Page 12 of Phantom Faceoff (Daddies of the League #5)

Chapter Twelve

Zander

Malachi is ignoring me, and it’s making me play like shit.

We’ve lost two games in a row, and I know that doesn’t rest entirely on my shoulders, but that doesn’t make me any less irritable.

“If you don’t get your head in the game, I’m going to body check you,” Micky chirps from the bench beside me.

Yeah, I’m playing like absolute ass , and that’s because I can’t stop myself from scanning the stands. Malachi hasn’t shown up to a single game since the first, and even though I spot Julian right away every time, Malachi is nowhere to be seen.

It’s simple math.

He’s avoiding me.

Ellis plops into the seat beside me and slaps me on the shoulder. “You are shit today, dude.”

I take the bottle of water that’s held out to me and give him the finger.

Micky bumps his own bottle on my knee.

“After the face off,” he says, eyes scanning the ice in rigid concentration, “stay close.”

I quirk my brow, but he’s too busy to notice. Micky is my captain and my best friend; I trust his judgment.

So, I do. I follow him like a hawk. I plow through the other team’s forwards, run the defensemen into the boards. My field of vision narrows to number thirty-one, and for the first time in weeks, my head feels clear.

When the puck finds my stick and a pair of players come crowding around me, I don’t have to search Micky out. I slap the puck with all the force of weeks worth of frustration, and our captain runs with it.

The lamp lights up, the buzzer sounds, and then I’m sandwiched between half the team as they shout and holler across the rink.

I’m a dazed, sweaty mess, and the moment I get to a bench, I’m ripping off my helmet, jersey, and pads.

Hockey has always been a cathartic experience for me, but it’s been a while since I’ve truly lost myself in the game.

“Look at you pulling a W out of your ass,” Ellis says, swinging his jersey over his head with a big grin as he strides to his own bench.

“Right. It’s not like Micky made the shot or anything.”

“You facilitated the hell out of that shot, and you know it,” Micky says, plopping down beside me already stripped to his underwear.

“In a hurry?” I ask, eager to change the subject. The less I have to talk about how crappy I’ve been playing the better. I already got an earful from Coach.

“Parker called. Sounded upset.” And if there’s one thing besides hockey that Micky doesn’t play around with, it’s Parker.

“Let him know if he needs anything, we’re all here for him.” We’ve only met him a handful of times outside a screen, but being as he’s Micky’s person, he’s practically an extension of the team.

“Thanks.” He’s hurriedly throwing on the basketball shorts and tank from his bag, forgoing the shower all together. In the midst of tying his shoes, he pauses and looks up. “If you need anything, you know we’re here for you, too.”

I shrug and put on my signature grin. “I just helped us win the game. What problem could I have?”

The look on Micky’s face tells me he wants to argue, but the worry for his boyfriend wins out. Before half the team is even undressed, Micky is heading up to Coach and making his way out the doors.

We sit through Coach’s speech, then take turns in the showers. I’m one of the last ones in because I couldn’t be bothered to get off my ass. That last quarter was killer on my energy. Not to mention my muscles feel like they’ve been zapped and tweaked like the poor sap in Operation.

I’m in the shower so long the others clear out. Coach hollers a check in—that he’ll be in his office for a little while if I need anything. The water runs cold by the time I shut it off and wrap a towel around my waist.

Hockey isn’t the only thing that suffered this last few weeks. My grade in Music Theory has taken a dip. I’m still passing, but if I don’t kick it into gear soon, that won’t be the case for long.

Every time I’m given an assignment, all I want to do is take it to the record shop and bug Malachi to help me sort it out. Even just bantering back and forth with him makes my brain work better.

I drop down to the bench and pull my phone out of my cubbie only to have my mood dampened even more.

Julian

Can’t meet up. Have paper to finish. Daddy is a jerk.

He threw in some crying and anger emojis that make me smile at his theatrics, but I’m still bummed.

If only Daddy would pay me a visit.

Even thinking it to myself has my skin breaking out into goosebumps.

I’m not an idiot. I’m fully aware that some people get off to being called that in bed. Daddy, Sir, Master . I’ve made my way through some interesting porn videos.

I slept with a girl once who threw a few “Daddies” out during sex, and I was far from a fan.

From her side, though? I can see the appeal.

That doesn’t fit what Malachi and Julian have going on, but that doesn’t stop my brain wandering every time I hear it.

Without the promise of time with Julian—and Micky likely busy on video chat with Parker in our room—it’s hard to find the motivation to get dressed.

How long could I sit here before Coach came and kicked me out?

“Nice towel, Wildfire.”

My head snaps up so hard it sends an ache down my spine. “Malachi.”

There he is, all nonchalant with his awkward fashion—one of those shirts with tank straps but also short sleeve bands hanging down his shoulders—and multicolored hair falling into his eyes.

He’s got his arms crossed, leaning against the row of cubbies across from me.

“Good game,” he says, then furrows his brows. “I think.”

It’s kind of cute the way he comes across like an emo badass yet also a complete dork.

“It was a craptastic game,” I say. “Until the end. We kicked ass at the end.”

One of those rare, genuine smiles comes out to play, and it’s hard not to consider it a personal accomplishment.

“Do you plan on getting dressed?” he asks, and I can see the way his eyes linger before he forces them away.

