Hidden Scars (Darby U Hockey Boys, #1)

by Andi Jaxon

My shirt is folded neatly on the seat of a chair. Without pulling the chair out, I grab the shirt and slide it on, feeling better with my scars covered. We must appear perfect. Always. Hide the dirty truths behind smiles.

I take a step back and force my hands into my pockets. Something about him has my fingers itching to touch, but I can’t.

Taking in the shaggy dark blond hair on his head and the perfectly unscarred expanse of his chest, my skin tingles imagining him against me despite how much my head revolts at the thought of being touched. The muscles of his abdomen flex as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and my mouth waters.

Dragging my ass off the floor, I don’t bother turning the light on before I strip my clothes off and turn the hot water on. I don’t want to see the fucking scars anyway. I didn’t put any shower stuff in here, so I grope at the walls and find whatever Jeremy fucking Albrooke has. If he notices, I don’t give a shit.

He was passed out cold by the time I was done pissing and since he didn’t have any bed shit, I tossed a blanket over him, trying to be a nice guy, but after today, he can fuck off. I hope he freezes.

My stomach muscles tighten and despite being tired and sore, the only thing I can focus on is how much I want to come. And Preston Carmichael. The dark gray eyes that pierce me when he looks at me. The carefully cut and styled black hair and muscled build I know is under his clothes. I hate that he’s hot. That I want to feel him against me. My dick leaks precum at the image of him holding me down, losing some of that control he holds so tight to while he fucks me.

“Just fuck me, I don’t need slow,” I grit out, dropping my forearm to the tiled wall and wrapping a hand around my dick. Brendon’s ragged breath fans across my neck while I jerk myself too hard. Fuck. I close my eyes and Preston appears in my head.

I lean slightly so I can see who walks in. My damn roommate appears around the corner at the same time Brendon grunts. Preston stops moving and takes a step back, peering around the corner until he finds me. I don’t know if he can see who’s with me but he lifts an eyebrow and watches me watching him. My cheeks flush and cold fear floods my stomach. Jerking back, I stand back up straight so I can’t see him. Why is my dick getting harder? My breathing is ragged and it has nothing to do with Brendon pumping into my ass.

Footsteps are quiet and movement from the corner of my eye has me focusing on Preston leaning against a bank of lockers. In the six-inch gap between the wall and the lockers, I see him. He centers himself in the space so I can see him from head to toe, but only a strip of him. His hand slides down his abdomen and into his base layer compression leggings. My gaze focuses hard on the show he’s putting on. Pulling his dick out of his pants, he strokes himself, already hard as fuck. My tongue drags across my lower lip at the drop of precum glistening on his tip. My own cock throbs and arousal hums through my veins as I watch him jacking off to me getting fucked. Jesus, what is happening?

Wrapping my hand around my dick once again, I pump fast. My eyes locked on Preston’s like he’s told me not to look away. He’s holding me there, demanding my attention without a word. His neck flushes, the blush of lust climbing up his jaw onto his cheeks. He bites his lower lip while his hips thrust into his hand. Oh, fuck, I’m going to come. The electricity shoots through me, my balls tingling and drawing up into me. Cum splatters on the wall in front of me with a groan from my chest. Holy fuck. My knees want to give out. I d...

“What the fuck is your problem?” Albrooke shoves me but I barely budge. “Maybe if you focused less on getting laid, and more on the game,” my eyes flick to Oiler, images of Jeremy’s flushed face while he was getting fucked flashes through my head for a second before coming back to my pissed off roommate, “you’d play better. Get your priorities straight.” “Fuck you!” He shoves me again, getting in my face this time. The strange coloring of his eyes bright in the lights of the rink. One eye is half blue and half brown while the other is blue with brown spots. It’s haunting. “You don’t know shit about me!”

I slip on my sneakers, grab my gym bag, and head out of the locker room, not caring that the base layer fits like a second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination. I’m in extremely good shape and am not embarrassed by my body at all. The scars are kept a secret because it's easier. It’s safer for everyone around me. And it means people don’t touch me. I hate being touched.

