Page 4

4

holky

Dog wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t have much. It took all of ten minutes to check him out of the Westin and toss his luggage into his old, banged-up Ford Escort. Thirty minutes later, we pulled into my driveway in Wanakah, south of Buffalo.

He stopped cold as soon as we stepped inside the house, and his jaw actually dropped. His gaze swept over the foyer, taking in the vaulted ceiling, white oak paneling, and natural light pouring through the clerestory windows. Dog looked like he’d stepped into Oz.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, moving forward like he was afraid the house might vanish. He ran a hand over the curved edge of the staircase leading downstairs. “This place is incredible.”

“Thanks.” I dropped his bags on the floor and joined him. “Bought it two years ago. It’s pretty far from the practice facility, but I wanted some space, and I love living right by the lake.”

He wandered deeper, following the open line of sight into the great room. “Holy shit,” he said again, like the first one hadn’t covered it.

I led him into the living space. “The kitchen is over there to the left, and the bedrooms are down the hall on the right.”

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the clean lines, low-slung furniture, and wall of glass that opened to the deck and the lake beyond. “Jesus. This is next level.” He looked at me, eyes as wide as moons. “I wish I could have a place like this someday.”

“You will,” I said, nudging his arm. “You’re playing in the NHL now. Your salary multiplied by about ten, didn’t it?”

“More like thirteen.” He turned to me with a wide-eyed look. “What the hell am I supposed to do with all that? Open a savings account?”

I bit back a laugh because I remembered being in his shoes not all that long ago. Signing with the Warriors had wrecked my nervous system, and if Gabe hadn’t practically dragged me to his investment firm, I might’ve opened a savings account too.

“Have you talked to your folks?” I asked. “Run all this past them?”

He hesitated. “My parents died when I was little, and my nana raised me. She’s an amazing woman. Lives in Ithaca.”

“Does she know any money people?”

“Fuck no. It was all she could do to buy my hockey gear growing up.”

Who knew what kind of agent he had, so I slid my hand down his back. “Don’t worry, bud. I use a great investment firm, and I’ll arrange for us to go see them. Believe me, you’ll do a lot better than the tenth of a percent you’d make on a savings account.”

The crease between his brows relaxed, and I looked him over. His shoulders seemed even broader now, and in the soft light, his face looked younger. His eyes were beautiful—big and dark brown, a few shades deeper than his shaggy hair. He glanced around, distracted, and for a heartbeat, I thought… hell, I don’t know what I thought.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twenty-four last month. You?”

“Twenty-six. Old enough to know better.”

He tilted his head. “Better than what?”

“At least half the goddamn things I do.”

“Makes two of us, then. Sounds like we’re in for a lot of fun.”

“Think you’re right.” I checked my watch. “Hungry? It’s past lunchtime.”

His face brightened. “I could eat a fucking cow.”

“A man after my own heart.” I patted his back and led him toward the kitchen. “Come with me, bud. I may not have a cow, but there’s plenty of food.”

We feasted on meatball subs and the remains of an Italian chopped salad I’d made the night before. Once we were stuffed, I led him to the basement. The only thing I didn’t like about the house was how the stairs led straight into the laundry room.

“This is… uh… the laundry.”

He began a smirking, painfully slow inspection of every gadget and knob. Finally, he deadpanned, “Nice. This is one heck of a washer and dryer you’ve got.”

“Yeah, stainless steel. High efficiency and all.”

Shit. Kill me now.

His eyes twinkled as his chin started to wobble. Seconds later, a laugh burst out of him and bounced off the walls. I bristled at first—being the punchline of his joke wasn’t the highlight of my day—but when he doubled over clutching his stomach, his high-pitched chuckle broke me. He got a goofy, scrunched-up look on his face when he laughed, which made me crack up. Soon, I was bent at the waist and gasping for air too.

After he composed himself, he shook his head. “The fuck, Holky? You sounded like you were on one of those home shows blabbering about your fancy washer and dryer. It’s nice, but…” His words trailed off, and he chuckled again.

“Fuck you.” Though I tried to glare at him, I couldn’t help smiling. “Just for that, I shouldn’t show you the rest of what’s down here.”

He put on another snarky grin. “What else do you have? Bet it’s the latest model high efficiency furnace.”

“Laugh it up, moron. You’ll be thrilled about my geothermal heat pump system when the snow hits next week.”

He pressed a fist against his mouth and gave an exaggerated cough, but he couldn’t hide the way his shoulders were shaking. “I’m… sure it’s…” He cleared his throat and put on the best serious expression he could—which wasn’t serious at all. “I’m sure it’s very nice .”

