Square to the Puck (Offsides #2)

by J.J. Mulder

“Hi,” says a soft, unfamiliar voice to my right. I look up. Sanhover is sitting next to me, leaned over just enough that he doesn’t have to raise his voice for me to hear him over the noise in the room. I notice right away that he has the clearest blue eyes I have ever seen: blue like the pictures you see of the ocean in the Maldives. Paired with that dark brown hair, narrow nose, and high cheek bones, he’s a stunner. I would have to Google his father later, because I am 99% certain he doesn’t look like this. “Hi,” I reply curtly, and tear my eyes away from him before I do something embarrassing like drool.

He bends over to pull on his skates and lace them up over his joggers. One thick lock of hair falls down over his forehead and he brushes it back with a thin, fine boned hand. He’s tall, the same height as me if his stats can be trusted, but he’s young and hasn’t quite put on all the muscle that comes with age and hard work. He’s probably fast on the ice, but sitting here he just looks delicate and young.

His eyes are big, the blue overtaking the rest of his face. It’s really fucking distracting.

“Hey Saint, you coming out tonight?” Von skates to a stop in front of me, lifting his helmet up so he can swipe a forearm over his face. “Yeah, probably.” I need to get laid, badly. Preferably by someone who doesn’t have blue eyes and brown hair, which has suddenly become my fantasy of choice. “Cool.” Von taps his stick against Corwin’s shins. “What about you, kid?” “I wasn’t sure if I was invited.” He looks between us, and then clarifies just in case any of us are confused about the legal drinking age. “Since I’m not old enough to drink.” “They serve soda at bars,” Von replies kindly. “And you’re definitely invited. You should get to know the guys better if you are considering signing with us.” Corwin agrees to go and I inwardly groan. All week I’ve been wrestling with the uncomfortable fact of his existence. He is nothing like I expected him to be, and I’m apparently being punished for something I did in another life because my body has decided it is very attracted to his body. Being sexually interested in a man isn’t a problem for me, but that man being a teammate is. Not to mention he’s practically a child, barely eighteen years old and a full ten years younger than me. I’m going to fire up a dating app tonight, find a blonde, older man, and then fuck his brains out. And I’m not going to think about Corwin Sanhover while I do it.

Somehow, this earns me a smile, the first smile I’ve seen from him all week, and it’s startling what this does to his face. My stomach clenches in desire—I want to taste that smile.

I feel as though I’m standing on the edge of a precipice—one I want so badly to jump off of. A thousand scenarios are spinning through my head. I want to run my hands through that thick hair, and pull. I want to make him smile again. I want to take him home and mess up my sheets. Fuck.

That lock of hair has fallen over his forehead again, and I have a sudden insane urge to reach across the table and wind it around my finger.

“Do you prefer people to call you that?” “What?” I didn’t hear him, my only indication that he spoke coming from the fact that I was staring at his lips and saw his mouth move. “Saint.” I stare at him, nonplussed. “Is that what you like to be called?” I shrug. “It’s been my nickname pretty much since I stepped on the ice for the first time. Everyone calls me that.” He nods, considering this. I realize, then, that I don’t want him to call me the same thing everyone else calls me. “But you can call me Nigel.” I earn my second smile of the night, and this one lingers longer than the first. “Nigel,” he tries it out, and a thrum of longing surges through my bloodstream like heroin.

It’s raining outside, and we stand under the awning for a moment, Corwin eyeing the sky thoughtfully. When our hands brush together he jolts, looking down at the space between us. He’s nervous, and a small voice in the back of my mind wonders if the way he’s been acting is because he’s inexperienced. It’s the same voice that tells me this is a bad idea, so I ignore it.

“I’m parked over here.” I tip my head to the right, directing his gaze. I step out into the rain without waiting for a reply and listen for the soft footsteps that let me know he’s following. He’s right behind me when I step into a small alley between the buildings, and turn to face him. “I don’t think you’re supposed to park down here.” His gaze is narrowed, searching for my car in the dark. I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. Damnit, I wanted to hate you so fucking bad. “No,” I concede, smiling. “This area is definitely not for parking.” The building’s overhang shelters both sides of the alley, rain only coming through right in the center, with Corwin on one side, me on the other. His image is distorted slightly, as I look at him through the downpour. I step forward until I’m directly in front of him, water still splattering my back but otherwise sheltered with him. The top half of his shirt is soaked, clinging to his chest and outlining his collarbone. Rain is carving delicate paths down his face, and when I reach out to brush a drop away with my thumb his eyes widen. “I—” He stops, mouth parted slightly. I wait, but he doesn’t continue, only looks at me through large, unreadable eyes. It’s too dark for me to see the blue, and I make a mental note to keep the lights on when I finally get him home and in my bed. I place my hand more firmly against his face, palm to cheek and fingers sliding into the hair around his ear. This time I swipe my thumb across his mouth, catch...

