Page 21 of Two Guys One Puck (Gods Versus Monsters Hockey #2)

TWENTY-ONE

KTYTOR

One month later

W e don’t talk every day, but there are messages, and I see him watching my stories.

Not every day, but he’s there, smiling in his profile photo like every fucking American.

It’s almost endearing how happy they pretend to be.

It used to drive me mental, but after years living here, I’m used to it, and with him, I find it cute.

Which clearly means I’m losing my mind and need to go home and touch some grass.

Culture shock is real. But all in the pursuit of the NHL. It’s what I have to do. One day, I’ll be able to go home to my grandparents’ farm and never leave. Until then, I’m woken by all the noise at an ungodly hour.

“How does anyone sleep through all this shit?” I rub my temples as my suite mate and I get out the door for practice.

“Huh?” Sleepy asks, never fully awake until we’re on the ice, no matter the time of day.

I’m used to his non-comprehension by now. How he gets through his classes, I’ll never know. “Doesn’t matter. Keep drinking your coffee.”

Sleepy nods, and we approach Grumpy at the door to the arena.

“Morning, K-pop.” Grumpy is what I call our team captain, but only in my head, even though he calls me K-pop like the rest of the team.

“Morning, Boondock,” I say, using his team-sanctioned nickname. Something about him being large, catholic, and from Boston made them refer to him as the movie? I don’t really understand. Most hockey players aren’t exactly Shakespeare with their nicknames.

I like my names better. I call my line the seven dwarfs because each guy on it resembles one of their personalities.

“Ready for the game?” Bashful asks when we get in the locker room.

“Do you doubt me?” I ask.

He sizes me up but shakes his head. “Never.”

“Good. I’d never forgive you.”

Bashful’s gaze flashes up to meet mine, and I laugh. “Oh, you’re joking.”

“I love how innocent you are.”

He immediately breaks the eye contact. I know it’s hard for him, and I’d never give him shit for it. He’s the youngest on the team, but he’s already a great wing.

Dopey, our goalie, is naked, as per usual, lying under the skylight. He claims something about sunbathing and vitamin D helping his game. I don’t have the heart to tell him what he thinks is a skylight is an LED screen mounted on the ceiling to make the locker room less like a dungeon.

“Why don’t you ever sun your back, Dopey?” Happy asks before I can stop him.

Dopey picks up his head. “You think I’m just going to give you all a free show of my chocolate starfish? We have to have some boundaries with each other.”

“Your sausage out is you having boundaries?” Sleepy mutters from where he’s curled up half in his cubbie.

“Every man has the sausage out. It’s natural. I’m not out here spreading my cheeks like I do in private.”

“You sun your bunghole? Like spread the cheeks sun it?” Grumpy asks. “That sounds kinda gay…”

“We exist in a fucking sausage factory in here. Everything is fucking gay in hockey.” Levine, who we refer to as Happy, cuts in before I can.

I’m so proud of that little bean. “Exactly. You’re splitting hairs.”

Grumpy grunts but doesn’t say more.

I fist bump Happy as he walks by.

I settle into my pre-game routine, trying to keep Seaborn—Ronan—out of my mind, but it’s impossible.

I want to message him, but at the same time, I want him to message me first. I have to know he wants to see me again, and it’s not just another easy thing for him.

Will he even be interested if he doesn’t have to work for it?

A million fucking questions, and I need to go warm up, so it’s time to put my armor on.

My phone buzzes in my bag.

I fight a smile because I will not get my hopes up. It could be spam. But it’s not. It’s a snap notification.

Seaborn: so are we going double or nothing?

Ktytor: double? You ready to hand over your ass twice?

Seaborn: you wish.

Ktytor: I’ll see you on the ice, beautiful.

Seaborn: I look forward to it and after.

Cheeky bastard. I like it.

And now I’m half hard in my damn cup.

The Gods new line is a beast. And they’ve only gotten better with more practice.

Their offense was solid last season, but this year, they are dominating our defense.

I can’t keep up with the shots they take.

Not with Seaborn on me; he knows me too well.

I’ve never had a defender know me so well.

Did I do this by fucking him? It can’t be.

Sex has nothing to fucking do with hockey.

Or does it?

My team funnels the puck to me, and before I can even get a shot off, Seaborn darts around me and steals it, taking off towards the other side. He slings it up to his wing, who takes a perfect fucking shot. They score, putting them up 3-1.

“I’m going to really enjoy my win,” Seaborn whispers when we’re on each other again.

“Don’t count me out yet, Honey cake.”

“Scared to give up that ass?” Seaborn asks.

“Not if you earn it.” Blood flows to my cock, and at the same time, anxiety burns in my chest. My body is torn between arousal and frustration.

I don’t even know if I want to be fucked.

When I made the wager, I was sure I’d be the one topping, and the idea of him losing and then allowing me to sink inside him makes me a bit crazy. The reverse confuses me.

In my culture, we‘re taught not to be vulnerable with anyone. It’s a weakness.

It’s the primary reason men can’t be gay.

Submitting to another man is making ourselves inferior to them.

There is no exchange, but none of that makes me want it less.

I want an equal, and maybe that’s why I’m far more attracted to him than any woman I’ve ever met.

“I’m gonna earn it.”

“If you say so, pretty boy.”

“So you think I’m pretty?” he asks, all smug.

“Just in the shower,” I mutter before we take off back down the ice.

He chuckles in a great mood. It’s a stark difference.

We battle, but it’s not like the other times we’ve come up against each other. It’s brutal, but we aren’t trying to hurt each other, just trying to win. The energy has entirely shifted, and I’m enjoying the game more than just to win. I haven’t felt this way about hockey in a long time.

We come back in the third period, and I have the puck.

Seaborn isn’t giving me an inch. He’s pressed up against my back, and I’m trying to get around him.

I turn, and he blocks. I pass the puck out, trying to work it around and move the goalie.

I spin in the other direction now that I don’t have the puck, trying to get a better position so I’m open for the pass.

He allows me to move since he doesn’t want to catch a penalty, but he’s still not giving me any room. “Like that, don’t you?”

“What?” I glance over my shoulder, trying to elbow him back a little.

“Your ass pressed into me. I’ll call it practice for later.” He doesn’t even have to finish before I’m picturing it.

I’m flushed and not from the exercise. I elbow him again, but my mouth is dry, and I can’t form a coherent sentence. It feeds him. He’s smug, and I use it, finding my opening to get around him.

He’s slow, and I get a piece of the puck, spinning to catch it and redirect it right towards the goal.

I hold my breath as the goalie moves to block it.