Page 4

FOUR

Noah

Okay, so I was officially in the Land of Mixed Messages.

Brody Vance—the king of Formula One sexiness and Jemima freaking Wren’s ex—was five feet from me, sending off all kinds of mixed vibes. I wasn’t sure what I was picking up on my gaydar. On the one hand, he was curt as fuck about my being bi, somewhat accepting but super reserved. On the other, his pretty gray eyes kept going to my mouth, which was so not what a straight guy did.

“Noah,” he called my name with a rough purr that made my dick twitch. “Are you involved with someone?”

“Hockey,” I stammered, my gaze locked with his. He had a powerful aura that tempted me to me want to forget that five hundred people—two of whom were my fathers—were on the other side of that door. One corner of his mouth drew up. “I mean…”

“No, I know what you mean.” He held up a hand and twisted it to show a tattoo of a stylized bird on his wrist. I didn’t recognize it, but I guessed it was connected to his racing. “Our sports are our lovers, right? We dedicate our lives to them, and then, out of the blue, they dump us as if we don’t matter.”

Oh-kay. So, the guy had some baggage with an ex by the sounds. Or was he talking about his sudden hiatus from racing?

“Look, I should maybe just finish up here with my sugar and return to the fundraiser,” I said, even as I moved closer to him. He was so fucking cocky, sitting in that armchair like Pacino in Scarface , oozing confidence and masculinity.

“Why don’t you tend to your medical needs first? Then, we can leave. Do you have a hotel room nearby?”

“Y-yes,” I stammered, my grip on my supplies tightening as he nodded, just once, then rose from his seat. I held my ground as he neared, the heady smell of his musky aftershave scrambling my already frazzled brain cells. He got close. His chest and mine were a breath apart, and then, he slid the fingers of his left hand into my hair.

“We should go.” His grip tightened a fraction. My cock swelled despite the sounds of laughter and music ten feet away. I wet my lips. His pupils swallowed all that stormy gray with black.

It had been a long time since I’d been with anyone. Who had time? I was working hard to make sure I made the team. Training camp kicked off the next day. I’d shown myself as an asset in development camp and rookie competitions. I’d won a high percentage of my faceoffs at the rookie tournament a few weeks ago—one of my best skills—and scored four goals. That performance had gotten me invited to the big training camp. I was not going to blow it. I should be heading home to sleep so that I was in good shape for day one of the most important three weeks of my career. Yet, I was already trying to devise an excuse for the parental units to cut out early.

“I think so, yeah,” I replied with a shaky breath.

His mouth met mine then, the tug on my hair pulling me that half an inch required to be tight to him. It was a tentative press of lips to lips. He seemed unsure now, the kiss breaking off as he pulled back a little. Uncertainty flared to life in his gaze.

“I need you to be sure,” he whispered, cupping my cheek to caress the new whiskers as if he’d never felt stubble. “ I need to be sure.”

Reeling a bit, I moved in for another kiss to make sure as he insisted. Pops always said that you never got to Graceland if you didn’t drive your pink Cadillac with bravado. Which was Pops-speak for being shy never got a man on the team. You had to be forward, self-assured, and know what you wanted. Brody stiffened when my tongue traced the seam of his lips, but then, he not only accepted my tease, he devoured it.

He swept into my mouth, his fingers tightening more on my hair as he probed every molar I possessed, his taste was whiskey and heat and sex. I grabbed his jacket, tugging him into me, and he tugged my hair firmly. A sound I didn’t know I could make filled my chest. Not exactly a growl. Not quite a mewl. It was a whimper of pleasure. He moaned gruffly. I released his tux to grab his hips so I could get some friction. He was hard and thick. I met his kiss with a fire I’d never experienced before, and I’d been with some incredibly hot people. Rachel was a gorgeous girl. Pike, one of the guys on my college hockey team, and I had hooked up whenever the mood had struck, and he was fucking stunning. And while I’d been turned on by both of them, it was nothing in comparison to what feeling Brody’s stiff dick rubbing against mine felt like.

“Fuck,” I gasped when we broke for air. He held me in place, his fingers tight in my curls, to stare into my eyes as if plumbing my soul for answers to some universal questions. I had no answers. Shit, I didn’t know my name right now. All I could think about was the hair-trigger I was working to keep from going off. “So what are we doing here?”

Someone had to ask. If we were going to get into some hot frottage, something I was down for, as I loved some steamy frot, somebody here was going to have to lock the door or make a move for the fire exit.

“Your hotel,” he said. I nodded. He rubbed his cheek against mine, murmuring something that sounded like “I never knew,” which was confusing as hell.

