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TWELVE

Fifteen Years Ago

FEbrUARY

After the game they just played against a Maine team, Clay knows he should be chilling out and feeling satisfied about the win. Instead, he’s watching the door to their motel room with nerves fizzing in his belly.

As winter drags on, the Busker Brutes are finally clicking. Passes connect. More of Clay’s shots find their way into the damn net. Their stat sheet has completely turned around, and a spot in the playoffs looks pretty likely.

Clay, as the high scorer, gets a lot of credit whenever a local journalist bothers to write up their team, which isn’t that often. But he likes to think his impact on the team is bigger than some well-timed shots. He’s been building morale for months, one back-slap at a time. The locker room isn’t quite so tense and silent anymore.

Things are going well. So many things. And yet he’s still eyeing the door at the motor lodge, wondering what’s taking Jethro so long to come back with their pizza. Wondering if this is the night when Jethro will notice how needy Clay is for his company.

And worrying that he’s about to throw a wrench into things, when maybe he should just fucking enjoy his life for a half second without sabotaging himself.

Finally, when he’s almost convinced himself that Jethro fed the other half of the pizza to someone else, the key card lock buzzes and the door clicks open.

And there’s Jethro, filling the door with his lanky body, a large pizza box, and an uncharacteristic smile. “Was that a great game or what?” he asks with no preamble.

“You know it.”

Jethro had a clean sheet, and Clay had two goals. They’re celebrating with a large pepperoni from the divey-looking place across the street from the roadside motel.

Clay gets up and grabs the pizza box while Jethro kicks off his shoes and sheds his coat. He tosses the box on his bed and opens the lid.

Jethro swoops in to grab a piece, sitting on the edge of the other bed. “The look on that winger’s face when you stripped him in the third.” He cackles before taking a big bite.

“I know, right? And the look on their coach’s face when you shut him down for the millionth time.” Clay smiles to himself as he tastes his first bite. “This sauce isn’t as good as mine.”

Jethro’s agreement is instant. “How could it be?”

His heart swells, and he looks away so that Jethro can’t see how happy this makes him. “Want to watch something?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

This is part of their routine, of course. It doesn’t matter whether they’re at home or on the road. After a game, they eat a meal together, and they put on some TV to relax.

Clay chooses a red Netflix disc and slides it into his laptop, ignoring the TV on the hotel’s credenza. The laptop screen is small, but that’s totally the point. Jethro will have to sit right next to him on the bed after they eat the pizza.

That’s how it always goes. They sit side by side—usually on the sofa at home but sometimes in a hotel room on the road. They watch a little TV. And after they’re all good and relaxed, Jethro puts his hand down his sweats and takes out his cock. Or sometimes he casually slides a hand past Clay’s hip and reaches right into his boxers without so much as a glance at him first.

Clay is always ready but never initiates. He waits for Jethro to make a move. Clay knows he’s not fooling anyone—he always responds with the enthusiasm of a lotto jackpot winner, because that’s how he feels every time they hook up.

Their repertoire is strictly hand jobs and blowjobs. But these days Jethro reciprocates both. The first time he went down on him, Clay almost fainted from joy. The sight of that sandy head bobbing up and down on his cock was more than he could stand. He had to close his eyes and recite hockey stats to avoid humiliating himself too quickly.

There are unspoken rules, though, and a long list of things they never do. Like kissing. That’s off the table. And so is discussing any of this. The sex between them is strictly something that happens after dark.

Luckily, the winters are long in the Northeast, so it’s dark a lot.

Only once did Clay manage to ask Jethro a question. It was last month, when they were lying panting on their backs, head-to-toe on Jethro’s bed after a frantic sixty-nine.

“Did you ever do this before?” Clay had croaked. “Like, fool around with guys?”

“Well, yeah,” his roommate had admitted quietly. “Couple times. You?”

“Yup. Once,” Clay had said, feeling both relieved and jealous at the same time. Then he’d gotten up and moved to his own bed, like always.

After that single conversation, Clay has been careful not to push more boundaries. He craves more, though. He wants to kiss Jethro so badly that he dreams about it. Given the chance, he’d go in for long make-out sessions, until their skin is abraded, and their lips are bruised. And he wants to fall asleep pressed up against Jethro, kissing the back of his neck where his hair needs a trim.

His heart bleeds a little every time he climbs into his own bed alone.

Tonight, they eat their pizza and watch an episode of Lost . Clay can’t concentrate. Especially when Jethro gets up and starts rooting around in his suitcase.

“Hey, have you seen my flask?” he asks.

Clay’s heart dips. Because this is part of the routine, too—Jethro always does some drinking before the fun part starts. “I think you left it on the kitchen table. At home.”

“What?” Jethro gives him an incredulous look. “And you didn’t wanna mention that?”

Clay shrugs guiltily. “Why do you need it?”

Unfortunately, Jethro’s reaction to this simple question is stronger than Clay anticipated. His face goes red, and his eyes narrow. “Are you trying to send me some kind of message ?”

Clay feels all the joy leak out of him. He pauses the show on the laptop. “No. It was just a question.”

Jethro is not going to let it go. He sits down on the other bed and glares at him. “Do you think I’m a drunk?”

