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holky

Blades carved deep into the ice as Montreal swarmed our zone, cycling the puck like demons on a powerplay though we were at even strength. Their passes were crisp, sharp, and relentless. My lungs burned as I tracked them, shoulder to shoulder with Logan, Riley, Abby, and Packy, sticks down, eyes snapping from man to puck to crease and back again.

Two shots had already come in hot, both smothered by Gabe, but if we didn’t break their rhythm soon, it would only be a matter of time before they scored. The Lynx were wearing us down, and the crowd’s tension thrummed in my ears, louder every second.

Then— crack! —Logan read a pass, jumped the lane, and intercepted it clean. Like a rocket, he shot up the left side, and I exploded into motion, flying up the center. Our skates tore up the ice, the sound behind us building as men closed in—some Warriors, some Lynx, all of them hungry.

Logan veered toward the middle, homing in for a shot. I adjusted to give him the lane and be an option if he needed me. We were nearly in the slot when a blue jersey screamed past me. Wind slapped my face as goddamn Ramirez—the Lynx’s star winger—caught up to Logan and lunged. His stick hooked Logan’s, and the puck skittered loose.

The ref’s whistle split the air. Hooking—two minutes for Ramirez. I glanced at our bench, but Criswell didn’t move. No line change, no rest for the wicked.

Adrenaline was still screaming through my veins when we lined up in the circle. Game five, first round, up three-one in the series. One more win, and we’d punch our ticket to the second round, but there was no margin for error against a team like Montreal. Every move counted.

Painter, Montreal’s center, crouched low over the dot, twitchy and coiled like a viper. He struck as soon as the ref dropped the puck, snapping it to his left wing. Fuck. I turned to chase, and the crowd roared in the stands. The whole damn rink blurred as bodies collided, blades screeched, and sticks clattered.

Packy was already on the Lynx winger, cutting him off before he could find open ice. The guy panicked and spun the puck back to Painter, who was bolting toward our zone like he had a rocket strapped to his ass. I pivoted, but Painter was slippery as hell, weaving through the neutral zone with our D closing in from both sides.

Abby cut across and nailed Painter with a textbook shoulder check as he crossed our blue line. It was clean, hard, and beautiful. The puck slammed into the boards and died there, but we all raced toward it like sharks in bloody water.

I got there a split second after Abby, who dug out the puck and peeled off toward center ice. Logan soared up the left side, and I burned it through the middle, shouting for a pass. Abby dumped it forward, where it ricocheted off a Lynx skate to Riley’s stick, and then somehow back to Abby again.

There were no whistles, which meant no room to breathe. This was playoff hockey, and the refs didn’t like to stop the game unless they had to.

Abby threaded a pass to Logan, who tapped it over to Riley with one touch. Riley zoomed toward the slot but found himself boxed in by Painter and a Lynx defenseman. With nowhere to go and maybe half a second to think, he spun and dropped the puck behind him, straight to me.

Everything shifted into slow motion. Painter lunged at me, but I jinked left, cut right, and flew past him. The goalie squared up, and I tensed as a man appeared nearby, only relaxing when I caught a flash of red. I faked high, dragged the puck low, and snapped a wrister so fast my stick stung from the release. The red light flared, and the horn blew air in one long, triumphant blare.

For an instant, the world was pure white noise, then the roar hit me like a tidal wave. Fans leapt to their feet, pounding the glass, screaming themselves hoarse. The whole building shook with the kind of deafening, delirious joy that rattled in my chest and turned my blood into electricity.

* * *

The locker room after the game was mayhem in the best way. Everyone was half-dressed and yelling, trying to be heard over the blasting music. No one had scored in the third period, so our 3–2 lead stood. We’d closed out our series against Montreal and locked down our spot in round two.

When somebody shouted, “Fuck Bethesda,” a chill ran up my spine. We’d be facing the Barracudas in game one in a few days, and I wasn’t looking forward to playing Nick Johnson and his band of brothers. Those guys were still sore because we beat them in last year’s second round, and I had a feeling they were sharpening their skates with our names engraved in the steel.