He won’t take that deal. Doesn’t matter what they offer, he’s not going to play for a team that has me on the roster.

I’ve been sitting in my car for ten minutes, trying to work up the nerve to go inside. I check my phone, noting I still have twenty minutes before I’m supposed to meet with the GM. I’ll probably die of heat stroke by then, but even that might be preferable to seeing Corwin.

South Carolina is a young team, and a lot of these guys have been playing together for years. Several of them have spent their entire NHL careers here, and it shows. There is an unmistakable ease and camaraderie to this locker room that was missing from my previous teams. These guys don’t just play hockey together, they’re family.

I lift my head and look into the blue eyes that I’ve thought of every damn day for the past six years.

I’ve seen him on the ice, of course, but without the extra padding or helmet it’s as though we’ve stepped back in time to Florida and we’re meeting again for the first time. If only that were the case.

He looks away from them and back to me. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, hands gripping his biceps. I can practically see the way he’s holding himself back from reaching for me. Lawson is a tactile guy, always touching others and tossing affection around like confetti. He never touches me unless I initiate it, though. Just another way he’s somehow read me correctly, without me having to tell him I don’t like being handled. I bump him lightly with my elbow and he grins, happy with the scraps I’m able to give him.

I’ve never once checked someone out in the locker room, and it irks me that my self-control is going to be tested every day from now on.

I hate myself a little bit, for how pathetically grateful I am to see him. I get far more from our relationship than he does, feeding off of him like a leech. Selfless as he is, he would never leave if he knew just how lonely I really am.

Six years too late, but I think it’s time I apologize.

I see he’s not wearing shoes, and the sight of his socked feet makes my throat feel tight.

I tear my eyes away from his totally normal, and not adorable feet.

He has the hands of a concert pianist, dexterous and long-fingered; I want to suck on those fingers.

This guy could give the David a run for its money, for all the reaction his face has. It drives me nuts.

“Okay, that’s enough.” He’s lifted both hands in front of him, palms toward me in a way that’s so reminiscent of six years ago it’s hard to look at. “I don’t know what you’ve convinced yourself happened that night, but if you think I didn’t want you then you’re deluded.” My voice has risen and I’m dangerously close to shouting. “Tell me you weren’t scared. Tell me you weren’t scared of me.” “Of course I was fucking scared!” he explodes, palms slapping down onto the counter between us. Yes, I think, lose control. Yell at me. “Coming out, being with a man? That was never going to be an option for me. So, I lied and I pretended, and everything was fine until you came along, and I wanted you so badly I couldn’t stand it. I wanted you so bad I let you kiss me in a public alley where anyone could see. Scared? I was terrified. But not of you.” He runs a hand through his hair, turning away from me slightly. When he speaks again, his voice wavers only slightly, clearly struggling to regain control after his outburst. “I hadn’t done that before, okay? Any of it. Not with someone I actually wanted, not with a man. I was just…overwhelmed.”

I eye the back of him, the long line of his spine and the rigid set of his shoulders. I wish this was a different sort of night. One where I could step up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist and press against him, kissing his neck. But this isn’t that sort of night at all, and too many lines have been crossed in the past to know where we might end up in the future.

“I really am sorry.” “So am I.” I can’t look at the top of his head without remembering how it felt to run my fingers through his hair. “I’ve pretty much been thinking about it every day for six years straight.” “Me too.” His head comes back up, eyes meeting mine. “I haven’t…I don’t ever, um, do that.” Oh, sweetheart. “Nobody since then?” He shakes his head and I blow out a soft breath. He deserves better than a quick grope against a brick wall. He turns around again, facing the stove, and I assume my thoughts were written loud and clear across my face.

A very small smile teases along his mouth, and he keeps his eyes locked on mine. “I always make enough for two.” The offer sits between us as we continue to eat in companionable silence.

I try not to focus too much on what he said, but the admission that he hasn’t kissed another man other than me feels like an elephant sitting on my chest. I shouldn’t feel possessive of him, but I do. Sitting here in the rapidly dimming light of the foyer, home cooked meal between us and his blue eyes melted to a degree below freezing, I can easily imagine how it might be between us if given a chance.

He leans against the counter, watching as I clean them off and load the dishwasher, one socked foot propped up against the other. He looks so cozy, I want to curl up on the couch and watch a movie with him.

