Page 8 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Back in fantasy land, I’m reaching between Fallon’s trembling thighs and slipping two fingers inside her. She gasps, thrusting her hips forward. She wants more of my touch. She fucking needs it, and she’ll get it.

But not yet.

Sliding my fingers out of her, I lift them to my lips and suck them greedily into my mouth. My eyes catch on the camera, making me realize I let my chin dip into the frame while I was so distracted by the porno playing in my mind.

I’m still jacking myself, still moaning, and my hand hasn’t left my dick. But the camera staring back at me shows my pouting lower lip.

Fuck it. I’ll cut it.

That issue resolved, I lose myself fully in the fantasy. My eyes shutter closed because this moment, imaginary though it fucking is, is too intimate to be shared with the masses.

I picture Fallon shifting, her body moving over mine as she straddles me. What little patience she has is spent, and she fucking knows I’ll stay up all night just to please her, so she’s primed and fucking ready for orgasm number one.

She’s settled across my hips, my dick standing at attention at the entrance of her pussy.

Before I suit up and thrust inside her, though, I’m going to make her come so damn hard.

In reality, I’m stroking myself with a firm grip, my thumb gliding over the swollen head of my cock after every upstroke.

But in my mind, that same thumb is parting her folds and covering her clit.

I rub firm, tight circles over the bud again and again.

Her legs are shaking, and mine are, too.

Her head thrashes from side to side and somehow I know that’s a sign that she’s close.

I don’t change a goddamn thing. I’m chasing her orgasm as much as I’m chasing my own. My balls tighten and, in my lust-fogged brain, her lips part. I brace myself for the crashing waves of my climax to take over.

There’s a crash, but it’s not my ecstasy.

It’s loud and sharp.

Shit. So much for me being the only one home.

At first, I pause, thinking maybe Liza “accidentally” dropped Blue’s VitaBlend mixer, the one he’s always leaving dirty in the sink .

Or maybe Hazel, his fancy-ass cat, got herself stuck somewhere.

But then there’s a bang and a bump, and about half a dozen shouts of “Fuck you!”

What the hell?

Resigned to the fact that an orgasm isn’t in my immediate future, I stop recording, grab my phone, and throw on a pair of sweats. I learned my lesson with all that damn glitter.

I fly down the stairs to see Mickey and Wagner squaring off in the kitchen, the center island the only thing keeping them from tearing into each other.

I notice Mickey’s white-knuckled grip on the marble, like he’s doing his best to calm down.

But that’s a tall order, especially because Dutton’s not holding himself back. If anything, he’s poking the damn bear.

There’s a pile of porcelain shards on the tile floor and based on the apples and bananas strewn on the floor, it’s safe to say somebody knocked over the big-ass fruit bowl. That accounts for the crash I heard.

As for the bumps and bangs? Well, these two are squaring off like fighters in a ring, so I either need to sell tickets to the show or get them to lay off each other.

I don’t know Wagner, or what makes him tick, so I start with my teammate. I guess they’re both technically my teammates, but if this animosity gets any worse, that might not be true much longer. “Take it easy, Mickey,” I soothe, trying to get him to look me in the eye.

“Yeah, listen to your buddy,” Wagner taunts, making a bad situation worse. “Take it easy. Better yet, calm the fuck down and focus, for Christ’s sake. If you weren’t bouncing off the walls, who knows, you might actually play a decent game of hockey. ”

Mickey lets go of the counter and when I move to block him, he rounds the other corner. Shit .

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Wagner?” he asks, and I can tell he’s doing his best not to flip out. “You walk in here like you own the damn place, but this is our team. If you want a spot, if you want to be respected, you have to earn it.”

Wagner barks out a laugh. “Your team? Get the fuck out of here. This team has no ownership, no leadership, not anymore. And don’t think I give a shit, because I don’t.

I’m a damn good hockey player and I don’t need anyone to pump me up in the locker room or remind me about conditioning, and I sure as fuck don’t want to sit around and make friendship bracelets or braid each other’s hair or what-the-fuck-ever.

Blue and I are here to play hockey. We’re here to win games. Nothing else matters.”

Mickey’s already shaking his head before Dutton’s done with his little speech. “You need to act like a?—"

“No, Mouse, I don’t. My job is to score and in case you haven’t fucking noticed, that’s what I’ve been doing at every practice and every scrimmage.

I’m not the problem,” Wagner declares. “You’re all so damn butthurt that Blue and I are here that you can’t even see how much you need us.

You think two transfers from a community college could do what we’re doing?

Two freshmen could own the ice the way we do?

No, they fucking couldn’t. Face it, boys.

You need us. And until you realize that, things are just gonna get worse. ”

I can feel the anger vibrating off Mickey in waves. “That makes no sense. You’re the ones who need us. You wouldn’t have a team to play on if?—”

Wagner smirks. “It’s funny you think so, Mouse.”

I watch rage bloom in Mickey’s face as Wagner drops the nickname. He just stands there, hands at his sides, relaxed as anything. Like he’s looking out at the fucking ocean or something. But he isn’t. He’s baiting Mickey and it’s fucking working.

I brace my arm against Mickey’s chest, momentarily surprised by how much stronger he’s gotten. If I hadn’t intervened, there’s no doubt he’d have wiped that smug look off Wagner’s face and probably given him a shiner, too.

Chuckling, Wagner turns and walks out of the room. After a few tense seconds, Mickey’s breathing returns to normal as he bends to pick up the largest shards of porcelain. I head to the closet for a broom—because we have one of those now—and shake my head.

Coach was wrong. This team doesn’t need a captain. We need a damn referee.