But that was a worry for another day. Tonight was about victory. Chuck caught my eye from across the room and gave a tiny nod—one of our wordless cues—and I nodded back. Operation Post-Game Chaos was officially greenlit. We’d prepared for it in a comedic series of hand signals and silent trips to buy beer and food, and we followed the same procedure to let the guys know what we were doing. Our traditional “boys only” victory party was on, and Chuck and I were hosting. No one had said a word before tonight, because talking about a victory party before you clinch would be begging for a jinx. That’s how you end up with a loss and a kitchen full of cheese dip you’re too depressed to eat. Tonight, it was Warriors only, and shit was about to get loud.

We hadn’t been home for five minutes when Harpy, Gabe, and Brody arrived. We had everything set up downstairs, and while we sat around enjoying drinks and food, it was Chuck’s place—as the rookie, it really was his job—to bring the new arrivals down. In between, we cuddled up and swapped stories with our friends. Gabe and Brody got into some serious eye-fucking—did they seriously think none of us noticed?—and excused themselves. They went upstairs, but the bathroom they chose was right over where we were sitting, and as only brothers can, we laughed our asses off while we listened to one of them railing the absolute shit out of the other.

“Gabe gives and Brody takes,” Riley said with an air of authority.

Abby shrugged. “Maybe both give and take. None of our business.”

“I can believe it—the Brody taking it part,” Blunt said. “He’s a big D-man and all, but I’m a blueliner too, and I can tell you we have our gentle sides.”

“How the fuck would you know who pitches and catches, Riley?” Nels asked. “Did they give you a front-row seat or something?”

“I know ,” Riley said, “because Brody and I went out drinking one night when Gabe was at an event. Brody had too many martinis and accidentally let it slip.”

Packy looked like someone had told him Earth was flat. “Brody got drunk? I’ve never seen him drunk.”

I couldn’t resist joining in. “Brody’s no saint, my friend. Just between us, they took Harpy and me to dinner last year, and Brody jerked Gabe off under the table in the middle of the fucking restaurant.”

“We know,” Blunt said. “Harpy told us in the group chat.”

“What group chat?” I was confused because I didn’t recall seeing anything about it.

Harpy spoke right up. “You must’ve missed it. Maybe it was a night when you were out with one of your exes.”

“That’s it,” Packy said. “I think I remember that night, back when you were dating the platinum blonde.”

“Probably,” I said, still not convinced. I always read through the group chats I missed.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chuck said, patting my leg. “Want me to jerk you off under a table?”

His lips demanded a little warming up, and while the guys were oohing and aahing, I whispered, “Hell yes, but not with these bastards around.”

A loud thump came from upstairs, followed by a second one and a lot of suspiciously enthusiastic noise. Everything went quiet after that, which made it worse. Since I’d often made the same kind of racket myself, I could only hope they’d wipe down the bathroom before they came back.

When they reappeared, both seemed vaguely put off that we were laughing. Gabe tried for nonchalance, but with his shirt inside out and his lips freshly mauled, it didn’t work. Brody’s cowlick was doing its own walk of shame. Would it have killed him to use a comb?

After we finished most of the food, the room morphed into a war zone. Controllers were passed around, trash talking kicked into high gear, and the Fortnite tournament we’d been nursing for months resumed in full force.

A few months back, Chuck and I had decided it would be fun to play on opposite teams, but I was still a little sad when Gabe declared the teams needed to sit together, and Chuck had to join the scrubs on the other side of the room.

I passed around more beer and surveyed the chaos. The basement looked like a frat house had exploded. Half the guys were sprawled across couches, balancing plates of food on their stomachs; the rest had claimed spots on the floor, surrounded by empty Dorito bags, greasy napkins, and a growing collection of crushed beer cans.

Chuck noticed the mess too. Shaking his head, he got up and made the rounds with two garbage bags, one for trash and one for cans, chirping guys the whole way. “Slobs,” he said as he stepped over Gabe’s outstretched legs and flipped an empty Red Bull can into his bag without breaking stride.

The battle began as soon as we sat back down. We all focused initially, but it didn’t take long for the cursing to begin.

“Fuck you, Logan,” Riley shouted. “If you box me in and set me on fire one more time, I’m rage-quitting.”