When he turns to look at me there’s something in his face I don’t recognize. He’s so hard to read, and I’ve already made enough missteps when it comes to him that I can’t trust myself anyway. I tuck my own hands into my pockets and wait, staring back at him. He clears his throat. “Do you think…would it be okay if I hugged you?” I suck in a breath and take an involuntary step forward before halting. No, I tell myself, firmly, let him come to you, don’t rush him. I’m eager for the feel of him, but just in case that’s not obvious, I nod. “Yeah, of course.” He takes a few measured inhales before he steps forward. I lift my arms partially, unsure if he’s going to go low or high with the hug. He wraps both arms tentatively around my waist, one hand curled around the opposite hip and the other firm on my middle back. I can feel every single fingertip through my shirt. I settle my own arms around his upper back, shirt soft beneath my palms. My heart is jackhammering in my chest, and I wonder if he can feel it where we are pressed together. I jolt when I feel his lips press into the juncture between my neck and shoulder. Not a kiss, I realize, just him tucking his face in. Slowly, I slide a hand up to the back of his neck, palm gentle on his nape and fingertips brushing his hair. Not holding him in place, just letting him know I want him to stay and needing to feel his skin warm against my own. I can feel him breathing against my neck, so slow and even he could be asleep; the only ...

“I brought a change of clothes. Would you mind if I used your bathroom? I’m not much of a suit guy.” He plucks at the front of the dress shirt. I beg to differ. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs, you can use that.” I show him the way and head back downstairs, giving him some privacy even though what I really want to do is sit on the edge of the bed and watch him change.

Nigel St. James is naked in your house. I jump when I hear the door close upstairs, wound tight with nervous energy. When Nigel walks into the kitchen his hair is slightly mussed from pulling the collar of his shirt over his head, and there is a bare strip of ankle showing above his sock where he didn’t pull the leg of his joggers all the way down. He clears his throat and I tear my eyes away, ashamed that he caught me staring. At his ankle, no less, like some Victorian era creep.

I take a sip of Ginger Ale, remembering that I still haven’t offered him anything. “You can help yourself to whatever. I don’t drink, so there isn’t any alcohol, but I could keep some here if…” I let the tail end of that hang awkwardly between us, stomach rolling with another bout of nausea. I’ve never tripped over my words so much as I do when I’m around Nigel, my tongue eager to say things that my brain would never condone. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having,” he tells me, getting up to grab it himself before I can do it for him. He doesn’t go back to his seat, though, but remains standing next to me, leaned against the counter. “And just to put it out there, I’d like to spend more time with you outside of work. So, I’ll be here as much or as little as you want me to be.” He cracks open the can, taking a sip and smiling benignly at me. His words fill me with happiness and a simultaneous feeling of dread. I can’t go on a date with him or hold his hand in public, so if he’s looking for a normal relationship, he probably won’t find it with me. A memory of Troy and Sam pops into my mind, all of us sitting in my backyard and Sam leaning over to pull a blushing Troy in for a kiss, not even caring who might be watching. I can’t do that. I can’t fucking do that. “Here, you mean, right?” I clarify. “You want to spend some time together here?” “Here, my place, wherever. You’re the important part in that equation, not the location.” If the counter wasn’t holding me up, I don’t ...

The timer goes off on the oven and I scramble to pull the pan out, grateful to have something useful to do. I watch as Nigel moves over toward the cupboard I pulled the dishes from last time, grabbing two plates and laying them on the counter. We continue moving around the kitchen like that, me offering gentle direction whenever he doesn’t know where something is located, and soon enough we are sitting down to eat. He sits in the same spot as last time, but scoots his chair incrementally closer to mine. He leans down toward the plate, inhaling, and groans in a way that sends a new round of nerves shooting through my extremities. “This smells amazing,” he tells me. “Sorry it’s not fresh. I don’t usually serve guests leftovers.” I laugh, a little sheepishly, wondering if the chicken is going to be dry. Maybe I should try mine first before he takes a bite. “You could serve me dog food and I wouldn’t care,” he says bluntly, and I stare at him. “Since I just received an open-ended invitation, though, and I mean to capitalize on it, we probably do need to come to some arrangement.” I have no idea what that means. “What?” “I’m getting free food. What do you get?” “You.” He stops, fork midway to his mouth, eyes hard on mine. It was the wrong thing to say, evidently, and I scramble for a way to backtrack. “I mean… I’m not implying anything, I just meant that I like your company.” He sets the fork down on his plate, resting his hand on the table and regarding me. He opens and closes...

