Between the Pipes (Offsides #3)

by J.J. Mulder

“You must be Nico Mackenzie,” he says, in what might be the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.

He’s still smiling. My cursory Google search had also informed me that Anthony Lawson was handsome and a womanizer. It had been too much to hope those photos online were edited; if anything, the opposite is true. He’s remarkably good-looking, if one overlooked his garish clothing. He’s got the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen— nearly black, though surely, they’re brown. His equally dark brown hair is longer than it was on the team website, and his face is shadowed with several days of scruff. His ugly plaid shirt is stretched tight across muscled shoulders. I don’t need to perform any mental gymnastics to imagine women throwing themselves at his feet.

He’s straight, and a professional athlete, and now working with you. Calm the fuck down.

The back of him looks just as good as the front.

I stare at him, a little bit shocked and a lot annoyed. I’m not sure if his problem is with me specifically, or the world. Either way, this fucker needs to lighten up.

When the Uber drops me off, I’m twenty minutes early. I snag a table along the east wall, where the lighting is a little better, and settle in to wait. The dimmer lights of the bar are both a relief and a hindrance. On one hand, it’s easier on my eyes than the glaring fluorescents of the practice rink. On the other hand, if I want to be able to see my date, I’ll have to sit where it’s brighter. The door opens, and I squint. The guy, Brad, scans the bar for a few moments before his gaze snags on me. I raise a hand off the table and he beams at me, circling the other patrons and walking over. “Nico?” he asks, as he steps up beside the table. His eyes are skating rapidly over my face, and I press all ten fingertips to the tabletop in an effort not to cover up my scars. “Hi. You must be Brad.” He slides into the seat across from me, and I struggle not to be disappointed. After spending the day with Anthony Lawson’s rugged good looks slapping me in the face every time I turned around, Brad is a bit of a letdown.

I think longingly of the cool, dark, silence of home. Mostly, I just want to close my eyes and rest.

He places a large hand on my shoulder, and I stiffen. I want to shake it off but can’t, with Brad ogling the pair of us. My heart is pounding, and I can feel sweat prickling my scalp. The hand on my shoulder feels friendly, but my imagination wastes no time in turning it hostile. It’s a relief when he finally lets go.

I try taking several fortifying breaths to control the pounding of my heart. My chest is beginning to ache.

He’s still wearing the athletic clothing he was wearing when he left SCU, and he’s still sexy. It pisses me off.

My body can’t decide if I’m nervous or angry. I feel clammy with cold sweat, and my hands are shaking slightly.

My insides feel like they’ve been sandpapered, everything catching up to me all at once. I want to go home. I would turn around and start walking, if it wasn’t dark and I wasn’t fucking blind as shit.

I lay my head back against the seat and finally close my eyes. It’s a relief to rest, even for just a moment.

“Anthony.” He grunts. “What, Nico?” Despite myself, the response makes me smile. Nobody calls me Nico, and I’m fairly certain nobody calls him Anthony either.

“I swear to god, if you ask me if I’ve got a problem with queer people again I’m going to pull over and beat the shit out of you. Not because you’re gay, but because you’re an asshole.” I laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. Jesus Christ.

I don’t take my eyes off of him, enjoying the play of the streetlights as they flash over his face.

“I’m not exactly a catch.” I wave a hand vaguely at my face and this he does see. A frown has replaced the smile. “Nah, scars are sexy. You’re dating the wrong guys.”

“I guess we’ll just have to date each other. We can be miserable together.” The words are out before I can even think about it, and I scramble for a way to backtrack. I don’t even know why I said it. I’d rather beat my head against a brick wall than date someone as infuriating as Anthony Lawson. Also, he’s fucking straight, which we established less than an hour ago even if he was vague about it. What the hell do I need to do to get this night to end, already? “Sounds good to me.” He chuckles. “Maybe I’ve been fishing in the wrong dating pool all along.” I stare at him. He knows I was kidding, right? “You know I was kidding, right?” “Yeah.” Oh my god, is that disappointment I hear? I turn resolutely away, pretending to stare out the passenger window even though I can’t see anything. A confusing cocktail of anxiety and desire is pooling in my stomach. Unbidden, fantasies of fucking him begin queuing up in my brain: my own personal hell and skin flick, all rolled into one. We stay silent for the rest of the drive; the tension in the vehicle is no longer of the angry variety but more of a sexual nature now, and I don’t know which one feels worse. Rule #1 of being a gay man: do not develop a crush on your straight acquaintances. Boy, am I winning tonight.

