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A tension-laden silence filled the air. "Is that what this is about? Reality?" Hoss's voice had softened to a whisper, but it hit me like a sledgehammer. I wasn’t ready to talk about what was going on between us.
I opened my mouth, but the words jammed up, stuck somewhere between my racing heart and the tightening space between us.
Screw it. In a flash, the distance closed. Worlds collided, and for that moment, debates about team dynamics and rookie handling were galaxies away.
Hoss's lips crashed onto mine as I let out a surprised moan, my hand instinctively finding its way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Our tongues tangled in a frenzied dance, our breathing ragged and heavy.
We both knew it was dangerous territory and that giving in to our passion could rip the team apart. We’d just seen how a difference of opinion between us could polarize the team. But in that moment, no other concerns mattered. We were two men full of desire, unable to hold it back any longer.
Hoss's hands slid down my back, pulling me flush against him. His fingers trailed down to the waistband of my hockey pants, tugging at the fabric.
I broke away, gasping for air. "Not here," I whispered, even as my body begged for more. "We can't risk it right here."
Hoss reached for the door handle of the janitor's closet, and he shoved me inside. It was the old impulsive Hoss, and I lost all ability to resist.
My breath caught in my throat when he fell to his knees before me.
He licked his lips, his gaze never leaving mine as he began to ease my pants down. I was stiff and aching for him, my body crying out in need.
“Know how many times I wanted to do this on the ice?” Hoss breathed the question into the air. He tugged my jock shorts down before he descended on me, warm and wet. His tongue swirled around the head of my cock, making me gasp. I tangled my fingers in his hair, steadying myself against the wall as his mouth worked magic.
I bucked against him, rocking forward and back. Pistol Pete and Havoc Hoss. Damn, here we were, flirting with danger, wrapped up in ourselves and each other. Hoss instinctively knew how to get under my skin and take me for a ride.
My mind flashed back to our time as players. At the moments my frustration with him rode high, I still wished we could take each other right there on the ice. He was always sexy as hell—attitude, body, and his moves.
My balls tensed, and I knew I wouldn't last much longer. Hoss had skills, and I couldn't take much more before I came apart at the seams.
"Hoss, I'm gonna..." Fighting to keep my lips shut tight, I grunted and then came, orgasmic pleasure tearing through me in shuddering waves.
Hoss took it all, swallowing every drop before standing back up, his lips shiny with my cum. He kissed me hard, and I tasted myself as our tongues tangled.
It was a moment that had been in the making for years. I panted for breath as I stared into his eyes.
We both knew there were risks involved, but in that moment, it felt like nothing else existed except us. I knew that we'd have to deal with the consequences of our actions at some point, but that was in the future. This was now.
We were two men, consumed with desire and lust, unable to resist the temptation any longer. And in that moment, it felt damn good to give in to our deepest desires.
We pulled away and looked into each other’s eyes. "We're tabling this. We'll talk later," I managed to say.
"Yeah," Hoss replied. He sounded a little emotional, like his voice might crack.
We returned to the locker room and stepped back into reality, whatever that was now.
As I watched the team dressing in their street clothes, I sensed that the undercurrent between Hoss and me had shifted and intensified. And I was still deciding whether to dread or anticipate what would come next.
On autopilot, I made my way to my office. It was a study in disorder: whiteboards, markers, and stacks of game tapes. Flicking on the lights, I saw the failed plays of tonight's game scrawled in a shorthand only I could understand.
My hand hovered over the board, gripping an eraser. "To erase or not to erase, that is the question," I muttered.
A text from Hoss popped up, and he was apparently listening from somewhere nearby.
"Talking to yourself now? That's the first sign of madness, you know."
I smirked as I texted back.
"Madness is not erasing a losing play and repeating it next time."
Hoss had a quick reply.