For the first time in a year, I dip out of my workout early. Guilt tries to drag me back. If you don’t keep it up, you’re a failure. Father will know and you’ll be called back to the house for correction. I run for the toilet and throw up the water I’ve been chugging for the last few hours during practice. My knees slamming into the cold tiles surrounding the toilet sends pain shooting up my legs but I can’t focus on it. The only thing that matters is making sure I don’t throw up on the floor. We must not leave evidence of our shortcomings. The world must believe we are perfect at all times. No emotional breakdowns, no scandals.

Once my stomach is empty, I sit back against the door of the stall with my knees pulled up and my arms resting on them, my head back against the cool metal. I wipe my face and mouth with the bottom of my shirt and hate the weakness. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to have this moment. Just this once. To breathe.

I pull the curtain shut and make sure it doesn’t gap open before pulling my clothes off and turning the water on. It’s cold as fuck but I don’t really have any other option. No one needs to see the damage to my skin. I don’t want to field questions about it or see the pity in people's eyes.

I hate my skin. The scars that mar my body. Proof of my fuck-ups and the twisted mind of my father. There’s never a time I can just pull my shirt off. I’m always aware of the way my shirts fit, preferring to tuck them in most of the time to keep my body covered.

Curling up on my side, I press my back against the wall and close my eyes, images of Jeremy Albrooke coming running on repeat in my mind's eye.

Even though he blows off the puck bunnies, they still scream his name when they see him. The only person I’ve noticed him looking at for longer than a second is me, but the only things he says to me are that I’m slow, sloppy, and easy to read on the ice. I don’t understand him.

“Lean on me not the bed.” I want to feel the pressure of being held down. I need it. My dick is barely at half-mast because I’m bored. “Fuck my mouth.”

shove Preston, taking him by surprise and forcing him to take a step back. His body tenses like I’ve never seen before, so far past pissed off it’s scary. “Don’t fucking touch me!” His voice is so low I almost don’t hear it. It has goose bumps breaking out along my skin. My hands immediately go up in a sign of surrender. Preston’s hands grip my shirt in tight fists, shoving me against my dresser, the knobs of the drawers digging into my back. “What the fuck are you doing?” I demand, a little more aroused than I’m comfortable with admitting; a strange mix of scared and turned the fuck on. Why is my dick hard?

Using his forearm across my chest, he leans into me hard enough to hurt while his other hand shoves into my pants and grabs my dick. I’m hard as steel and shocked into silence for a second when he strokes me. “What the hell are you doing?” I barely manage to get the words out without groaning. “I said, shut the fuck up,” Preston bites out. God damn, my knees are weak I’m so fucking turned on. I’m not going to last.

Preston adjusts his hold on me, his arm now vertical on my breast bone and his hand around my throat. My orgasm hits so hard I’m taken off guard by it. A loud, drawn-out moan escapes my throat and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I explode between us, my cum dripping down his hand, and onto both of our shirts. My hands fall to my sides, limp and useless, while my head falls to his shoulder as my brain tries to reconnect to the world. “Jesus…fuck,” I mutter, lifting my head from his shoulder to look up at him. He’s got about three inches on me and he uses every centimeter to his advantage. “Don’t touch me.” With those words, he shoves me and steps back. “Get your head in the game.”

You’re a fucking idiot. My hands are shaking as I tear out of the dorms and all but run to the gym. Today was supposed to be a recovery day but I can’t stay in that room right now and I don’t have any more classes today. I let my control slip and that can’t happen. I have to be in control of myself or it all falls apart.

I push myself harder, trying so fucking hard to make the voice in my head shut up. Jeremy won’t trust you now. He’s going to change roommates and everyone on the team will know what a shit show you really are. But he liked it. Jeremy liked when I touched him. The strange blue-brown of his eyes are burned into my memory. I’ll never forget them. I can still feel his dick in my hand, pulsing through his orgasm, and his warm cum on my skin. It took everything in me not to lick it off. You’re a freak for enjoying it. He didn’t want you to touch him but you did it anyway. Monster. No one will ever want you. No one will love you.

The picture of Jeremy getting face fucked by Brendon flitters through my head. Jealousy at the easy way they touch rears its ugly head. My jaw tightens, my hands clench. I hate how Brendon touches Jeremy. I hate it even more that I want to be the one touching him. God damn it. Get your shit together.

