Page 9

NINE

Fifteen Years Ago

JANUARY

On a snowy night right after the team wins a home game against Green Bay, Clay finally holds his damn party.

Jethro has pitched in as best he can. He helped clean up the apartment. He’s gathered up all their valuables—except for the stereo speakers, at Clay’s urging—and stashed them under his bed before wedging the bedroom door shut.

He doesn’t trust people to respect his stuff, and he can’t afford to be robbed. If it were up to him, he and Clay would be the only people who ever set foot in this apartment. He’s half hoping that nobody will show up, although that would make Clay sad. His roommate still seems to think this party is the answer to all their problems.

So when their teammates start streaming through the door in their wet shoes, Jethro doesn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. He opens a beer for himself and parks his ass against the wall of the kitchen, where he can see all the action at once. And, bonus, it puts him close to the drinks and snacks.

Clay has gone all out on the refreshments. There are two coolers full of spiked punch—a red version and a golden one. It’s kept cold by giant ice balls with hockey pucks frozen into their centers. It’s a detail that might seem like he’s trying too hard. But coming from Clay, it just works.

Likewise, the food is a dazzling array of expensive-looking sausage meats and cheeses that Jethro can’t pronounce. Platters cover the countertops. There are olives and pickles and some funny-looking candied nuts.

“Try this with a pita chip,” Clay says, offering Jethro a bowl of dip. “It’s made from roasted red peppers, white beans, and feta.”

Jethro doesn’t need the explanation. He’d eat anything Clay put in front of him. And the dip is exceptional, tasting of fresh garlic and lemons. The whole effort is classier than Busker, New York really deserves.

It doesn’t take long before their apartment is heaving with people. Jethro recognizes about a third of them. Whoever they are, they seem pretty stoked to eat Clay’s food and drink his liquor.

Jethro’s vantage point allows him to watch Clay, whose smile shines on everyone tonight like he’s a human lighthouse. He shakes hands and slaps backs as Jethro traces him through the crowd, growing more uncomfortable by the second. It’s just plain weird to have all these people in their space, when he’s used to having all Clay’s attention to himself.

And it’s dawning on him that Clay is good at this. He knows which joke will make you laugh. He knows what you want to drink before you even know yourself. Before he met Clay, Jethro didn’t know that it was possible to be confident as well as anxious. Charming but also serious. Clay is the kind of guy you watch just to figure out what he’ll do next.

Jethro opens a succession of beers and witnesses an entire flock of women surround Clay. With his easy smile and his rich-boy good looks, he’s a magnet for female attention. Not that hockey players ever have trouble getting girls. Although Jethro is usually too busy or too broke to go out.

It’s entertaining to watch a busty woman in a Brutes jersey practically climb Clay like a tree. He’s perfectly nice to her in return, but he doesn’t accept the crystal-clear invitation.

Poor girl. She doesn’t know him as well as Jethro does, or she’d realize she’s wasting her time. Clay isn’t the kind of guy who’d drag her off to the bedroom in the middle of his own party. He’s too busy recommending the cheeses and making sure his playlist is still cranking.

Eventually, she gives up and settles for a D-man named Rezinski. They sneak out a half hour later, his hands already up her sweater. Clay waves them off cheerfully.

“Jetty!” a teammate yells. “Beer pong!”

Jethro realizes he’s been watching Clay for more than an hour, which is weird, even for him. So he turns to help some teammates count out beer cans on the wobbly dining table. He gets steadily drunker as the night wears on. Too bad they have practice at nine the next morning. Jethro knows he’ll have regrets.

At three a.m. the apartment finally empties out, leaving Clay buzzing around, cleaning up bottles and cups.

“We can do that after practice tomorrow,” Jethro says sleepily.

“Just checking for crumbs. And spilled beer. It stinks if you leave it.”

Jethro is full of relief that the apartment is all theirs again, and he doesn’t care about a few crumbs. He helps, though, before checking their darkened bedroom, which is happily unscathed. He brushes his teeth, then gets in bed, listening as Clay makes his final rounds, locking the door and shutting off the lights.

He’s still feeling drunk when Clay comes in a few minutes later and promptly trips over Jethro’s hockey bag which is still wedged awkwardly between the beds. He loses his balance and topples sideways toward Jethro.