“ No ,” Clay insists. The truth is, he’s rarely seen his roommate drunk. “Swear to God, I didn’t plan some kind of TV-movie intervention. I just wondered…” He’s afraid to finish the question.

“You wondered what?”

Good going, Powers. Way to ruin everything . “I just wondered why you always drink before we…” He clears his throat. “Because it doesn’t, uh, feel great to be a thing you can only do after three beers or some Jack Daniel’s.”

Jethro’s eyes widen and then immediately turn guilty. He doesn’t say a word. He gets up quickly and ferries the empty pizza box into the hall. He makes a stop in the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Clay just sits there, panicking. He forced this conversation. Too bad he forgot to consider how awkward this might be, after he makes a mess of things. They’re stuck in this hotel room together.

He’s such an idiot. He could have just brought the flask along. He could be having a blowjob right now.

Jethro returns from the bathroom. He sits down on the edge of the bed again, facing Clay. “My father is a drunk,” he says stiffly. “And my mother was, too, before she got wasted and drove her car into a telephone pole.”

It takes Clay a moment to absorb this. And then horror blooms inside his heart. “ Christ . I’m so sorry. I had no idea. That’s… that’s not how I think of you.”

Jethro scrubs at his face. “But you’re kinda right. The Jack is, like, part of a story I tell myself. Two lonely guys having some ‘whisky and frisky.’”

Clay barks out a laugh. “That’s an expression?”

Jethro shrugs. “I heard it once. Sounded familiar.”

Clay’s heart sinks a little more. “So, like, it’s something you do when there aren’t better options.”

“Hell.” Jethro’s expression turns uncomfortable. “That’s not what I meant, okay? But that’s how it started.”

Relief washes over Clay. It’s not exactly a declaration of love, but he can work with this. “Fair enough,” he says. Then he calmly takes off his shirt and tosses it onto his open suitcase. It’s satisfying to watch Jethro’s green eyes sweep over his body. “So I guess it’s your call,” Clay says. “If you can handle the frisky without the whisky . Just let me know.”

Having said his piece, he gets up and heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth. He avoids looking in the mirror, so he won’t have to lock eyes with his own desperation.

Pretty soon he runs out of things to do in the bathroom, so he turns off the light and emerges into darkness.

His heart leaps when he sees that Jethro is lying on Clay’s bed. And he’s buck naked, stroking his erection with lazy fingers.

God, the sight of him. All tight pecs and long legs. His shaggy hair on the pillow. It makes Clay bold. Instead of just sliding onto the bed beside him, he kicks off his clothes. All of them. Then he puts a knee on the mattress and swings his body onto Jethro’s, straddling him.

Jethro goes perfectly still as Clay seats himself carefully, his cock already full mast and lining up with Jethro’s. Clay can’t help but admire their two lengths lined up together. What a sight.

Nobody says a word, and Clay is barely even breathing, until Jethro’s hand closes around their cocks, making Clay hiss.

“Do you know,” Clay asks in a husky voice, “that you’re really fucking hot?”

Jethro’s eyes widen. Because this is new, too. They never speak when they’re together. But now he gazes up at Clay with heavy-lidded hunger, and slowly drags his palm over their cockheads.

Enchanted, Clay bends down and bites Jethro’s nipple, causing him to gasp. He’s already cottoned on to how sensitive Jethro is there. So he laves the puckered skin with his tongue, and Jethro groans.

Clay is on fire. His own nipples are tight, and his balls are already starting to ache as Jethro strokes them with his long fingers. Clay plants his fists on the bed, thrusting into Jethro’s hand, and staring down at his pouty lips.

It’s just too much. Too perfect. That must be why Clay throws caution to the wind, leans down, and kisses Jethro hotly on the mouth.

Jethro makes a shocked noise, and Clay would worry he’d fucked things up again, except Jethro gets over his surprise in the span of a heartbeat. He licks into Clay’s mouth and pulls him down onto his chest.

Clay can’t even believe his good fortune. Jethro’s hands are everywhere, and Jethro’s tongue is in his mouth. God , the taste of him. Clay is drowning in the glory of it all.

Until Jethro breaks their kiss, which makes Clay whine. But the goalie has a plan. He licks his palm and slides it back onto their cocks. Then he pushes his feet down on the bed and grinds his hips upward.

The next couple minutes are a little rough and a whole lot sexy. It’s a hot, dirty grind that leaves Clay panting and nearing the limits of his patience. He gives Jethro the wettest, dirtiest kiss he can manage, because he’s going to come. Right now, actually. He holds back a moan as he shoots into Jethro’s hand and all over his cock.

“Fuck,” Jethro groans into his mouth. Then he shudders, and Clay feels the heat of his seed as it joins the party. It’s the dirtiest, best thing he’s ever felt.

With a gasp, Clay shoves his face into Jethro’s neck, enjoying the scrape of whiskers on his forehead. Jethro smells like shower soap and heated skin. Clay plants a single, sweet kiss on his neck while their hearts pound in perfect time with one another.

Not wanting to push his luck, he lies very still. And he wonders how long he can stay right here before Jethro comes to his senses and leaves him alone in his bed again.