“Where do I go from here?” Anthony asks, peering through the windshield like he’s trying to find a sign. “I don’t know where the faculty housing is.” “Oh, right. It’s…” Sweat beads on the back of my neck as I squint through the window ineffectually. I can’t see beyond the light provided by the street lamps, and even that is shadowy. I have no idea where we are on campus right now. “Uh, you can just let me out here. I’ll walk.” He looks over at me, disbelievingly. “I’m not letting you out here, what is wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night and this is an empty parking lot. You could get mugged, or something.” “You just pointed out that it’s empty.” “Do you argue every single fucking thing?” he snaps. “Okay, just…go that way.” I sound confident, and with an exasperated shake of his head, Anthony drives forward. My eyes ache from how hard I’m squinting right now, looking out the window desperately. I just need to recognize one thing, and I’ll know where we are. When we finally pull up in front of my cottage, I’m supremely embarrassed. Twenty minutes of driving around, and at one point I’m pretty sure I had him driving in a circle. I make a mental pact with myself to only leave the house for work from now on. Fuck dating, I’ll die alone. “It’s confusing here, in the dark,” Anthony says, unbuckling his seatbelt. This is a kind thing to say, and I hate him for it.

Knowing that I owe him something for driving me home, I make him an offer I pray he’ll refuse. “Do you want to come inside for a drink?” We’re standing under a streetlight, so I can see exactly how happy this makes him. “Sure, thanks.” Lovely. “All right. Come on in.”

He might not have a headache, but I’m going to get one from the strain of holding a conversation with him.

Looking up, I try to catch his eye. When his green eyes finally catch on mine, my stomach gives another flutter of nerves. I didn’t realize hazel eyes came in that precise color.

He’s watching me, fingers idly turning the mug of tea. With the kitchen smelling strongly of peppermint, my beer no longer sounds appealing. Feeling daring, I lean forward and hook a finger through the handle of his mug, pulling it toward me. It slips through his fingers, and I maintain eye contact as I bring it to my lips and take a sip. When I place the mug back on the table between us, he snatches another fry off of my plate. He looks less pissed off now; more relaxed. It’s a much better look on him—I can only imagine what he’d look like if he actually smiled.

I wish I could tell him about Troy and Cor. For some reason, I get the feeling that he’s waiting for me give him a hard time. The way he looks at me stinks of mistrust, and it makes me uncomfortable. I want him to like me, damnit. “I won’t say anything about you to anyone.” Finishing off the burger, I dust my fingers over the plate. “Well, I’ll probably tell my friends about you being an ass. But I’ll leave out the gay part.” “I’d appreciate it.” Nico’s lips twitch again, and he lifts the mug to his mouth in an effort to cover it up. I notice he drinks from the same side I did, and a sliver of heat winds its way down my spine. I guess we’ll just have to date each other, he said earlier. Yes, please, I think, and surprise myself.

My plate is empty, so I push back from the table and bring it to the kitchen with my still-full glass of beer. I load my stuff into the dishwasher and turn to find Nico still sprawled in his chair, turning the mug in a steady circle and watching me. “I do have a headache,” he admits. “Do you have medicine?” He didn’t give me a tour so I have no idea where the bathroom is. I pop open the freezer door and peek in. “Or an icepack?” He watches me silently. The only sound in the quiet house is the mug bottom scratching across the wood tabletop as he spins it. I wait. “I have a prescription migraine medication.” He’s speaking slow, nearly slurring his words, and when he looks at me, he does so with narrowed eyes. “I’ll get some after you leave.” “I can grab it for you.” Thinking about the glass he put my beer in, I start peeking in cabinets until I find the glassware. I fill it with water from the tap and bring it over to him, still seated in the low light of the dining room. He takes the glass, but doesn’t immediately offer up the location of the prescription. “Where is the medicine? I’ll bring you some.” “In my bag.” I remember seeing a messenger bag by the front door, and head that way. Instead of rifling through his belongings, I bring the entire thing in and place it gently on the table. I watch as he slips an orange pill bottle out of a side pocket, popping it open and dumping a single pill into his palm. He takes it, drinking down the entire glass of water. I hover uncert...

