Page 57 of Flagrant Foul (Totally Pucked #3)

I hold on to the narrow metal pole behind me and jut my cock forward, hissing as my shaft butts against the hard swell of his cockhead.

As always, when our dicks touch, something beautiful happens.

A buzz. A blur that makes my nerve endings sing.

Sev’s hand moves up and down, slowly, until he’s eked out enough precum from both of us to allow his hand to glide easily.

He starts jacking us hard and fast, pausing once to reach up and swipe his fingers under my tongue, finding the saliva that pools there and using it as lube.

It’s messy and frenetic. Desperate and wanton. A frantic frotting session that feels like a first time.

Both of us breathe through our mouths, stealing blistering kisses and inhaling air from the other’s lungs.

Our orgasms build with dazzling speed .

It feels like a first time, but it’s not. We’ve wanted each other for years. We’ve waited. We’ve fought it. We’ve pined.

And it was worth it. Worth the wait. Worth the pain. Because when we touch, it’s magic.

Sev knows my body so well now that he recognizes the tell-tale signs of my climax before I do. He grabs a towel off the rack behind me and offers it to me with seconds to spare. I bunch one end and mash it against his lips as I shove the other end into my mouth and bite down.

Two shattering climaxes ring out at the same time.

“Is it true that Ben’s here?”

“Is he in the crowd?”

“Is he really here?”

The locker room is abuzz, and there’s only one topic dominating conversation: Ben Stirling.

Coach waits until we settle and cracks a smile the likes of which are seldom seen on him. “It’s official, gentlemen. Ben Stirling is out there—and he’s waiting for you to get your asses onto that ice and remind the Vipers what this team is made of. ”

There’s a roar from players and coaches alike.

We huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm.

Sev stands in the center of us with every eye in the room on him.

He’s dressed and ready. Hair tied back. Helmet tucked under one arm.

He turns slowly, meeting the gaze of each player and holding it for a second, making every man in the room feel seen.

His eyes land on mine, and they soften. Tiny creases appear at the corners and tell me everything I’ve ever wanted to know.

I see love written all over him, and I know he sees it too when he looks at me.

You’re ready, I tell him. You can do this.

His Adam’s apple hitches, sticking briefly before sliding back into place.

He flicks his eyes down and back up again.

He takes a long, smooth breath that seems to suck all the air out of the room.

“Blackeyes.” His voice shakes the room, rolling through it like thunder. No one moves. No one blinks. Everyone waits. Everyone hopes. Sev doesn’t disappoint. “It’s going to be a good game.”

When Ben said those words, he spoke softly. Kindly. Reassuringly. It was a quiet sentiment that made us feel confident and centered. A calm conviction that made us believe in ourselves. A promise that good things were waiting for us.

The way Sev says it is nothing like that. Lightning cracks and locker doors rattle. Sticks drum on benches and the floor. Helmets crash against helmets and men’s hands tighten around each other. Sev doesn’t speak softly or kindly. He doesn’t reassure us, or even make us think we can do it.

He doesn’t say it like a promise.

He says it like a warrior who’s remembered his purpose. A wolf howling a war cry.

He says it like it’s already happened.

Like it’s a threat we’ve already delivered on.

To say we’re hyped doesn’t begin to cover it. In all my years of playing hockey, I’ve never felt energy like it.

We storm the ice and attack.

It’s a beautiful game. A brutal, beautiful game. A dance. A give and take. An expression of agility. An unchoreographed display of skill. There’s music playing in the distance, and only the Blackeyes know the lyrics.

Decker and McGuire are an impressive duo.

There’s no getting away from that. They’re exactly as the media describes them: Poetry on Ice.

They move like a well-oiled machine, anticipating the other’s movements and delivering passes to each other with blinding speed and accuracy. Any other day, they’d be unstoppable.

But not today.

Today is our day, and it’s going to be a good game.

We’re tied at one goal each at the start of the third period, and from my vantage in the goal crease, I watch the Blackeyes come alive.

They stretch their muscles like something old but strong.

Something that’s been asleep for a long while.

Uncurling their limbs and testing their balance.

They find it quickly. More than that, they find each other.

They play like men who were born to play together.

Made to play together. Men who fought side by side in lifetimes gone by.

The puck darts from player to player, hitting the board, bouncing off it, and lining up perfectly with the hook of the stick held by the Blackeye waiting for it.