“That’s called tactics, sweetheart,” Logan said, grinning as his avatar launched himself across the screen with a grappling hook. “Try it sometime.”

“Shut up,” Abby said. “You sound like old married couple. People think you are fucking.”

“No way,” I yelled. “I’ve seen what Riley gets up to with the ladies.”

“No more than you used to,” he snapped. I glanced over, and he was shooting me a wicked grin. “You don’t want me telling your secrets, Holky.”

Chuck was sitting next to Riley. “Go ahead. I want to hear all about it.”

“Just play, guys,” Gabe said. “Gossip on your own time.”

For another moment, we paid attention to what we were doing, but soon Logan and Riley were trading jabs again.

Packy snorted. “You play like a narc, Holky. Who even builds in this game anymore?”

“I do,” Logan said, in the middle of erecting a three-story panic tower. “And it works.”

“Oh my God, he trapped me in a porta-potty,” Brody groaned. “He’s spawn-camping the damn bathroom.”

“That’s not spawn-camping, Brodes,” Gabe said through a mouthful of chips. “It’s strategic lavatory control.”

“Shut up,” Brody muttered. “You’re the one who impulse-grenaded me off a cliff last round.”

“I regret nothing.”

Abby cackled as he gunned down Gabe’s character with a gold shotgun. “Sorry, old man.”

“I was trying to change my loadout!” Gabe cried. “Why is the D-pad made for people with toddler thumbs?”

“You are mad because I kill you,” Abby said, flexing like he’d scored a playoff goal.

“Don’t celebrate too hard,” I told him, half-watching the screen as I built a ramp into the stratosphere. “You left your back door open, dumbass.”

“Whose back door is open?” Chuck yelled, sparking several snide laughs.

Abby turned too late, and I sniped him mid-dance.

“You rat.” He tossed a couch cushion at my head. “Idi na khuy.”

“What?” I asked. “I don’t speak Russian.”

Abby glared at me. “Is best way to say ‘fuck you.’”

Nobody laughs like drunk hockey players, and when the noise quieted, Chuck looked around Riley so he could see me. “You’re so proud of that shot, but you built a ramp to nowhere like you’re trying to enter low Earth orbit.”

“The view from on top’s the best,” I said. “Plus, I don’t want to hear it from the guy who fell off the map last game.”

Chuck scoffed. “If you want to know about the view from up high, you’d better ask a guy who actually spends time on top .”

Another round of drunk cackles filled the air.

Harpy’s voice cut through the mayhem. “All of you are trash. I’m in the top three, and I’ve been playing one-handed while holding a baby carrot.”

“That’s because you’ve been hiding in a bush for ten minutes,” Packy shouted. “Get in the game, Captain Coward.”

Harpy jumped out of the bush on screen and took Packy out.

The room erupted yet again, and Packy stood up like he’d been physically wounded. “I have never been more betrayed.”

“You love it,” Harpy said, taking a sip of beer.

I looked around at my amazing, ridiculous teammates—half of them yelling while the rest of us laughed too hard to breathe. We were a mess, but we were a great family.

Fortnite wound down. We were all tired after the game, and all the beer was catching up with us. After everyone wandered around the house looking for an available bathroom to take a leak, we reconvened in the basement. Chuck and I claimed a seat in the back. The room was mostly dark, and no one was sitting on the couch in front of us. Most of the guys were chatting among themselves.

Chuck put a hand on my lap and squeezed my dick. “When we go to bed,” he whispered, “I’m going to fuck you harder than Gabe fucked Brody.”

My hand found its way to his thigh—fair was fair, after all—and when I slid it higher, I was thrilled to find he had a healthy semi going. If I get him hard now, he’ll be insatiable when we go upstairs. His erection grew as I felt along the length. When he widened his eyes, he leaned close and whispered, “Or you could sit on it right here. I don’t think anyone would know.”

“Fuck.”

Before we explored that idea further, I called out. “Does everyone know where blankets and pillows are? Unless you’re Ubering home, you’re staying here. We have three guest rooms and all these couches.”

