myself from reaching for him.

In the kitchen, I pulled out a bottle of whiskey, poured a double, and drank it down. Liquid fire burned from the back of my throat to my belly, but compared to the raging inferno that had my cock standing straight and proud and leaking, it was nothing more than the candle flame, seconds from burning out.

“There was nothing, by the way,” he said, his voice soft and laughing over the sound of his crutches hitting the floor as he came closer and closer.

I poured myself another drink while watching his muscular, naked legs move toward me. “I told you.”

“I thought you were exaggerating.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because normal people own Christmas shit, Doc. Even my poorer -than-church-mice parents had some Christmas shit.”

“Apparently, I’m not normal.”

“No argument here.”

His words held a heat that fueled the fire in my pants. The little fucker had me jerking off twice a damn day to keep from walking around like a little blue pill gone wrong incident.

I walked…fled…to the living room from where he’d joined me in the kitchen. I picked up the closest box and tore it open.

“White?” I asked, pulling out the lights and beginning to unravel them.

“Obviously.”

I looked at him.

“What?”

“You seem like a colored-light person.”