As I reach for the door knob, it opens and I almost sag in relief. Doesn’t matter that Jeremy is standing there looking awkward and unsure of what to do. Doesn’t matter that I want to curl up with him against me. I brush past him, my arm grazing his bare chest and I hiss at the contact, jerking away from him.

I don’t even remove my shoes before falling on my bed face first. Roll over. You aren’t safe like this. Your back is exposed. My entire body relaxes for a second but I can’t pass out like this. My head won’t let me slip into the unconscious state I so desperately want while I’m at risk. Rolling onto my side, I push my back against the cool wall and, in the span of one breath, the world around me is gone.

“You should get a workout in.” The words fall from my mouth with no thought from me. “Being lazy isn’t going to get us to the Frozen Four.” Not everyone is as neurotic as you. “Fuck off. The last thing I want to do at four am is spend it at the gym, looking at your face.” No one wants to spend time with you. You’re useless. After all the time Father spent trying to fix you…

I grab my gym bag to shove clean clothes in it and find my shoes shoved under the edge of my bed. Did I put my shoes there? Thinking back to last night, it’s kind of hazy but I’m pretty sure I fell asleep with my shoes on. As I sit to slide my shoes on, I flick my eyes to Jeremy for a second. Did he take my shoes off after I fell asleep? I don’t know what to think about that. The walk to the ice rink is plagued with it. Why would he care?

You didn’t hate the way he touched you. Shut up, brain. No one asked you. The feel of Preston holding me against the dresser, his hand on my dick, has me hardening and my skin flushing. That’s what I’ve wanted from Brendon but never got. I wonder if he’s always like that or if it was a one time thing. He touched you like he owned you and you loved it.

On my way out, I look back over the room and stop on Preston’s bed. I’ve never seen him look that rough before. Normally, he’s perfectly polished and put together, but when he got back from what I assume was the gym, he was rough. The look in his eyes was like he was running from ghosts. He passed out so quickly it was concerning, and if I hadn’t heard the whimpering, I would have checked his pulse to make sure he was alive. The dreams were bad, the way his big body cowered was too real. Does he have any friends he can talk to?

“Has he said anything to you?” Brendon’s question is quiet but I hear it just fine. “Nothing besides I need to workout more and I’m lazy.” My face heats a bit at the memory of him telling me to shut the fuck up while he was jerking me off. Brendon doesn’t need to know that happened.

“If you spent less time worrying about your dick and more time working out, you would be a phenomenal player. Instead, you’re mediocre, at best.” The dig hits me just as hard as he intended. Fucking prick. “Seems you spend a decent amount of time thinking about my dick. Jealous no one wants to suck yours?” “Hey!” Brendon whisper yells at us. “Shut up and pay attention.” “I wonder how long it will take for you to beg to suck my dick.” Carmichael keeps right on talking as if he didn’t hear Brendon. I know he did, he just doesn’t care.

“You can wear one of mine so you aren’t an embarrassment.” Jeremy’s gaze flicks down to the zipper bag on the hanger then back to mine. “Hurry up.” He takes a step back, insulted by the offer. There’s more room in this hotel room than in our dorm but he can’t escape me. “Excuse me? I’m not wearing your shit. This is fine.” He motions to the clothes on his body that are absolutely not fine.

I step into his space, tossing the suit onto his bed, then grab the lapels on his jacket, jerking him against me. It’s my turn to grit my teeth against the contact, but there’s enough layers of clothing that I can tolerate it. Those unmatching blue-brown eyes blazing at me from less than a foot away is intoxicating. He smells so fucking good though. Spicy and clean. For the first time I can remember, I want to shove my face into the crook of his neck and inhale. I’ve never wanted to do that before. The men I’ve fucked in the past were just that. A quick fuck and done. “I don’t care if you hate me or not, have some self-respect and show up to the game looking like you belong there.”

My gaze drops to his mouth for just a second when he swipes his tongue over his lower lip. I can’t like him. I can’t be attracted to him. I definitely can’t fuck him. Moving quickly, I grab the two sides of his shirt and rip it open, sending the buttons flying around our room. “What the fuck is your problem?!” he yells. I pat his cheek and head to the elevator.