“I dunno. Where are you taking me?”

He scoffs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Who says I’m taking you anywhere? Maybe I want to have a talk with you and not your dick.”

“Well lucky for you my dick is nice and covered and has no interest in listening.”

He quirks his brow, smile fading into something that more resembles a smirk. “There you go tempting fate, Wildfire.”

Should being called contagiously out of control be a turn on? Because I don’t think it should. Yet here we are with that little spark of arousal lighting up.

“And what fate might that be, Blanchard?”

He steps forward, crossing the room until we’re maybe a foot apart, and I have to crane my head back to see his face.

“Us. Doing something reckless.”

I grin. I can’t help it. Wide and unnerving—I can see the hesitation cross his face.

I like the idea of making him lose his composure.

“Are you calling my state of undress tempting?”

His eyes spring to mine, and then slowly trail down until that spark becomes a flickering flame come to life. There’s a slight tremble to his lip as he licks it and drags it between his teeth.

“You’re overconfident.”

“Am I?” I lean back, making sure every visible part of me is on display. “Tell me you don’t want to kiss me.”

Those gray eyes darken to their stormy shade as he leans forward, gripping the edge of a cubbie. “I can honestly say that kissing you isn’t the thought on my mind right now.”

Oh.

Oh, I like that idea better.

Not that I can say “please get down here and blow me” or “come just a little closer and let me blow you” with how thick my tongue feels as Malachi reaches a hand down and cards it through my hair.

“Sexy,” he says, and it sounds strange coming from his lips, but sensual enough that my body reacts to it.

Normally, I’d lean into it, but the entire scenario is making me a little bit antsy. Like there’s a loose string hanging just out of reach that needs clipped away.

“Oh, are you talking to me? Because you haven’t done that in weeks.”

His brows shoot up, that cocky confidence falters. There’s a few beats where neither of us speaks, but then Malachi tightens his fingers in my hair and lowers himself excruciatingly slowly to his knees.

We’re nearly eye to eye, and his hand drops down to cup the back of my neck. One firm squeeze and my shoulders droop. I hadn’t even realized they were tensed.

Malachi cocks his head, and then his fingers are back to playing, drawing nonsense patterns over my shoulder blades and collarbones.

“Want me to stop?”

Indignation bubbles up in my chest, but Malachi pressing his thumb to the center of my throat and dragging it down … down my sternum to stop at the knot in my towel … it stamps the fight out in an instant.

“No,” I say, quiet and—dare I say—whiny. “I didn’t want you to in the first place.”

There’s instant understanding in his eyes. He’s been thinking about it just as much as I have.

The kiss.

He brings his touch to my waist, just shy of bruising, and I like it more than I care to admit.

“Tell me what you want.”

It’s hard not to laugh, but I hold it back.

“You.”

His breathing comes out quicker. His eyes close for a second.

“Be specific.”

I specifically want us to fuck on this bench.

I don’t say that because I don’t want to scare him away.

I take a deep breath and grip the edge of the bench seat with both hands.

“Kiss me.”

Malachi shudders. He eyes me. Stares for an uncomfortable amount of time. A hand rises to the back of my neck.

“How do you ask?”

Something in me cracks. As he leans closer, holds me tighter, a part of me comes loose.

“Please kiss me … Daddy.”

Surprise flashes in Malachi’s eyes.

Then, something deeper. Something almost primal.

“Good boy.” The words are whispered so quiet, I can almost convince myself I made them up, but the streak of satisfaction they pave in me is all too real.

Malachi closes his mouth over mine, hesitant for only a second before he’s nipping at my lips and taking the tiny gasp I make as permission to thrust his tongue inside.

Our last kiss was somewhat romantic, a deep maroon.

This one is frantic, silver and gold, and black and white.

The little bit of space between our bodies closes. Malachi fits himself between my knees, chest to chest. My growing erection presses into his stomach, but it doesn’t startle him away.

If anything, it encourages him. The kiss deepens, darkens. The hand on my hip slides to my thigh, inching just beneath the towel.

I throw my hands up to grip his sleeves.

Stop. Keep going. Wait

I don’t know what I mean.

His fingernails bite into my thigh, and his mouth pulls from mine. Not far. To my jaw. Kisses a path to my ear.

“I think that’s enough.”

No. Not again.

I open my mouth to protest, but what comes out is an honest to god whimper.

His lips form a smile on my skin. “For now, Wildfire. For now.”

Not forever.

I exhale, and it must be dramatic, because he chuckles. When he pulls away, his cheeks are a deep crimson, and whatever facade he’d put on is peeled away. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and I can’t imagine mine look much better.

“You like it,” I say lowly. “Being called …” I can’t finish because if I do, I might lose myself and ask him to touch me more.

When he breathes out, he rests his forehead on mine, letting out a loud huff. “You liked it, too.”

I did.

I want to ask what that means, and why he’s suddenly okay with this after literal weeks of silence.

But I don’t want to break the moment.

We can dissect these strange new desires later.

Preferably when all the blood in my body flows back to my top head instead of the one straining this comically small towel.

When he kisses me this time, it’s soft. Timid.

My head spins.

Who are you, Malachi Blanchard? And why does wanting you make me want other things , too?