I settle in on my yoga mat and start with some simple stretches. I wonder if Nico’s headache went away and he was able to get some sleep. I wonder if he was at least a little bit serious when he said we should date each other. Because now that the idea has wormed its way into my mind, I can’t get rid of it. Switching positions, I picture Nico’s scowling face and summer-green eyes. I shouldn’t like him; I shouldn’t even want to be friends with him. But, absurdly, I want to kiss him. I’ve never wanted to kiss another man before. Not on the lips, anyway. Or, below the lips, which is what I was dreaming about last night. I wonder if Nico has chest hair. Probably not, but damnit, I want to find out. Sighing, I try and devote myself to yoga and rid my mind of unhelpful sexual fantasies.

I won’t, though. There’s nothing quite like being the single friend in a group of partners, a phenomenon I was still trying to adjust to. It’s not that they don’t include me, because they do; it’s more that I feel like I’m intruding now, where I wasn’t before.

I laugh out loud. Naturally, he’s just as much of a dick over text as he is in person. I try not to find it charming.

The joy that I get from a simple text message conversation with him sort of feels like an emergency. Abandoning the yoga mat, I hop on a treadmill. I’ve got a few hours to kill and I need to come up with dinner plans. I’ve decided Nico Mackenzie has a date, whether he wants one or not.

He looks good, with the morning sun peeking through his hair and highlighting the different shades of brown. I hadn’t noticed yesterday, but there’s a curl to it; if I reached out and tugged on a ringlet, I imagine it would bounce right back into place. I wish I didn’t find that thought as appealing as I do.

“I brought coffee.” Anthony’s voice scatters the fantasy of running my fingers through his hair. He’s holding out a ridiculously large to-go cup with NICO written in block letters on the side, and a heart scrawled beneath. He sees me eyeing it and grins cheekily. “Labeled it myself.” I take the cup from him, scowling. For some reason, this seems to make him smile wider. I wave him forward and start walking toward the rink. His shoulder keeps bumping mine, like he’s purposely walking too close to me.

The sleeves of his plaid shirt are cuffed, leaving his muscled forearms bare. The desire to run my fingertips over the dark hair covering them is so strong, it takes me by surprise. What the fuck is with you and touching his hair? Be professional.

Anthony brightens at the mention of me wanting his opinion, smile sliding back into place. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if I did run my fingers over his arm.

“Do you need anything else from me, today?” Avery asks in a way that conveys what he’s hoping the answer to be. I look around. The ice is strewn with cones and stray pucks; one of the goals has come loose and is being put back into place by Anthony. There are things to discuss and video from last season that still needs to be analyzed. “You can go,” I tell him. Avery, for reasons unknown even to myself, gets on my nerves. “Thanks, Coach. See you tomorrow. Bye, Lawson!” He’s already skating toward the bench, eager to be on his way. Too late, I realize that without him here it will only be Anthony and I. But isn’t that what you want? a sly, internal voice points out. “You can leave, too,” I call to Anthony, because I seem to only want things I cannot have and I absolutely cannot have Anthony Lawson. He looks up from where he’s still attending to the goal and waves a hand in my direction. “I’m good,” he yells back, voice echoing across the now empty rink. Resigned, I begin rounding up stray pucks. This sort of thing seems to be the hardest part of the job, for me. My peripheral vision is garbage, even in my good eye, so I end up missing more than I gather. Half the time, when I think I’m done, I look back over the ice and find twice as many pucks and cones as what I have in my hand. It’s infuriating, and only becomes more so when Avery, and now Anthony, are in attendance. I don’t want them to know about my eyesight, but it becomes increasingly difficult to hide in situations ...