This time when I walk Nigel to the door, I don’t bother with the entryway light, instead allowing the backlighting from the kitchen and dining area to illuminate the hall. He puts on his shoes, thanks me for dinner, and reaches for the door. I stop him with a hand on the forearm, his gaze immediately locking onto mine. I didn’t even mean to do it, but now that I did, I realize I don’t want to let him leave with anything less than last time. Pitiful as it is, I can’t handle anything more than a hug, not yet having worked myself up beyond that. I use my grip on his arm to pull him toward me, and he steps up with no resistance, wrapping his arms around me and drawing them tight. He’s gripping me harder than last time, as though more confident that I won’t pull away. God, I want to kiss him. I should kiss him—pull back just enough to see him, maybe cup his face the way he did to mine all those years ago. I could do it. He stands so still in my arms, the only movement coming from the expansion of his rib cage beneath my hands. His face is turned into my hair, breath tickling the top of my ear every time he exhales. I slide my hand up his back, feeling daring. There’s no way he can’t feel my heart pounding right now, pressed close as we are, but he remains stationary so I keep going until my fingertips touch the bare skin of his neck. It feels easy, like this, with the lights low and my face pressed into his shoulder. Maybe this is how it could always be. I skim my hand up the r...

As we skate back toward the bench, Corwin bumps his shoulder against mine and I grin around my mouthguard. Reserved as he is, that’s practically the same as him holding my hand.

I long to be back at the hotel. Actually, scratch that, I long to be at Corwin’s house, coaxing smiles out of him and feeling the press of his lips against my face.

It takes a while for a cab to come, and by the time I’m back at my hotel room I really am feeling old. Also, horny. Flopping down on my bed, I rest my hands on my abdomen, and try to remember the last time I went this long without having sex. I want to walk down the hall, knock on Corwin’s door and crawl into bed with him. And nothing, I know, would send him running for the hills faster. He’s inexperienced, but that’s neither a turn-off, nor a deal breaker for me. What does worry me, though, is the obvious anxiety he has about any sort of physical contact. There is a tremor of fear present even when we’re doing something as mild as hugging, and it makes me worry. It would be easy, so fucking easy, to hurt him. Again. Sighing, I sit up and rub a palm over my face. I have to take things slow which means, for now, the dry spell will continue. Resigned, I head into the bathroom to jack off in the shower.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Hey.” I weave my fingers together in my lap, a reminder that I can look at him but not touch. Even looking within the confines of the team jet is probably risky, but I missed him so damn much last night I sort of don’t even care.

I pinch my lips together, imagining him curled up in bed with socks on his feet, watching a damn cooking show. Of course, in my imagination I’m also there, wrapped around him and not off being miserable somewhere in a bar.

“You’re learning French?” It sounds like I’m trying to talk around a mouthful of rocks. “Yeah.” He glances over at me, but doesn’t maintain eye contact. “I’ve been watching Bake Off with the French subtitles. I’ve seen the show so many times I don’t really need to pay attention, so I can use it more as a learning exercise.” I stare at him, fingers clenched around the book in my lap. My imaginary scenario from earlier looks completely different now: us curled up in bed, watching his cooking show while I coax him through French sentence structure. He must not know how to interpret my silence, as he rushes to explain. “I just thought, since you come over for dinner quite a bit, maybe we could talk in French since it’s your native language and you probably don’t get many chances to use it here.” “So, you thought you’d learn.” Damnit, I want to kiss that serious expression right off his face. I blow out a shaky breath and let loose a string of rapid French. He widens his eyes. “Oh, I can’t speak it that good. Or really at all yet.” He looks apologetic. “What did you say?” Nothing I can repeat on this airplane. “Nothing.” I carefully close the book, handing it back to him and watch as he places it back in the seat pocket. “Now you say something.” I nudge him very lightly with my elbow. Narrowing his eyes, he sits up straighter like he’s about to be graded on his pronunciation. “Ajouter un peu de sucre dessus.” He stumbles over the vowels, unable to roll them together correctly, ...

He must be cold, because he opted for a hoodie over the T-shirt. One of the strings is caught in the neckline, so I walk over and tug it out, fingers grazing his neck unnecessarily. I try to be careful with how I touch him, but this one is well received and I feel a flush of happiness as he leans into it.

Instead of sitting on a barstool, on what feels like the opposite end of the kitchen, I hop up onto the corner of the island. He has to walk by me to reach the refrigerator, and once he brushes his hand along the top of my thigh, making me smile.

