Page 29 of One-Time Shot

“Deal.”

He beamed. “Corner or middle piece?”

“Corner, please.”

“That’s perfect. I prefer the middle. We can eat the whole pan without either of us being disappointed.”

So…we did.

* * *

Ten days later:

“Do you always lift the stick so high, or do you start at your hip?”

I skated to Malcolm who was white-knuckling the ledge, one foot on the ice, the other on the rubber mat next to the player’s bench. “Come on out, and I’ll show you.”

“No, siree. I’ve sufficiently embarrassed myself enough for one afternoon. I don’t feel like falling again. My ‘you know what’ hurts.”

“Your ass,” I deadpanned.

Malcolm smirked. “Yes.”

And just like that, I had a chubby. I skated to the goal, hoping to regain my composure, but I kid you not, I was unraveling at lightning speeds. A guy could only take so many days of hanging out with his crush before going apeshit bonkers.

Days…

Days of hockey quizzes that turned into heated debates about the possibility of humans inventing warp drive for space travel while chowing on hummus and pita chips. And lots of brownies.

Days of trying not to get caught studying his profile and pretending not to notice that his hair smelled like berries and the forest. Yeah, I know…don’t ask.

Days of texting stream-of-consciousness nonsense—Why don’t more people barbecue in winter? Have you ever made your own hummus?—and grinning like an idiot every time his name popped up on my cell.

This was a weird situation for me. I’d never had any issues getting a date or meeting willing partners, male or female. There was rarely any big discussion involved. A look, a touch, or a well-timed move usually signaled interest.

But Malcolm wasn’t like other people.

He was serious and earnest. He had big goals and a one-track mind. I’d never met anyone as focused and confident in their purpose. Malcolm had a road map built into his brain and a fuckload of patience. I admired him, and I didn’t dare do or say anything that would make him question my intentions.

I hadn’t agreed to this hockey education program with an ulterior motive. Not even close. I’d wanted a distraction, but this one had come with a supersized dose of “be careful what you ask for.”

Yeah, I was distracted all right. Very fucking distracted.

Between us, my dick ached from nightly jack-off sessions with visions of Malcolm on his knees, wrapping his fist around me with one hand and pushing his glasses along the bridge of his nose with the other before swallowing me whole. I’d stroke myself hard and fast, feet flat on the mattress, cupping my balls and teasing my crease till my orgasm caught me unaware. Then I’d resurface, panting, with cum on my chest and fingers, and tell myself that was it…the last time.

It never was. I was so fucking horny, I was losing my mind.

I’d hoped an hour on the ice after practice today would give me space and perspective, but so far that idea had backfired spectacularly.

First of all, Malcolm couldn’t skate for shit. He’d admitted that he hadn’t tried since his hockey fiasco fourteen years ago, but my theory was that he was rusty and nervous. The nervous part was what pulled him horizontal every time. He’d cling to my arm and then my hand, and eat it anyway. I’d help him to his feet only to have him lose his balance and fall all over again.

I didn’t doubt that his butt hurt. I’d bet it was red and cold, and the image of my hands kneading his cheeks did me dirty. So I skated away and hoped like hell I could come up with a Plan B.

“Yo, Jettster! Whatcha doin’ here?” Ty called out, Brady on his heels.

I glided to the boards and greeted my teammates, tipping my chin in Malcolm’s direction. “I’m helping my friend out with a science project. What are you two doing?”

Ty pulled his cell out. “Brady left his shit in his locker. I’m tagging along.”