He’s humming tunelessly as we traverse the halls toward my office, and I bite back the urge to ask him to please shut the fuck up. I can’t tell if it’s him that makes me uncomfortable, or just the fact that I’m attracted to a straight man that’s pissing me off. It’s been a long time—coming up on two years—since I’ve had sex with another man. So, naturally, the first guy to get me going since the accident is one that is unavailable to me.

I wish I could just fuck him and get him out of my system. One time, scratch the itch, and I’d be happy.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie, but my traitorous stomach gives me away. Anthony’s eyes fix on my abdomen and a strange look crosses his face. I’d say it was longing, but I’m not in the business of fanciful thinking. “If you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll just pick something for you,” he warns, eyes tracking from where they were locked on my stomach, upward over my chest, before he meets my gaze. There is an unmistakable heat in his expression. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t off base with the longing. The realization makes my fingers tingle; a desire to touch him manifesting as an actual physical reaction. I should fire him, and save myself the constant headache of his company.

I don’t care what I eat. The only thing I’m hungry for is hiding under tight, black athletic pants and is firmly off limits.

“Food’s almost here. I’ll meet them outside and bring it back here.” Hopping up, he scoots between the desks and heads for the door. In a fit of madness, I call him back before he can turn the corner into the hallway. “I’ll come with you. We can take the food back to my place.” The look this earns me is lascivious and I choose to ignore it. I don’t know what game he’s playing. I’ve been out of practice with dating, and I’m not confident in my ability to recognize real flirting versus…whatever it is Anthony is doing. As usual, he refuses to lead and walks directly beside me as we exit the building. I step away from him as soon as we hit the sidewalk; he follows, brushing his arm back up against mine.

When I go to move past Anthony, in the direction of the refrigerator, I place an unthinking hand on his hip. He leans into the touch and I pull away hastily. This close, I can smell sandalwood on his skin, even over the smell of Indian food. “What will you have to drink?” I ask, ignoring the urge to bury my nose in his neck and inhale. “Whatever you’re having is fine.” Tea it is. I move around him as best I can in the tight space, and prepare two mugs. He waits until I’m finished, before silently handing me one of my own plates and waiting for me to get my food first. I dim the lights, wanting to give my eyes a break after a day spent in harsh lighting, and then immediately regret it. I hope he doesn’t confuse the move for a romantic gesture. “Mood lighting,” he comments, and I scowl at him. So much for that. Beneath the table, he kicks his legs out until they are pressed against mine. I eye him over my plate, uneasy. He told me, just yesterday, that he was straight. Either he was lying, or he’s fucking with me. I try to move my legs, sitting at an angle. He follows, resting his lower legs against mine, and I give up. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away.

I really have no idea what I’m doing. I feel like a marionette, my limbs operating completely outside of my control. All I know is, there is something about Nico that draws me to him; I’m craving contact, seeking out his body with single-minded intensity. I know I need to tone it down, but I can’t. Jesus, but I fucking want him. “When’s your birthday?” I ask, enjoying the heat of his calf. I wish our pants weren’t in the way—I want to know how his leg hair feels when it catches against my own. Nico stares at me like I asked him for his opinion on assisted suicide. “Why do you want to know that, Anthony?” He sounds exhausted, like dealing with me is more taxing than working with the college kids. “So that I know when to bring you a present.” Nico stares at me for so long, I wonder if he fell asleep with his eyes open. “I don’t want a present.” “If anyone in the world needs a present on their birthday, it’s you.” I point my fork at him. He ducks his head to eat, but more than once I see his eyes flick back up to my face. I wait. When it seems like he’s not going to answer the question, I open my mouth to ask another. “October 31st,” he mutters, speaking directly to his plate. “Halloween baby! Cool.” “Quite fitting, actually. I’m well suited for the holiday, now.” His mouth tries to shape itself into a semblance of a smile, and he waves fingers in the direction of his face. Frowning, I look at him. Really look at him. At the dusting of light brown scruff on his jaw, and the s...