“I didn’t hook up with anyone last night.” He fumbles the tomato in his hands, catching it before it hits the counter. “And I won’t be hooking up with anyone else while you and I are…having dinner.” I substitute dating for that last part, hoping it’ll make him smile, but it doesn’t. He’s as stony faced as ever when he brings the cutting board over to the island so he can work next to me. All I can see is the line of his neck, and the swoop of his eyelashes as he concentrates on chopping. “You could have.” I scowl down at the top of his head. I knew he would say that. “No. I couldn’t have.” I watch the tops of his shoulders move with a sigh, and he turns around, moving gracefully around the large kitchen. He doesn’t speak again until he returns to the chopping board. “I don’t know if I can…” He trails off, starting over. “Listen, I know that I’m not exactly fulfilling any of your needs, so if you want to see other people that’s okay.” “I don’t want.” He sighs again, and sets the knife down. He looks up at me, perched above him on the counter. “I’ve never had sex before. So, I have no idea what I’m doing, at all, and you make me really fucking nervous. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do…” He trails off, losing steam. He goes to turn his face away and I reach out, catching his jaw lightly with the tips of my fingers. “You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re not expected to have sex with me, or anyone else for that matter.” “I do want to.” The mask slip...

Later, I nudge his foot with mine below the table, bringing his gaze back to mine. Usually, I leave pretty much right away after dinner; staying only long enough to help him clean up, not wanting to overstay my welcome. But we have an off day tomorrow, and there is an ease between us tonight, like we might finally be on the same page, or at least close. I think of all the times he’s voluntarily touched me tonight, or let me touch him, each one a miniature victory. I wonder if I can get away with a couple more.

He smiles. A real, honest to god smile that is so beautiful it nearly sends me into cardiac arrest.

He pads off toward the living room, adjusting the lighting so it’s low but not completely dark. I watch him go, nearly salivating over how good he looks in a shapeless hoodie and baggy grey sweatpants. And he really thought I was going to want to date other people? Fucking madness.

He rolls his eyes, but I see a partial smile try and peek through. He’s reclined back against the arm rest of the couch, legs stretched in front of him. After I set the Gatorade down on a pair of coasters, I pick up the bowl and hand it to him. He swings his feet off the couch and onto the floor, making room for me next to him. I settle in, leaving a foot of distance between us, and then reach down, hooking his ankles with my hands and bringing them back up and onto my lap. Leaving his socks on so he doesn’t get cold, I rub a thumb over the ball of his foot and he flinches. I pause, looking over at him. He’s watching me, wide eyed and wary—not ticklish, I realize, just distrustful of the gesture. I start again, working my thumbs into his foot, gently at first, before adding more pressure. It’s a full minute, at least, before he speaks. “What are you doing?” “Foot massage.” I glance over. He blinks at me over the massive bowl of popcorn that’s balanced on his lap. “Why?” “Because I want to touch you. Because you’re a professional athlete and hockey is hell on the ankles. Because you made me dinner.” I shrug, running my thumb from his ankle up his calf. “How many reasons do you need?” I pause, reaching over and grabbing some popcorn before continuing. He looks so fucking cute, I don’t think I’m going to be paying too much attention to the game. So far, I’ve kept my ministrations over his clothes, but his sweatpants are pretty thick and it’s hard to get at his muscles through...

I’m pretending to watch the game, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than where Nigel’s body is in contact with mine. I’m cursing whatever idiocy compelled me to put on so much thick clothing earlier. He’s got his arm over the tops of my shoulders, and when I inch a little closer against him, he drops his hand from the back of the couch and rests it over my hip. My heart ratchets up, beating furiously, and a burn of anxiety pools in my stomach. I don’t know what to do with my hands, which are currently in my lap. His leg is right there, pressed up against mine, black sweats contrasting with my grey. I take a couple fortifying breaths and carefully slide my hand onto his thigh, midway between his knee and his groin, which I have deemed to be a safe space. He jolts, and I snatch my hand back like it was burned—fuck. “No, sorry. You’re okay, I just wasn’t expecting that.” He tightens the arm he has around me, like he’s giving me a half hug. With his other hand he reaches across himself and wraps his fingers around my wrist, gently pulling my hand back to his leg. Before he lets go, he swipes his thumb over the inside of my wrist in a way that sends heat skittering up my arm. His leg is hard, solid muscle beneath my palm. He’s a big guy, but even so, my fingers curve across the top of his quad and rest along his inner thigh. Every nerve ending in my body is hyperaware of this fact. I’m not even touching him that close to his groin; much closer to his knee, in fact. But…I...

Troy Nichols, the human embodiment of the fucking sun.