Page 1 of Two for Roughing

Prologue

Travis Collins: “…and here we can see it in the replays. Howard leans in to say something before the faceoff, and Denisov absolutely whiffs it. What are we thinking, Bill?”

Bill Zito: “Well, Travis, I think we just witnessed a classic Howard. Get in close, get under the other guy’s skin, steal the puck.”

Travis Collins: “Classic Howard—what are you talking about? It’s the kid’s first season.”

Bill Zito: “Yeah, but if you’ve seen his game tape from the WHL, he’s a textbook pest. Denisov’s got the advantage on size and, let’s be real, skating skills. But Howard’s one of those guys who gets to you like sand in your shoes. Can’t shake him.”

(From “Live commentary, San Francisco Sea Lions v. Chicago Firecrackers @ San Francisco,” by Bill Zito and Travis Collins, 12/03/2024)

“Ohmygod please please please, fuck, please!”

“Hmm…I’ll think about it.” Damir pulled back incrementally and remained still long enough for the man under him to start begging again. Then he slammed in hard and listened to Howard wail.

It was incredibly satisfying.

Not just because everything about Howard screamed “pushy brat who wants to be put in his place”—although giving him what he so obviously wanted was a nice bonus—but because he had stopped talking. All Howard did was talk, talk, talk, running his mouth at the faceoff circle with his mouthguard dangling out of the corner of his lips, emphasizing how red and puffy they were.

With his cock deep inside Howard, Damir paused again. “Are you sorry now?”

Howard took great heaving breaths as though the mere presence of Damir’s cock in his hole was enough to render him unable to pull enough air into his lungs.

Damir was a big man with a proportional dick, but not so much that he’d call it medically unusual. Howard’s carrying on gratified him. Not as much as a proper apology would have, which Damir had expected when Howard turned up outside of his hotel room, but close enough.

He circled his hips, grinding in deep. “Well, are you?”

Howard drew in a breath and said, “Nuh-uh. ’S true, isn’t it?”

He was ridiculous. He was pathetic, whimpering on Damir’s cock like an animal in heat. A far cry from the overconfident asshole who’d skated up to the faceoff circle and told Damir he was sure the women of Chicago were thankful Damir kept his mouth off them.

Howard had been making a reference to a very stupid online interaction Damir’d had with a teammate last week. Ketchup had posted a drunk selfie on Instagram and captioned it with something about looking for girls who wanted their “marpet cunched.” He’d shown it to Damir, sniggering. Damir had responded with “what is ‘marpet cunched?’ u are so drunk bro.” Since then, he’d learned Ketchup had chosen a childish slang term for oral sex. In Damir’s estimation, the linguistic choice made begging women for sex on the internet that much more embarrassing, but sadly, the internet disagreed.

Damir had also learned to stop posting things on the internet.

It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t a native English speaker, nor was it his fault Ketchup had used the most juvenile term for cunnilingus he could. Damir spoke English fairly fluently—especially in comparison to other Russian players who stayed in Russia until they became eligible for the NHL draft—since he’d done Major Juniors in the States. But even years of experience could not prepare him for “marpet cunched.”

Of course, every idiot hockey fan on the internet took this as evidence that Damir was a selfish lover. He deleted the comment the next morning, and Ketchup deleted the post inciting it when he emerged from his hangover stupor six hours later, but the damage had been done.

Looking at Kilian Howard—rookie third-line center and unstoppable pest for the San Francisco Sea Lions—spread out underneath him and begging for his cock, Damir was pleased to prove the allegations wrong. He thrust in at full force a few times, reveling in the tight heat surrounding him. Howard moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and bucked back into Damir.

Damir clenched his hands tight around Howard’s hips to keep him still. Fuck, it might be the best thing he’d ever felt.

“Oh!” Howard called out. Did he know he was doing it? Or worse, did he want Damir’s entire team to hear him? “Oh, fuck, Denisov—”

Damir stopped again.

A long, high whine left Howard’s throat.

“Were you close?” Damir teased. “Did you want to come? Too bad. You only get to come if you don’t tell lies.”

“’S not a lie,” Howard said mulishly. “You’re not putting your mouth on any girls, are you?”

Damir bit into the back of his neck, hard.

Howard whimpered.

“I think I just put my mouth on a pretty”—he punctuated the word with a single hard thrust—“little girl, didn’t I?”