I placed a hand on his back and playfully shoved him toward the door on the other side of the room. “All right, smartass. Prepare yourself, because you’re about to be begging for forgiveness.”

I gestured for him to go in first, and by the time I caught up, he was swiveling his head like it was mounted on a turntable.

“What the actual fuck ?” He turned in a slow circle. “Bowling lanes? Game machines? And how big is that TV?”

“That’s no ordinary TV, bud.” I strutted to the center of the room and began pointing at things. “What you’re witnessing is a state-of-the-art Sony laser projector teamed with a 106-inch screen.” I held out my arm toward another wall. “This TV is only 98 inches, but it has all the latest tech. To top it off, I have more channels than you could ever watch, every sports package under the sun, plus…” I pointed at each one as I called them out, “PlayStation, Xbox, Nintendo, an old Wii, a vintage Atari, and—as you already noticed—pinball, air hockey, foosball, Galaga, Pac-Man, Centipede, and Gauntlet.”

“Holy fuck!”

“I’m not finished yet. There’s also a mountain of board games, a huge movie collection, a fully stocked wet bar, seating so comfortable she’ll want to fuck on it, and enough room for the whole goddamn team to watch Sunday football.”

Dog’s eyes were wide. “How do you find time to play hockey?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I was too busy recovering from the jolt that shot up my spine when our eyes met. After a few beats, I cleared my throat. “Well, sacrifices have to be made, but…”

“But what?”

“We’ll enjoy ourselves down here. Don’t worry.”

He tilted his head. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I…” What the hell was wrong with me? I took a deep breath and ignored how my pulse was pounding in my ears. “Got a little lightheaded. I’m fine.”

I stepped toward him, wondering if I was about to have a stroke. If so, I’d better show him where his room was. He’d need to rest at night so he could take care of me during the day. “Let’s head upstairs and get you unpacked, but first, one more thing.”

I slapped my hand against a side door, grinning like a villain about to reveal my secret lair. “Prepare yourself because the next room is legendary.”

“There’s more ?”

“Oh yes, my friend.” I pushed the door open and smiled. “You will note how the lights came on automatically because this room knows I’m a badass.”

Dog stepped inside and froze. “What the hell?”

“Welcome to Holky’s Center for Athletic Excellence.” I swept my arm like I was unveiling a new planet.

He walked forward, and his head moved in jerky fits and starts as he tried to take everything in.

“Not gonna lie, this is quite the place,” I said. As I had in the game room, I pointed at things, feeling a bit like a flight attendant showing where the emergency exits were. “Rubber mat flooring—and note the turf strip down the middle. Over there are racks of dumbbells. You will keep them arranged in their beautiful gradient from baby weights to NFL-lineman ridiculous.”

“This is better than most commercial gyms I’ve been to.”

I gave what I hoped was a playful scoff. “ Dude , we are professional athletes.”

“This professional didn’t even know it was possible to have something like this in a house.”

I resumed the tour, walking around this time. “Over here are several of the finest cardio machines to accommodate mood, needs, and guests. There are two Peloton exercise bikes, a treadmill—also Peloton, a STEPR Pro stair climber, and a Cybex arc trainer.”

Since Dog was checking things out on his own, I didn’t mention the punching bag, squat rack, or mounted Samsung TV that was programmed to tune itself to the NHL Network.

“Is that a sauna?” he asked, pointing at the glass door across the room. “And a—holy shit, a freaking cold tub?”

I nodded solemnly. “You know it, man. I suffer for greatness.”

“You’ve got a whole spa in there.”

“Not quite, but to round things out, there’s a hot tub upstairs, out in the garden.”

“Shit. I’m surprised the guys aren’t over here twenty-four seven.”

“They’re around quite a bit. Now, over here…” I led him across the room to the shooting pad. “I had this installed last summer.”

“You practice in here?”

“Got to keep the hands silky.” I grabbed a stick, stepped onto the synthetic ice, and snapped a puck at the net. It rang off the crossbar and came back at us.

Dog jumped, but I snagged the puck out of the air like a ninja. “Reflexes of a jungle cat.”

He stared at me, then broke into another laugh. “You are such a showoff.”

“You’re impressed, huh?”

He shook his head but didn’t lose his smile, so I handed him the stick to take a few shots.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he said, then put a puck squarely in the net.

I backhanded his arm. “Careful, Dog. If you hang out in here too long, you’ll end up jacked and gorgeous like me.”

He snorted. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I should show you where you’ll sleep before you start deadlifting furniture.”

Dog’s room was on the main level, down the hall from mine, and we each carried a suitcase. After we set them down, he nodded in appreciation. “This is nicer than any room I’ve ever had. It’s big, and I’ve got my own TV.”