Kretzman and Zielinski are playing center and left wing, stepping in for Lewis and Bryce.

They’ve found their feet in the line, and let’s just say, the Blackeyes offensive players are playing offense .

They’re attacking, attacking, attacking, wearing the Vipers’ defense down.

Lockie gets the puck, but there’s a D-man on him, so he flicks it back to Kretzman, who passes it long to Zielinski. Zielinski cradles it on the blade of his stick, skating like a shell shot from a cannon. He scoops it up at the last second and belts it into the net.

It’s a beautiful goal.

A beautiful game.

Our game.

Our way.

It’s a clash of titans. A hard game played by two sides that don’t know how to quit.

McGuire gets the puck with three minutes on the timer. He sees a gap and takes it. He skates like his life depends on it. Like he was born to move like this. A katabatic wind blasting down a steep slope.

It’s me and McGuire.

It’s me and the puck.

It’s me and the puck, and it is a good game.

McGuire approaches from the left, swooping in like a bat out of hell. The puck is glued to his stick. My senses are firing. My peripheral vision narrows to block out everything that isn’t Robbie McGuire, his stick, and the puck.

He transfers his weight to his right leg, head turning microscopically. His shooting shoulder drops. At the last second, I see it. A tiny, almost invisible flicker in his eye.

It’s a deke move. A fake. A feint.

I don’t fall for it.

I know what I saw.

I trust myself.

I go all in, throwing my entire body to the left at exactly the same moment the puck leaves his stick. It hurtles toward me, spinning like a black torpedo. It hits my chest and bounces off me.

“Fuck,” says Robbie, lip pulling up to expose his mouthpiece. “What the hell was that?”

“What can I tell you.” I shrug, “My reflexes are fire.”

Lights flash and music starts blaring. I feel that shit in my hips, so I let the music and the euphoria take me.

It’s not every day you save a goal like that.

When I look up, I see Sev staring at me like he’s drunk. Like he’s been hit over the head and is struggling to stay on his feet. The rest of the players are looking elsewhere, pointing and cheering. I follow their gaze to the Jumbotron, and there’s Ben.

Ben Stirling, larger than life.

Ben Stirling, wearing a Blackeyes jersey and a huge smile. He’s punching the air and yelling, and beside him, Luca is jumping on the spot, screaming.

Luca realizes they’re on the big screen first. He tugs at Ben’s sleeve and points .

Ben smiles down at Luca, ruffling his hair, and then turns to the man next to him.

My heart starts to pound.

There’ve been rumors about this. Rumors from reliable sources. Sources like Bryce, who’s close to Ben and knows things like this. Still, there are some things you don’t believe until you see them, and this is one of those things.

The scared boy inside me trembles.

The scared boy inside me hopes.

As always, Ben doesn’t waver. He leans down, taking his partner in his arms, and kisses him full on the mouth. It’s no peck either. It’s a Hollywood kiss. A fairytale kiss playing out in real time.

His partner’s cheeks turn bright pink from the effort, and the smile on his lips unseals the kiss.

When it’s done, when the kiss is over, Ben finds the camera the way he always used to.

Easily and with total assurance. He finds it and stares it down, holding the attention of every person in the arena for a second.

Then he raises his chin slightly. It’s an up-nod.

A relic from the old days. A throwback to the hockey ritual he was famous for.

More than that, it’s an act of defiance .

It’s a big man, a powerful man, a hockey legend, saying this is me, take it or leave it .

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Sev thump his heart with his right hand and extend his forefinger to Ben in the stands.

The roar of the crowd is deafening.

The last few minutes of the game pass in a blur, mercifully requiring little of me.

When the buzzer sounds, tears are streaming down my face.

Tears for fourteen-year-old me and what it would have meant to that version of myself to look up and see my hero on the big screen at a hockey game, kissing a man.

Tears for kids like I was, who need time to figure themselves out and find it hard to do it.

Tears for everyone out there who doesn’t believe their story deserves a happy ending.

Players from both sides skate over to me, Blackeyes forming a haphazard line and dipping their heads one by one, as they tap their helmets against mine. Vipers high-five me or tap my shoulder.

I offer my hand to Robbie McGuire when he approaches, and he takes it, groaning and shaking his head in mock disgust.

“That was some save, goalie,” he concedes.

“Don’t worry, baby,” says Decker, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “We’ll crush ’em in the playoffs.”