“This isn’t your first party, Nate,” Gabe said. “We all know the drill, and we have too much ahead to take any chances.”

Guys chimed in their agreement, and except for a few who had to go home to wives, the rest planned to stay. Conversation resumed, but that didn’t stop Chuck from opening my jeans and sliding his hand inside. I gasped when he pulled my dick out and started jerking me. We were quiet while the other guys talked. Chuck knew exactly how I liked it, and every slide and squeeze fanned the inferno growing inside me. If he didn’t stop soon, I’d pass the point of no return.

In my mind, I saw images of Gabe’s face when Brody was jerking him off in the restaurant. I was breathing faster now, and Chuck slowed down, alternating weak squeezes with slow jerks. His body was a perfect sex machine.

“I’m going to shoot all over your hand if you keep that up,” I whispered.

He nibbled my earlobe and then sucked it, continuing those little squeezes and half jerks. It kept me on the edge but wasn’t enough to send me over.

“You want to come, don’t you?” he whispered. “Right here, with the guys only a few feet away?”

I couldn’t say anything because I was busy trying to control my breathing and not moan.

He licked my throat. “You have to decide whether to make any noise. I don’t care if they know what we’re doing.”

I wasn’t sure he meant that, but despite jerking off to the memory for months after I watched Brody get Gabe off in a public place, I wanted this to be private. After what they did tonight, Gabe and Brody were obviously exhibitionists, but I wasn’t ready to join their club.

“I’ll be quiet,” I whispered, trying to thrust into his hand.

He let my dick go. “Let me do this. You’ll come when I decide to let you. If you try to help, I’ll stop.”

I groaned, making Riley turn his head. “You say something, Holky?”

“Just burped.”

Chuck snickered, and when Riley turned away, Chuck jerked me again, harder now. “Relax, sweets,” he whispered. “Want to come for me?”

I nodded.

“Okay. Let go and shoot as hard as you can. Then you can watch me eat it off my hand.”

A low moan slipped out, and I bit it back. My head dropped against the cushions. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe quietly, and then Chuck kissed me—deep and hungry, with his tongue sliding against mine as his hand sped up. Heat surged, sharp and immediate. I was right there. Coming in three… two…

“What the hell’s going on back there?”

Chuck froze at the sound of Gabe’s voice. My eyes jerked open. Because I’d been about to shoot what no doubt would have been a massive load, the pain was real, and I couldn’t contain a groan. Some of the boys were asleep, but too many faces were turned toward us.

Riley—lovable, hateful bastard that he was—grinned. Logan, more decent by nature, rubbed his chin and tried to stifle his chuckle.

“Everything okay?” Harpy asked.

I cleared my throat.

“Do we need another game of truth or dare?” Brody asked.

Chuck came to my rescue. “No, we’re fine. Nate fell asleep and started snoring, so I woke him up.”

“You boys should go to bed if you’re tired,” Packy said.

He was right. If we went upstairs, Chuck could finish me, and I wouldn’t have to be so quiet. But I was the host and needed to stay. “Nah, I’m good now.”

Chuck traced a fingertip up my very hard dick.

“Anyone need anything?” I asked with a shaky voice.

Gabe grinned, the same one he used on the ice to say I’ve got your back . “We know where the beer is. Mind if we put a movie on?”

“Good idea,” I said. “How about The Dark Knight ?”

Thankfully, Gabe found the remote and started the movie. My dick was still out in the open air, and Chuck was fingering it. When I was sure everyone had their attention on Batman, I leaned over and whispered, “Still want to eat it off your hand?”

“Oh yeah. I’m hungry for you.”

I leaned my head back again, and Chuck started jacking me off. He kissed me, and between the hard jerking and what he was doing to my mouth, it didn’t take thirty seconds to get me there. I tapped his leg in warning, and he cupped his free hand over the end of my dick. Except for one harsh grunt into his mouth with the first shot, I stayed impressively quiet.

No one seemed interested in what we were doing anymore, and I tucked myself away while Chuck licked my cum out of his hand. I hummed when he sucked his fingers, and when we kissed, the taste of me was strong on his tongue.

Goddamn. He’d made a fantasy I didn’t even know I had come true.