“Yep. It’s hooked up to all the cable channels, but if you want to play video games, you’ll have to go downstairs.” I pointed to a door on the far wall. “You have your own bathroom right in there.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

I sat on the bed and patted the spot beside me. “Try this. It’s the same mattress I have in my room. You’ll sleep like a log.”

“No doubt. I’m good at catching the Zs.” He sat beside me, bounced a few times, and lay back. “Goddamn. How do you get up for morning skates?”

“It’s a problem sometimes, to be honest.” I flopped backward and chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to get you up.”

“Be prepared. You might have to resort to extreme measures.”

“Whatever it takes. I’m not shy, and extreme measures are my specialty.”

We both relaxed, and for a while, the only sounds were our breathing and the occasional hum of a car passing outside. It was good having Dog in the house. Hopefully, he’d be a cure for the loneliness that had weighed me down for too long.

Fuck, I would have to think about this now. Last spring, I dated a woman named Amanda for a few weeks during the playoffs. By the time the Warriors made the finals, our relationship had already passed its expiration date— relationship being a euphemism for going on a few dates and fucking a lot. I’d never had anything real, nothing built on caring or wanting to spend more than a few hours together at a time. And I’d sure as hell never experienced anything resembling commitment. When a woman started making noises about exclusivity or introducing me to her family, I was out.

That was how I’d always wanted it. Relationships meant investing in someone. You got used to each other, started to expect things, and bam —before you knew it, you were counting on them. I’d been down that road with family, and all it got me was a drug-addict mother who took off the summer after fourth grade, and a father who was the all-time champion of conditional love. He specialized in my-way-or-the-highway ultimatums and beatings bad enough to land me in the hospital. He went off to jail the summer before I left for college, and I hadn’t seen him since.

After we won the Cup last June, the team celebrated at Revolution Hops, and Amanda came along. I drank too much, so most of the night was a blur, but I remembered seeing her kiss another guy at the bar. Technically, it should have been fine, since I didn’t do commitments. But I could still feel a stab in my gut as I ordered another beer.

Since she didn’t leave with the other man, I took her home and fucked her like it might quiet whatever was clawing at me. It didn’t. I woke up hours later, knowing I couldn’t keep living like that.

I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want to be with anyone either, not if it meant opening myself to things I had no faith in. I was tired of cycling through women whose names I barely remembered, using sex to try to cover up loneliness. Things with girls never lasted because I never let them. Going our separate ways was almost always my choice, but that didn’t seem to matter. I was lonely with them, and I was lonely without them.

That morning, while Amanda was in the shower, I made coffee and had a travel mug waiting for her. She got the usual speech: “You’re great, the sex is awesome, but I’m not built for this.” She insinuated I’d been leading her on—completely false; she said she could have gone out with a lot of other men instead of me—undoubtedly true. When I said I’d seen her kissing the guy at Revolution Hops, she flushed and muttered something about her not being ready to settle down either. I called her an Uber, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and watched her walk out the door when the car arrived.

Then I took a cup of coffee out to the garden and let myself cry, something I hadn’t done in years. That day, I swore off dating, not forever, but until I could get myself together and figure out what I needed. Since the only good thing I’d ever gotten from dating was sex, I’d have to rely on my right hand until I met someone I actually wanted to be with.

So yeah, maybe Dog and I would be good for each other. He was new and needed a friend, and I already felt comfortable around him. I could use a new buddy too. Riley and I had been close when he first joined the Warriors, but things cooled after I stopped using women to avoid my issues. He was a serial skirt-chaser and had a way of vanishing for days at a time without a word. With Dog, I hoped for something more solid—a real friendship with no disappearing acts.

Dog’s leg jerked beside me. He’d gotten so quiet I’d wondered if he was asleep, but when I turned my head to look, he was staring at me with his big bright eyes. I could see the wheels turning in his head. “What?” I asked. “Penny for your thoughts?”

He curved his lips into a lazy grin. “Thank you for letting me stay here, Holky. I’ve been in a weird place, so it’ll be nice living in a real house with someone low-pressure.”

“Same. I’m glad to have you here.” I squinted at him. “Clean up after yourself, though. Don’t let me find your dirty socks around, and you’d better put your dishes in the dishwasher.”

“No worries.” He was still smiling, which helped me relax. Yep, a good buddy was exactly what I needed.

We lay like that until I started getting sleepy. It was either curl up for a nap or do something productive, so I poked him in the arm.

“Let’s get you settled so you don’t feel like you’re still in a hotel. What would you like to do tonight? We could go out, or we could have dinner delivered and stick around home.”

