Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Alright. Let’s do this,” I heard from behind me and I jumped a little.
“Scared the shit out of me,” I told Kane. I’d been in a trance, watching Mason.
“Chicken sandwich time?” he asked.
“Um,” I said, “I was thinking maybe I do want Hank’s BBQ after all. If you don’t mind? It smells really good coming from down the street.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I could destroy a pulled pork sandwich right now, actually.”
The only messages Mason and I exchanged that week were short.
After sending me a thought-out thank you text the morning after he took the allergy meds, I’d asked him how he was feeling a couple of times, and he told me he was all good. In the middle of the week, he sent one picture of his Clydesdale, Hopper, but when I invited him to grab dinner at the diner, he said he couldn’t.
It was a full week later, right before my next summer league game, that he even mentioned coming to one of my games.
For seven days, I’d been letting it simmer, taking the hint more and more with each passing day that there was no shot of anything happening with him. I had kept busy with the flood of homework for my classes and had been putting in extra time working out.
I could lone-wolf it.
Doing things on my own? That was my specialty.
I was in the locker room at the rink, ready to gear up for the next game, when I checked my phone and saw a text from him.
>>Mason: Is this the right one?
He’d attached a map location of the indoor ice rink.
>>Jesse: You got it. You coming? 7 o’clock tonight.
>>Mason: I’ll be there. Understanding absolutely nothing about the game.
I snapped a selfie of me blowing him a kiss, then sent it with a message.
>>Jesse: Thanks, fanboy.
Maybe this was good.
Maybe a steady, kind-hearted friendship was what he needed, and if that was the case, I would be willing to give it. I craved his body like a drug whenever I thought of how good it had felt that night—the way I’d felt that click—but if he was done, then I had to be done, too.
I was about to put away my phone in the locker for good when I saw another message come through.
>>Mason: Truth or dare?
A flare of curiosity lit up inside me. A few of the other guys were streaming into the locker room now, and I tucked away into a corner for a second.
>>Jesse: Fuck it. Dare.
A few moments later, his next message came in.
>>Mason: Win tonight’s game and I’ll suck your cock afterward. On my knees, no questions asked. Zero strings attached. Pretend my mouth is a glory hole, for all I care, but I will absolutely fucking worship you, Jesse.
I suppressed a groan. I pushed a hand up against a locker nearby, biting down hard on my lower lip.
Fuck.
My cock was hard in an instant. All week, I’d been clear-headed and getting used to the idea that our brief fling of attraction had to end.
And now this?
I tapped out a reply.
>>Jesse: You daring me or are you finally begging?
“Yo,” Robbie said, coming up from behind me and immediately clapping me on the back. “Nashville’s going to be pissed tonight. And, uh, I may or may not have said some shit to their new center, so be ready to bring out the full brunt of the Plow tonight, Sanocki. Ooo-wee!”
Soon the locker room was a sea of pre-game rituals and stretches, and I put my phone away, getting lost in the rush of activity.
Less than an hour later I was on the ice, waiting for the referee to drop the puck for the opening face-off.
The crowd was peppered with a ton more TNU green and gold than red from the Nashville team, and they were already rowdy. More people had turned up for tonight’s game than any other summer league game so far. We were against the Bears from Nashville’s state school, and last time we played them in the actual season, they’d hosed us.
“Square the fuck up, Brenton,” the ref roared at the opposing center. I stayed focused on the puck, waiting for the drop. “Sticks down. Go time.”
In the background I heard the telltale chant that I’d gotten used to over the last few years: “Plow ‘em down. Plow ‘em down.”
TNU crowds loved to chant it at me, and I fucking ate that shit up on a platter. This summer crowd wasn’t all TNU regulars, but they drowned out most of Nashville’s fans, which I secretly loved.
Mason was out there watching me, too. I tried not to think about it, because nothing could be more fucking distracting than thinking about his desperate plea of a text right now. I clenched my jaw, thinking of it now: I will absolutely fucking worship you, Jesse.