Page 27 of Tough Call

Except…

Oh. Fuck.

Connor.

He was a referee in the NAL. There’d been people who didn’t like him officiating in the same league his brother played, and those voices had become a lot louder since the referee scandal. The fact that he and his brother were the sons of a generational legend probably earned them what little leeway they had; no one was going to tell the sons of Stuart Ellis that they couldn’t be part of the League.

Something told me even the Ellis name wouldn’t make people amenable to Connor screwing a player.

Fuck. What was I supposed to do now?

Except I didn’t want to jump the gun and break things off with him. I also didn’t want to jinx anything by mentioning the scout to him.

I was getting way ahead of myself. In reality, they were both long shots. Connor was probably game to hook up while we were in the same place, and then we’d keep in touch but that would be it. The GMs who’d sent their scouts sniffing around might sign me, or they might not. It depended on how much cap space they had and if their roster really would benefit from a bottom six forward no one had wanted to sign a few years ago. Until I had a PTO in hand or Connor and I were making plans for a long-distance relationship, nothing had to give.

So why sabotage things with Connor or the scout when they were probably both flashes in the pan at best? Just enjoy them. Shine for the scout (and help my team toward a medal). Spend as much time with Connor as I could.

Why overcomplicate things with minute possibilities?

CHAPTER 11

CONNOR

Lying back on the bad, shaking all over with cum on my hand and stomach, I stared up at the ceiling as I tried to catch my breath.

My whole body was absolutely done. I’d officiated two games today, one of which had gone into overtime, and it was a genuine miracle my legs had stayed under me long enough to get to my room. Wrung out as I was, I shouldn’t have been able to get it up, never mind do anything about it, but exhaustion be damned, I needed Madars. Especially after our ongoing text exchanges, I was too keyed up to sleep without getting myself off. No amount of tired, sore muscles were going to get between me and the orgasm I’d desperately needed, and now that I’d come…

Fuck me, I couldn’t move.

Not yet, anyway.

I closed my eyes and wiped my clean hand over my face. My legs were still shaking. My whole body vibrated, every muscle threatening to just give out if I dared get out of this bed.

Worth it, though. Pumping myself into oblivion while I’d imagined all the things I wanted to do with Madars—yeah, no amount of fatigue would’ve stopped me from getting off. Though it was probably just as well I’d only had to worry about my own pleasure. The best I could’ve offered Madars tonight was to lie here and let him blow me or fuck me. Which—he’d have gotten me off, no doubt, but what fun was sex if I couldn’t reciprocate?

Eventually, the trembling stopped enough that I could get up and clean myself off. I didn’t trust my legs enough for a shower, but a washcloth got the job done. Then I brushed my teeth and shuffled back to bed. Tired as I was, I should’ve passed out as soon as I hit the pillow.

Spoiler—I didn’t.

I was right back to where I’d been a few minutes ago, if cleaner now. Lying on the bed where I’d jerked off tonight—where Madars and I had fucked for the first time ever—my mind was still full of all those memories from the other night and all the fantasies that had driven me to a spectacular orgasm tonight.

I tried to tell myself it was just because I hadn’t been laid in a while. The horniness combined with the nostalgia of revisiting some of the best times of my teenage years—it made sense.

Except it kind of didn’t. Since when did nostalgia or horniness scramble my thoughts like this? Especially when I was supposed to be focused on hockey? I’d missed a call this morning (luckily the other ref caught it). When I’d gone out to announce a penalty, I’d caught a glimpse of someone in the crowd wearing a Team Latvia jacket, and my mind had gone blank. For a few long, horrifying seconds, I’d completely forgotten what penalty, what team, and what player.

I’d managed to play it off as having an issue with my headset, and those few seconds had bought me enough time to get my thoughts back online. By the time my headset “stopped malfunctioning,” I’d remembered what I needed to announce, and no one was the wiser.

No one except me.

I’d been rattled about it for the rest of the game as well as the one after that. Since when had I ever let anything distract me while I was officiating? My entire goal as a ref was to be focused and fair the way players expected and deserved. What the fuck?

And like, I’d officiated games while Madars had lived with my family. Especially after I stopped playing hockey when I was sixteen, my weekends and evenings had been dominated by reffing anything from U10 to adult beer league. I’d literally made out with Madars in a janitor’s closet between games at one tournament, and I’d still been completely focused when I’d hit the ice.

What was wrong with me now? Why had I turned so stupid the moment I’d laid eyes on him? Back when we were teenagers, I’d been as smitten with him as any kid was with their first. We’d moved on from that, though. I’d drifted away from Madars and dated other men.

And now, all these years later, I was a tongue-tied wreck. I had been since I’d first seen him coming into the restaurant where we’d met up. After we’d gone to the bone church—I mean, since when did a grown man’s world stop on a dime because of a kiss?

Since Madars Kulda kissed me in that hotel parking garage, apparently.