“We don’t have morning skate tomorrow, right?”

“No, only your welcome lunch. We’ll skate on Saturday since it’s game day.”

He hesitated before asking, “Do you think Coach will really leave me on the first line?”

“One thing Criswell never bullshits about is hockey,” I said. “He wouldn’t have told you that if he didn’t mean it, so unless you fuck up something big on Saturday morning, you’ll be out there with Harpy and Richie.”

He nodded. “Then why don’t we go out tonight? I’ll want to be extra sharp for Saturday, so maybe we can hang out and play games tomorrow.”

“It’s a plan.”

We dragged ourselves off the bed, and he hoisted a suitcase onto the bench against the wall. I snorted when he opened it. “What a fucking mess. Tell me you know how to pack better than that. You’re in The Show now, and looking decent on the road is part of the job.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t realize I was unpacking in front of the patron saint of luggage.”

“Damn right. Look at this disaster.” I picked up a lone sock peeking out from under a shirt. “Is this even clean?”

He shrugged.

“What did you do? Throw everything in the air and see where it landed?”

He scoffed, then snatched the sock away from me. “I pack the same way I play—fast and a little reckless. And unlike you, I don’t need to color-code my jockstraps.”

“Fuck off. I can see packing lessons are in order.”

“Some other time. I need to put this stuff away.”

Feeling a bit silly, I pointed out the dresser and closet. We bantered while he found places for everything, and when he took his toiletry kit into the bathroom, I glanced down and noticed his underwear was still in the suitcase. He wore boxer briefs, like me, but his were nothing like mine. I stuck to basic colors—black, gray, and navy—but Dog walked on the wild side. Bright colors, contrasting waistbands, and… damn, were those cartoon characters?

I reached for a neon blue pair with a cat and mouse on it and held them up. The cat was chasing the mouse, and their little faces were frozen in over-the-top mayhem. I snorted. Of course Dog wears funny boxers.

I looked at them for a bit, and then, in a moment of unthinking madness, I sniffed them. It was a casual, absentminded lift to my nose. They smelled like fabric softener, but was there a trace of something else, a little of him? Or was I imagining it? My brain short-circuited.

Shit! What the almighty fuck was I doing? Since when have I been an underwear sniffer? And a guy’s underwear, for God’s sake. Even worse, I was wondering if they smelled like him. How the hell would I even know, since I didn’t go around sniffing guys? Well, sometimes in college we’d messed with a teammate to make him paranoid, but this was different.

Am I losing my mind?

My heart damn near punched its way out of my chest. I forgot to breathe, then over-corrected and started hyperventilating. My fingers tingled as a string of words looped through my brain, my personal litany of shame. I sniffed his shorts. I sniffed his shorts. Fuck me, I sniffed his goddamn shorts.

What was next in my descent into depravity? Would I stick my nose between his cheeks and sniff his ass?

“Holky? Do you have any cotton balls?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. As he approached, black spots appeared in front of my eyes, and I froze. What the hell? Would he be able to sense what I’d done? Was there a secret pheromone crime scene detector I didn’t know about?

I needed to drop the boxers back into the suitcase . Easy, just let them fall.

Did I do that? Of course not. Because I’m a moron.

Instead, in the dumbest, sickest, most illogical thing I’d ever done, I stuffed them under my hoodie and shoved them into my sweatpants.

“Oh, you’re here. I thought you’d left.”

I jerked my head around to see him. “Um… I… No.” I’d have probably kept muttering if my voice hadn’t cracked.

He laughed. “Holky? You look like I caught you jerking off.”

“No.” I meant to say more, but then his underwear poked into my belly, and I stayed quiet.

“Do you have any cotton balls I could borrow?”

“Yes. I’ll get them.” Thank you for this chance to escape.

Since the cotton balls were in my bathroom, I stopped in the bedroom long enough to catch my breath. After glancing at the door to confirm he hadn’t followed me, I took his boxers out and looked at them again. Stupid cat and mouse. I tossed them into my underwear drawer and went to find his balls.

* * *

Still buzzing after my underwear theft, I left Dog to finish unpacking and retreated to the safety of my room. In a move straight out of Riley’s dramatic playbook, I closed the door, stripped to my shorts, and flung myself on the bed. Determined not to think about stealing another man’s boxer briefs, I found my tablet and tried to read. Though many in the league would dispute it, I was in fact literate, but today, even my favorite spy novel wasn’t doing it. I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the dresser, a little worried Dog’s boxers might burn right through the wood like radioactive contraband.

