Page 56 of Goalie Interference

I crave him. Every minute I’m alone, I want to call him. Every time something funny happens, I want to tell him. Whenever I’m feeling anxious before a game, I imagine his legs pressed against mine or his hand resting on my forearm, and the calm feeling that gives me.

Even right now. As much fun as I’m having, I can’t help but wish he was here.

Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. My skin goes cold as my eyes come back into focus and I’m looking at Connor again. “You okay there?”

“Yeah,” I say. Sweat forms on my neck. I swallow what’s left of my drink in one gulp and begin to stand. “I just need to get some air.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Connor asks.

“No.” I shake my head, then pass him my empty glass. “But if you could get me another one of these, that would be great.”

My heart rate races as I make my way through the bar and head for the exit. As I walk, I loosen my tie. It’s too tight, and it’s too warm in here for me to be this restricted. But I’m flooded with relief as soon as the late fall chill in the New York City air hits my skin once I step outside.

Nikolai. Holy shit. I think I might be attracted to Nikolai. Panicked laughter bubbles through me. How the fuck did I miss this about myself? And worse, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?

FIFTEEN

Nikolai

Waking up the next morning, I’m tired. My body is weary from the long road trip and my brain from the conversation last night with Sofia. She does that to me a lot. I guess it comes with the territory and her knowing me better than anyone else does in my life. Not that she really is a part of my life anymore, which is quite the lonely thought.

The vacancy she left in my life is one I want filled, but the only person who can fill it right now is Ander. And he’s about a thousand miles away. And he has no idea that he’s who I feel myself drawn to.

This pull I have towards Ander, this tug he has on my chest that makes my heart swell in a way it’s never done before, is starting to feel all-consuming. I can’t get him out of my mind. I think about him constantly.

On the ice, Ander. In the locker room, Ander. On the plane, Ander. In the hotels, Ander. In my apartment, Ander. Naked in the shower, Ander. Always Ander. Getting off to the thought of him has become a part of my daily shower routine. Which is as good a reason as any to jump in there right now to rinse off in the warm water surrounded by the steam before I have to head to the practice rink.

This shower is big enough for two. Much better than thinking about Ander in the cramped showers of the hotels we’ve been staying at where the plastic curtain is constantly sticking to my leg. Here in my apartment, there is no curtain. I can walk right into the shower and imagine pushing Ander in before me. Imagine seeing the water hit his body, sending rivulets down his back, around his ass, down his legs and pooling in the drain. I can even see in my mind the way the water would turn his caramel brown hair a deep black. The way it would turn his warm creamy skin a flushed pink. The way his blue eyes would stand out in the steam like beacons calling me to him.

When I touch myself, my mind again pretends that it’s him who I’m touching. I touch my chest, my abs, I even bring one hand to my face to caress my cheek. It drags across the three days’ worth of rough stubble I have. I need to shave. But not today. Today I want to know what it feels like for my hand to drag across a man’s unshaved face. Even if I’m making do with myself while the man I want to feel can’t be here.

It’s the same with my cock when I grab it. No longer when I get myself off do I think of the act solely about myself. My cock is both mine and Ander’s until I can feel his in my fist.

The imagination is a wonderful tool. I’ve always had an overactive one. I’ve always been able to call up realistic visuals, sensations, emotions, and scenarios. I can manifest anything I want for myself and me alone. Playing in the NHL. Winning the Stanley Cup. Grabbing the man I’m attracted to by his hair, placing him on his knees, and drawing his lips forward to wrap around my dick.

I’m not a selfish lover. While I think about what Ander’s plump bottom lip would feel like sliding up and down the underside of my cock, I also imagine what his would feel like resting on my tongue.

Is he hung? Probably. He’s six foot four, same as me. Things tend to be proportionate. Is he cut or uncut? He’s an American, so probably cut. I wonder what that feels like? More so for him than for me. For me it doesn’t matter. But I’m curious if the pleasure that can be derived from our dicks has the same sensations. Is he more sensitive? Responsive? Eager? Does he come quick? Or does it take a long time to draw it out of him?

I always thought I had great stamina, but each time I do this I’m proven wrong.

“Fuck,” I moan out as my cock spurts four thick ribbons of come onto the shower floor. It’s quickly washed away and swirls with the hot water down the drain.

That will easily be the best part of my day. It was also a terrible idea. Because as I stand here in the shower coming down from my orgasm, I can feel my adrenaline begin to crash. I’m going to be dead on my feet at practice today. But at least we don’t have a game tonight, and at some point later this evening, I can expect a phone call from Ander to prepare him for his next game, and to tide me over until my next jerk-off session.

Ander

I feel like shit.

“Get up,” Tavish says as he exits the bathroom of our hotel room. His hair is wet and he’s wearing his Blizzards hoodie and sweatpants, ready to go down and catch team breakfast. “You smell like shit.”

I am shit. Hungover, confused, cowardly shit.

Groaning, I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Thankfully it’s no longer spinning like it was last night when we returned. “What time is it?”

“Nine,” Tavish says. “If you hurry up and take a shower, you should still be able to catch breakfast.”

My stomach curdles at the thought. I close my eyes to block out the light. “I think I’ll pass on that.”