He licks his lips, and fucking hell, I want to kiss him so bad. “This is a bad idea,” he says evenly, but one of his hands rises until his fingers are brushing along my forearm. It feels like a direct contradiction to what he just said. “Why?” “Because we’re coworkers. And we don’t like each other. And you don’t like men.” “We’re not coworkers. You’ve told me a dozen times how I’m not a member of staff—I’m only temporary, remember? And I like you fine, when you’re not being difficult. Honestly, I like you even then. And you’re right, I’ve never been attracted to a man before.” I glide my hand around to cup his hip, discovering that the skin here on his side is just as soft as it is at the front. I wonder if I’ll get the chance to compare it with other places. “But in my defense, I only just met you. And I am definitely attracted to you. God only knows why.”

It’s hard to sleep when you keep having confusing dreams about a tall, green-eyed hockey coach.

I already regret propositioning Anthony, and we haven’t even hooked up yet. In the safe, comfortable quiet of my home, it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea. Not when he was skimming exploratory hands over my skin, and kissing my jaw. But now, under the glaring light of the practice rink, it feels like a gross overstep on my part. I’m not interested in helping a baby bi figure out their sexuality, and most certainly not one who plays for the NHL—a league well known for its homophobic tendencies. My resolve to tell him the deal is off lasts until practice ends and he steps off the ice. The look he sends me is so filled with heat, there could be no mistaking it. A weaker man than me would have trouble withstanding that look. Annoyed with myself, I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s easier to think when I can’t see that face and remember how soft his lips were.

Eventually, the only one left is Carter Morgan who, per usual, lingered in the periphery until everyone else left. Now, he moves forward, peeking into the box and pulling out a lone ball cap. He stares at it hard, a deep frown marring his young face. Awkwardly walking over on his skates, he thrusts the hat toward Anthony, who takes it with a confused expression. “You didn’t sign it,” Morgan mumbles, eyes skittering around and making contact with anything but Anthony’s eyes. “Yeah, sorry. I was just made aware of that.” He pushes his knee more firmly against mine. Silently, I hand him a sharpie. He signs it with a flourish and hands it back. “Here you go, buddy.” Morgan scowls down at the freshly autographed hat as though he didn’t just request it. We wait. Eventually, he puts it on his head and I swear he almost smiles. “Thanks, Tony. See you tomorrow. Bye, Coach Mackenzie.” I think there might be some pep in his step as he trudges off toward the lockers, but that may just be wishful thinking. I stand, turning around and eyeing Anthony. He’s doing nothing more than sitting, but the wide spread of his muscular thighs is ridiculously enticing. His hands are resting in his lap; hands that were inside my shirt last week, calloused palms rough and warm. “Well, Tony, you’ve certainly made their night. Probably their whole summer. You nearly got Morgan to smile.”

He looks me up and down, gaze trailing slowly from my feet to my pelvis, where it lingers, and up my chest. It’s an openly sexual look, and I can feel it in my bones. What was that about regret, earlier? “Have any plans for the evening?” I ask, like the weak bastard that I am. “Sure do,” he says cheekily. “Same plans as you, in fact.” With that, he sets off around the rink. Fixing my eyes on his wide back, I follow. I’m grateful that I don’t have to walk next to him, for once, and fixate on whether or not I’ll run into a wall. With him directly in front, I can treat him like a seeing eye dog and just follow along in his wake. Once we step through the exit, door held for me by Anthony, he falls into step beside me. His hands are tucked casually into his pockets, and his stride is loose. He seems perfectly at ease for someone who is on their way to their first tryst with a man. Honestly, I have no idea what to make of him.

Running my hands appreciatively over his thick thighs, I take a moment to enjoy the view before turning my gaze upward to his face. Anthony is looking down at me, an expression on his face that can only be described as hungry. Maintaining eye contact, I grasp the base of his dick in a firm grip and deep throat him. Sucking him down until the head of his cock bumps the back of my throat, I tighten my grip further and he groans.

He smiles at me, wide and without restraint. Like he’s looking forward to it. My dick is painfully hard at this point, and I won’t pretend I haven’t been imagining him on his knees in front of me. But sucking dick wasn’t in his repertoire before now, and it might not be something he’s comfortable with. I’m horny, not an asshole.

I wish he would narrate audiobooks. I wouldn’t mind going to sleep every night with that voice in my ears.

He’s in no hurry, and neither am I. I’d nearly forgotten, how good it feels to be touched.