I gave up reading and powered on the TV, hoping it would get my mind off the larceny, but it didn’t work. What the hell had possessed me to take those dumb shorts, anyway? I was never interested in other guys’ underwear. I’d never touched any except in college when we’d sometimes help ourselves to each other’s things if we got behind on laundry.

Scrolling through my phone didn’t distract me any more than reading or TV had. Dog’s boxers were sucking all the oxygen out of the room. They were probably expanding, swelling bigger and bigger until the dresser drawer would burst open and send them flying out in a massive explosion. Dog would come running to see what happened and catch me red-handed; even I wouldn’t be able to make up an explanation for doing something like this.

I was clearly not cut out for a life of crime.

Maybe if I looked at the boxers, I could figure out why they fascinated me so much. Then, mystery solved, I could sneak into his room, put them in his dresser while he showered, and pretend it never happened. It was a solid plan, so I got up and brought the underwear back to bed.

It was a normal brand, nothing fancy. The fabric was neon blue cotton, and the cat was chasing the mouse. On closer inspection, it wasn’t the same scene repeated. Instead, there were three: a grinning cat chasing a terrified mouse under a birdcage, a laughing cat chasing a sweating mouse beside a fishbowl, and an eye-rolling cat halfheartedly tailing a mouse who was now the one laughing under the birdcage.

What the fuck was so special about them, anyway? While I thought about it, I sniffed them again. Fabric softener, like the first time. Then, before I realized what I was doing, I held them against my cheek. The cotton was soft, almost luxurious, and I…

Holy shit! I rubbed another guy’s boxers on my face. Do I need to have my brain examined?

With a shaky breath, I accepted my fate: I was a full-blown pervert, at least for the day. I inspected the shorts again. Dog’s drawers. Did he wear them often? Work out in them? Lounge around the house? God, did he wear them on dates?

As if I hadn’t already done it twice, I lifted them for yet another sniff, purely in the name of science. Clean as hell, yet somehow there was a little bit of Dog. I looked inside the pouch where his cock and balls would go. Dick here. Balls here. I poked the spots, as if physically marking them would deactivate whatever the hell had me so interested.

The room had gotten hot, so I kicked off my boxers. And then the idea came to me. After looking around like there might be hidden cameras in the room, I touched my dick with Dog’s underwear. Mm, soft. I did it again, and then again. Shit, I got hard. In fact, I was more than hard; I was goddamn erect as hell.

Before I knew it, I’d put his boxers on and started squeezing my cock through the soft fabric. It felt damn good. Figuring a little more couldn’t hurt, I gave myself a few jerks—which developed into a pattern—and then kept doing it until there was a big wet spot on Dog’s underwear. My precum had soaked through another man’s shorts. Fucking hell.

I was so hard the underwear was strangling me, so I pulled my dick through the fly. The freedom was exhilarating. I was too horny to stop, so since I had to wash them anyway, I gave in and started jerking off for real. My right hand flew up and down my shaft while I fondled the cotton fabric with my left.

Jerking off in Dog’s underwear was hot as hell. He’d probably done the same thing while wearing them. It was almost like he was here with me, and though I sure as fuck didn’t want to jack off with him, imagining him doing it—his big dick jutting out at a crazy angle like mine—was hotter than blazes.

Wonder what he thinks about when he gets off?

My mind raced. I tried to focus on memories of fucking some girl, but I couldn’t think of anyone specific, and vague images of female anatomy weren’t cutting it.

Dog’s a stud. How long’s it been since he fucked someone? I jerked harder. I’m close. I won’t last much longer.

Now, which girl am I fucking? She’s really wet, and I’m…

Images of Dog played in my head. He’s naked, ready for a shower, still a little sweaty from practice. Standing under the water while it sluices down his body and runs over his dick. Jesus, while it trickles over his long, fat cock, and those big juicy nuts.

I jerked faster, about to come.

Hell yes, Dog beats off in these boxers, and I am too.

Goddammit! I came hard, rearing up off the bed and chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck” with every spurt.

When it was over, I collapsed in shock, panting for breath, still squeezing my dick and milking out the last drops. My hand was drenched. I lifted my head, glanced down, and laughed. Thick white ropes had striped my abs, a few stray drops decorated my thighs, and a rogue stream had squirted across the comforter. Dog’s boxers were a full-blown disaster. I chuckled again, wondering if he’d ever made such a big mess on them before.

Doubt—or guilt—began gnawing its way through my post-orgasmic haze. I’d sure as hell never done anything like this before, but it was fine . No one knew, nobody was hurt, and I hadn’t come so hard in a long time.

Tomorrow, I’d do laundry and take Dog’s boxers back to his room.