Never knew what?

Then, he kissed me again. Slower this time, with a tender touch, his mouth less punishing, his hold on my hair lessening. With his mouth on mine, all sensibility left me. I wiggled a hand between us to palm his cock. Brody came unglued. The sweet little kiss turned into a ravenous exploration of my mouth. We pawed at each other as he steered us expertly—as a race car driver would—against the door. The same door that was the only barrier between us and a slew of rich people doing the hustle. He had his dick and mine freed from our pants before I could catch my breath. Not that I wanted to breathe. Oxygen was overrated. Right now, all I needed was Brody Vance. He fumbled with our dicks. I slapped his hand aside. He pulled my head back, his fingers once more fisting my hair.

“Let me,” I panted as I got our cocks lined up.

He placed his mouth on my throat, inhaled, and then, licked a wet stripe up my neck. His prick was leaking all over, as was mine. I rocked into my fist, my cock gliding up and down beside his. Brody made low, animalistic sounds against my jugular that ratcheted my need to blow a nut up several thousand increments.

“Shit… I… close,” I ground out.

He bucked into my hand, coating my fingers with hot cum. That did it for me. My balls tightened as that white-hot flare at the base of my spine gave me a millisecond of warning before I was spurting as well. He bit down on my throat, the soft burn of his teeth scrubbing my neck, adding to the explosive orgasm. My knees wanted to fold, but I pressed my ass against the door while we both fucked my fist like rabbits. The smell of sex clouded my mind, as did the pulse of our cocks. I twisted free of his hold to find his mouth. Brody kissed me back with wild abandon. His tongue twisting around mine, his hold on my head possessive, perfect. I lapped at his mouth wantonly.

The shrill sound of microphone feedback filled the venue, slicing through the fog of lust we were still bumbling around in.

“Christ,” Brody coughed, stepping back, my hold on his lapel keeping him close. “Christ,” he said again, stumbling away.

I released his jacket. His eyes were wide, and he spun from me to tuck and zip.

“Uhm…” I said as I felt cool air on my sticky dick. Blushing hotly, I stuffed my spent cock back into my briefs, zipped, and let my shoulder blades rest on the door. I fished out the pocket square Pops had given me to wipe my hand on. “You good?”

“Not in the least,” he replied roughly, his shoulders tight, his head hanging low. “That was not good. Not good at all.” He turned to face me.

I shoved the dirty hanky back into my pocket. Well, shit. I’d seen that expression of utter devastation once before. Back in high school. Big keg party at some cheerleader’s house when her parents were away. One of the football players had been stupidly drunk. Guess he was feeling his bi self once the alcohol hit because he had pulled me into a guest bathroom where I’d given him a sloppy blowjob. I’d been drunk, too, something I rarely did because it fucked with my numbers so bad. But yeah, I’d been tipsy. That dude, Phil, his name had been, acted like Brody did now after he’d shot down my throat. That horrified expression screaming this was a dude who thought he was super straight but had just gotten off with a guy.

“I’m not gay.”

Yep, there it was. Shit. Shit. Double shit with a shitty cherry on top. “I’m not either. I’m bi.” If I had a dollar for every time I had to clarify…

“That was… I’m not into men,” he maintained as his gaze darted to the door. If I hadn’t been leaning on it, he would have bolted by now.

“Right. Well, you seemed to be pretty into me when you were fucking my fist, but hey, whatever lie you need to tell yourself is fine.”

He gaped as if I’d slapped him. “Fuck you.”

“Nice, really nice.” I did not need this shit from this guy. Or any guy. If he had been cool about it, then, fine; I get it, it’s a lot. But to get rabid? Nope. I moved away from the door, then opened it. His eyes flared. I didn’t say a word, I waited, my hand on the antique brass knob.

I could see him chewing on something. If it was an apology, he could keep it. If it was a confession of how he was beyond confused about how good his dick felt next to mine, then cool. The door was open. I could close it. We could talk. It wasn’t easy to be out. I got it.

“That stays between us,” he snarled as he raked a hand through his hair, then stormed out of the lounge.

“Oh, trust me, asshole, I have no plans to tell anyone what a gigantic moron I am for thinking you were hot and cool.” I slammed the door shut. Hopefully, it hit his uptight ass. Drawing a shaky breath, I stared at the oil painting above the fireplace. Some dour old man with tiny glasses resting on his nose stared down at me. “Don’t even say it,” I barked at the portrait as shame coursed through me. I flopped onto a settee, checked my sugar, frowned at the results, and ate a couple of Skittles to steady my fluctuating numbers.