“You can try,” I say pleasantly.

Before they skate off, Decker raises a hand to his mouth, biting down on one of the fingers of his glove and pulling it off.

He holds his hand out to McGuire, and they share a quick smile.

It’s something Decker has done at the end of every game they’ve played since they came out.

As always, McGuire takes it, laughing, as they skate off the ice hand in hand.

Ben and Luca are waiting for us when we get to the locker room. Ben introduces everyone to his partner, Jeremiah. I like him instantly. He looks a little shell-shocked, but he’s doing his best to take the events of the day in his stride. Luca, as always, is in top form.

“Luca!” I cry as he flies into my arms. “Buddy, I missed you.”

“I missed you too, T-Dog.” I know I say I don’t like my team nickname, but when Luca Stirling says it, I don’t mind it. The way he says it is so cute. So sincere. He says it as though it’s my real name, without a hint of irony or humor.

“What happened to you?” I say. “How’d you get so tall? You were yea high and now look at you?”

“Well,” he says earnestly, “we’ve been eating a lot of ice cream, and it doesn’t affect my appetite at all, so I eat all my normal food as well. I think that’s what’s making me so big.”

Ben holds up a hand, looking sheepish, and says, “We eat a perfectly normal amount of ice cream. No more, no less.”

Jeremiah shakes his head somberly. “We eat way more ice cream than normal.”

I’m not a hundred percent sure what they’re on about, but I’m here for it.

“Great game, guys,” says Ben as players gather around him.

“Seriously, you were on fire. That was unreal. I was on my feet for most of it.” He pauses and looks at Jeremiah.

Something passes back and forth between them, and Ben smiles in a way I haven’t seen him smile for years.

“I had a really good time watching you play.”

Other players pepper Ben with questions, so I turn to Jeremiah. “What about you? Did you enjoy the game?”

“Yeah, I did. I, er, I don’t usually watch hockey unless I’m watching a rerun of one of Ben’s ga…um, older games, you know?”

“Ah,” I say as though that makes sense.

“Basically, I’m a huge hockey fan who happens to prefer watching vintage games on TV. But this was nice too! ”

Ben chuckles and puts an arm around Jeremiah’s waist. They look at each other, eyes glazed over, and it’s hard to decide who looks more whipped.

I’m on a high by the time Sev and I get home.

The adrenaline from the game has mingled with the impact of seeing Ben and Jeremiah on the kiss-cam.

Victory and the promise the playoffs hold have fizzed into a froth that’s gone straight to my head.

I’ve had a glass of champagne, and people are calling my save one of the greatest saves of all time.

I’m with Sev, and he’s wearing a suit, and I love him so much that I’m singing “Dream Weaver” at the top of my lungs.

Maximum volume has been engaged, and a whisk from the kitchen is being used as a mic.

Sev is doubled over laughing and looking at me like something he wants to eat.

“What do you want to do with our time off, handsome?” I ask between choruses.

We have a few days off before the playoffs begin, and I’m feeling generous.

And romantic as hell. I’m in the mood to spoil my man.

“Where do you want to go? Name the place, and I’ll take you there.

I’ll charter a flight. Paris? Rome? Santorini?

Say the word, and it’s done. I’ll take you there. ”

“Oh Jesus,” he says, prying the whisk out of my hand and putting it down on the kitchen counter .

“Hey! I need that.”

“What for? ’Cause I’m warning you, my heart can’t handle another seduction.”

“The seduction’s over, baby. You’re mine now. Nothing you can do about it. We’re at the steady, settled part of our relationship now, where we’re disgustingly happy and every now and then, I sweep you off your feet. That’s right. You heard me. Imma sweep you off your feet, big boy.”

I expect him to roll his eyes or laugh, or maybe spank me a little. He doesn’t. He goes still instead. Serious and sincere. “You already did that, Tee.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. A while back. A long time ago. My fate was decided years ago. In a nightclub in New York, by a little shit, wearing a top he should never, ever have left the house in.”

“I still have that top, d’you know that?”

His eyes flutter closed and he makes a pained sound.

“Tell you what,” I say brightly. “I’ll pack it for our trip. Where d’you want to go? I’m serious. We can go anywhere you want to go.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere, Tee,” he says as he takes me into his arms and pulls me close. He bows his head, planting his lips against my jugular. “I’m already exactly where I belong.”