Jethro, with a goalie’s reflexes, catches him by the arm and eases him down on the mattress.

“Sorry,” Clay says. “I’m kinda drunk.”

“Same,” Jethro says. “But that was totally the point, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Clay stretches out beside him. “I talked to literally everyone, though, and never figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Jethro asks sleepily from a few inches away.

“What’s wrong with the team vibe. Why the hell Laytner and Coach want to kill each other.”

“Oh, now hang on,” Jethro says, opening his eyes. “I heard some guys joking about this during beer pong.”

Clay perks up. “Really? What did they say?”

Jethro props himself up on an elbow, and now they’re so close that he lowers his voice. “They said Coach has a new girlfriend, and they hope shit won’t go down the same way again. That maybe this time Laytner will keep his hands to himself.”

Clay’s eyes widen. “Meaning…?”

“Laytner slept with Coach’s girlfriend.”

“What?” Clay gasps, probably because their coach is sixty years old if he’s a day.

“Apparently Coach likes ’em young. And after the team beat Muskegon, they were all at a bar, and she just couldn’t resist.”

Clay doesn’t laugh. He covers his face with his hands. “This is terrible. That’s the kind of grudge that lasts a long time.”

Jethro doesn’t have an opinion about this. He’s watched plenty of people fuck up their own lives, and it doesn’t even surprise him anymore. But Clay’s shoulders are up around his ears again.

“How can you be drunk and stressed out at the same time?” Jethro asks. “It’s a skill, dude.”

“I’m special like that,” Clay mutters.

Jethro clasps the muscle between Clay’s shoulder and his neck. Rock hard, as usual. “You need to get called up to the big league, if only for the on-staff massage therapist.”

“Seriously.” Clay snorts, glancing over at him with a fond expression in his eyes. “I’d be all over that.”

Jethro finds himself smiling back. Having survived Clay’s party, he feels loose and happy again. Which is why he pulls off a tipsy maneuver, rising quickly to pounce on Clay, pushing his shoulders down onto the bed. “Relax, fucker. You got two goals tonight and then threw the best party to ever hit this shitty town.”

Clay doesn’t smile though. He sort of freezes.

Some people are too uptight for this world. So Jethro moves his hands to Clay’s shoulders and squeezes. “Christ, ease up on the tension already.” He looms over Clay and tries to work his fingertips into his shoulder muscles. But usually he does this from behind, so it’s a little awkward.

Clay finally relaxes under his touch. He tilts his head to the side, giving Jethro better access to his left shoulder, which is always the tightest one.

Jethro uses both hands on that side—lifting his buddy’s shoulder an inch off the bed with one hand and using the other to work into the muscle. Clay groans and closes his eyes.

It’s late, and they should probably be sleeping. But Jethro gives it his best. He’s led a frustrating life, where the hockey rink is the only place he ever feels useful. Growing up, he always felt crowded out at home by his mother’s lovers and his sister’s tantrums.

But it’s different here with Clay. Their house is a sanctuary. And even if Clay is a rich kid, and the sort of golden boy that Jethro will never become, somehow, they’re on an even footing. Clay has needs that only Jethro seems to notice. He has various hang-ups and tensions, and it’s gratifying to sort them out with something as simple as listening to him vent.

Or with a slightly drunken massage.

“God, you are good at that,” Clay mutters.

The praise lights Jethro up, even more than usual. He redoubles his efforts. But after another minute, Clay sort of twists to the side.

“I’m good now.” Clay starts to sit up.

“What about the other side?” Jethro playfully pushes him back down again. “Dude.” He pins one of Clay’s thighs down with his own knee.

Clay goes very still, looking up at Jethro with heated eyes. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.

For a second, Jethro doesn’t get it. But then he looks down and sees why Clay is being weird all of a sudden. He’s tenting his boxers, and when Jethro notices, Clay’s body goes solid under his hands.

Their eyes lock, and Clay’s are upset.

Seriously. Some people are too tense about everything . “Drunk, tense, and horny. You hit the trifecta.”

Clay gives a strangled laugh.

“Relax. Jesus.” Jethro lets go of him and flops onto his back beside Clay. Then he tugs down his own briefs. “Some problems are easy to fix, yeah?” He takes out his own cock, which is already thickening. Honestly, it’s a surprise they haven’t done this already. They share a tiny bedroom, after all. And a guy has basic needs.