I hadn’t counted on the physicality of sex.

I sat there for about ten minutes, working on erasing the last half hour from my memory banks. Yeah, there was no eraser big enough to erase Brody Vance from my head.

Maybe I needed a scrub brush and some bleach…

* * *

The only good thing about the first day of training camp was that I was too busy to wallow about last night’s hookup with Brody.

We’d been put through rigorous medical evaluations and physical testing. Nothing quite occupied my mind like aerobic skates, bench press, broad jump, and vertical jump tests. Those joys had been followed by a catered lunch at the new Railers training facility in Carlisle. Sadly, even though the state-of-the-art rink was right across the street from a Dairy Queen, we were discouraged from sneaking over to gorge on ice cream. The lunch was delicious and healthy, with tons of chicken, pasta, some salmon and rice dishes, veggie soup, fruits, and vegetables. My special dietary needs were taken seriously, so I could enjoy a great meal with the guys, a crucial part of starting the bonding process. I sat with some vets who were happy to chat with me to catch up on what my dads were doing now. A couple of younger players joined us, and Brody crept into my thoughts from time to time, but I shoved him back into the dark closet he was hiding in, for now.

There was too much to focus on to let some sexy-as-hell racer with his head stuck in clouds of denial mess with me. I checked my sugar after lunch, was pleased, and stopped super-quick on the way to my first team scrimmage to visit with the team dietician. Steve Figg was a nice guy, youngish, and into ensuring that I ate well. Not that I didn’t all the time, but Steve was dedicated to me and my diet. Which I thanked him for repeatedly. I was still tempted to sneak across the road. The siren song of a thick milkshake was loud.

I didn’t, though. I geared up, taking a moment to stand in the locker room with all kinds of chaos erupting around me, staring down at the Railers sweater I wore. It was a dark gray one, for offensive players during scrimmages, but it was still an official jersey. I snuck a photo of myself in it, then sent it to my sibs, Pops and Dad, and Rachel. My ex hit me with a GIF with a kitten wearing headphones saying I rocked. My fathers were elated. They could have come down to watch, but they didn’t want to steal any of the attention from the press. It was my day, or so they said, and so they stayed home. It killed them, but they did. My sisters all sent wordy replies I would answer later. The team was hitting the ice. I’d been warned that Coach Morin did not tolerate tardiness, so I was out there with the rest of the team and ready for my first practice.

The training facility wasn’t the East River Arena by any stretch of the imagination, but it felt like it when I skated up to face off against Jack O’Leary, the oldest player on the team at thirty-seven. He’d played for several teams in his long career but was now looking to retire from the Railers when his contract expired in two years.

“Pay attention, rookie,” he teased as Joe Bains, the associate coach, dropped the puck to start a light game between grays and blues.

“You pay attention, sir,” I countered, then pounced on the puck as soon as it hit the ice.

I sent it zipping to one of the two wingers I’d been paired with. Nikolai Petrov was a year older than me, a quick little Russian with a crazy one-timer shot. On my other wing was Mason Blake, a sturdy winger who’d been with the Railers for four years. Nikolai rocketed down the ice, Blake and me on his heels, to take a blistering shot on the blue goalie, Lukas Reinhardt. Lukas got his shoulder up to block the shot. The puck fell to the ice in front of the goalie. I dove at it, stick out, and poke-checked it between Reinhardt’s legs into the net.

“Good poking!” Nikolai bellowed as he gave me a hand up.

The rest of my line congratulated me–helmet pats, back slaps, and compliments–on giving it my all. Everything was loosey-goosey, giving the zebras on the ice with us little to do. That would change as the scrimmages intensified.

On my way back to the bench for some water, Old Man O’Leary, as the vets called him, skated up to me. He put a big, gloved hand on my shoulder.

“Guess I have someone gunning for my job,” he joked while giving my shoulder a pat.

“Maybe, sir,” I replied with a smile that made the vet chuckle.

“You can drop that sir shit,” he huffed in mock offense.

“Okay, ma’am.”

The rest of my line howled. Even a few coaches snickered.

Jack palmed my face playfully, then skated off, shouting to the other players that we had a hot shot in the ranks.

I wasn’t sure how hot I was, given the guy I’d shared a steaming make-out slash hand-job session with had run from the room as though he’d been sucking face with Nosferatu—the old 1920’s vamp, not the newer ones.

Crap. There was Brody again, sneaking into my thoughts. Guess I needed to hockey harder to keep him out of my head. O’Leary and I had the whole afternoon to square off. Surely, that would be enough to drive the racer out of my head for good.