At first, the silence from Clay’s side of the bed is so deep that he wonders if he read the situation wrong. But Clay lets out a hot breath as Jethro drags a thumb over his own cockhead. That feels nice . So he starts stroking himself.

That’s when Clay kicks off his boxers.

“There you go,” Jethro narrates as Clay takes his own cock into his fist.

It’s no surprise that Clay is beautiful down there, too. He’s straight and long. And awfully engorged. Yeah, and Clay is already spanking it like there’s a medal for the winner.

“Hey—bet I can outlast you,” Jethro says, because hockey players can turn anything into a competition.

A horny grunt is Clay’s only comment.

Jethro grins up at the ceiling. The beer is still fizzing through his bloodstream, and this contest is way more fun than beer pong. Seems like cheating would make it even more fun. So he reaches over and grabs Clay’s stroking hand, causing him to gasp and lose his rhythm.

With a chuckle, Jethro raises Clay’s hand to his own mouth, where he licks a generous stripe down Clay’s palm. Then he replaces Clay’s hand on his dick.

Clay says “nnngh,” and the sound heats Jethro up a few degrees.

“Get it, man. You know you want to.”

Clay wants to, all right. As he watches, Clay strokes faster, chest rising and falling on pace with a sprinter’s. Jethro strokes himself slowly and rolls onto his side, enjoying the view.

“F-fuck.” Clay locks his eyes with Jethro’s for a split second before looking quickly away. Then he erupts like a fountain in his own hand and all over his T-shirt.

“Fuck,” Jethro echoes just as his balls tighten. Because that was seriously hot. “Look what I made you do.”

Clay just gapes at him for a second. It’s a rare moment when he doesn’t seem to know what to say. Then he grabs his messy T-shirt and pulls it over his head, wiping his hands on the balled-up fabric. He tosses it off the bed and sinks down onto his back with a satisfied sigh.

“Oh sure,” Jethro grunts between strokes. “You’re all chill for once. And I’m…” He bites his tongue and concentrates. It’ll suck if he’s gotten himself all boned up when he’s too drunk to close the deal.

For a moment, Clay just stares at Jethro’s fist, where his cockhead keeps appearing and disappearing. The scrutiny isn’t helping all that much, suddenly.

But then Clay—the guy who somehow always knows what another guy needs—flicks Jethro’s hand away. He leans over, and before Jethro can guess what’s happening, Clay licks him from base to tip.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Jethro rasps.

Now it’s Clay’s turn to snicker. And Jethro can’t even take a breath before Clay is swallowing down his cock.

“Holy…”

Clay gives a good, hard suck, and Jethro’s eyes practically roll back in his head. His body flashes with heat, and his balls tighten. “You’re… fuck .”

Clay takes another drag, and Jethro practically levitates off the bed. He sucks in a breath and fights the orgasm that’s building. Because Clay’s mouth is magic, and suddenly he doesn’t ever want this to end.

But then Clay looks up at him from between his legs, eyes flashing with something like triumph. It’s dark and weird and hot. Jethro’s nipples ache, and his body’s on fire. Then it’s all over but the crying. “Look out ,” he manages before he comes.

Clay pops off him at the last second, managing to aim Jethro’s cock at an angle so Jethro shoots jizz at his own chin. Then he pumps him two more perfect times, leaving Jethro wrung out like a dish towel and panting on the bed.

All he can do is suck in oxygen for a minute. He’s also a little afraid to open his eyes. But when he does, Clay is looking down at him smugly. “Do you cheat at beer pong, too?”

Jethro’s mind is too staticky to answer, and he doesn’t even mind that much.

Clay, stark naked, leaves the room for a minute. Jethro hears the sounds of toothbrushing before his roommate reappears, still naked, this time remembering to step over the hockey bag on his way into his own bed.

Jethro lies there, stunned, even as his heart rate descends into a peaceful, sated rhythm. Why was that so hot? He wants to know if Clay thought so too, but he’s never going to ask.

Five minutes later, Clay starts snoring. Jethro makes a half-hearted effort at wiping himself off. He lies there for a while, naked and startled and sexually satisfied for the first time in weeks. It takes him a while to slide into unconsciousness.

But then they both sleep like rocks until the alarm blares in the morning.