“Where’s Albrooke?” Some of the guys turn to look at me. “I don’t know, Coach, he was dressed when I left our room.” Close enough to the truth. He was dressed, I just helped him make better decisions. “I’m here, Coach.” The man in question appears over Coach’s shoulder. “Good, have a seat and we’ll get going.” Coach takes a seat in the front row of the bus and I peer around the seats to see Jeremy in my dark gray suit with the light blue button up shirt. The pants are a little long but they fit his thighs perfectly. Thighs I desperately want to feel wrapped around me.

Jeremy sits down and pulls on one sock, then his skate and ties it, then repeats it on the other side. When his skates are on, he knocks on the toes of each one, right then left. Why am I watching him put his damn skates on? I don’t care what his pregame rituals are. Focus.

Opening my eyes, I find Oiler watching me like he’s trying to figure me out. It’s the third time today I’ve caught him staring at me. I lift an eyebrow at him and his gaze flicks to Albrooke. Did Albrooke tell his boyfriend that he was wearing my clothes? Or that I jacked him off? Why do I like that he’s jealous? Why do I like Jeremy wearing my stuff?

“Uh, maybe it’s a sign that you need to lighten up and live a little?” The attitude coming through this phone is palpable. “You’re kind of a pretentious workaholic. So, get drunk and get laid. I’m betting it’ll make you a lot nicer.” “What the actual fuck, Lil? My baby sister does not need to think about my sex life.” I bark out. It’s one thing for the guys in the locker room to tell me I’m being a dick and to go get laid, it’s an entirely different one for my sister to say it.

The steam is billowing out of the stall when I pull back the curtain and step in. The hot water burns my skin, turning it pink as I let it run over me. I close my eyes again and I let myself relax and think back to the game. To Jeremy in my clothes, how well my pants fit him. My dick perks up, wanting a piece of my damn roommate. With images of him getting fucked in the team showers playing in my head like a movie, I stroke myself. His eyes meeting mine, helpless but too afraid to say anything, so he took it and couldn’t stop himself from coming. For me.

When I walked in, he was half hard at best. Brendon doesn’t know how to handle him. It’s so painfully obvious he wants to be manhandled, forced, dominated. It calls to a part of me I rarely let out. I like control. I don’t mind inflicting some pain if it’s wanted, pushing limits gets me off. Taking what I want and knowing that when he fights, he wants me to force him.

My breathing increases as the images change to him staring up at me while I jerked him off. Angry, unsure, turned on. It was sexy as fuck to watch him struggle to accept it then give in and let it happen. That moment of surrender, it’s intoxicating. I want so much more of it.

I’m achingly hard, my balls full and heavy with the need to come as I stroke faster and harder, chasing the orgasm building up in my body. The whimper Jeremy made when he came for me plays in my head like I’ve never heard it before and my own orgasm crashes over me, spilling cum onto the wall and floor of the shower. My stomach muscles tighten as I thrust my hips against my hand. Fuck, I needed that.

“Carmichael!” I turn toward the dining room, looking for whoever called my name. Brendon is motioning me over to a table with Paul and Jeremy. My dick twitches at the mere idea of being close to him after what I just did upstairs. I hate that I want him as much as I do.

“I’m going back to my room. Night.” For just a second, my eyes meet Jeremy’s, surprise and confusion warring on his face. I know the closed off mask I usually wear is gone, exposing how raw and frustrated I am. There’s no way I can cover it right now, I have to protect myself. I don’t stop to contemplate any of it. I don’t owe him or anyone else an explanation.

I step between his knees and reach for his arms to pull him up into a sitting position. He hisses and cringes away from me, pushing at my hands. “Don’t touch me.” How does someone who plays a full contact sport not like to be touched? Do the pads make that big of a difference? Or is it just me he doesn’t want to touch him? “You gotta sit up and eat,” I tell him, reaching for his hand this time. He threads his fingers through mine and holds my hand. The move makes me freeze. What the hell is this?

Faster than I figured he could move the morning after drinking, he’s flung a leg over mine and straddles my lap, leaning his forearm against my throat and dropping his head until our noses are almost touching.

“Don’t touch me!” Preston snarls, ripping my hands off him. “You’re the one sitting on me! Get the hell off me!” Anger and confusion burn my blood.

His chest is heaving while he stares at me. I don’t let myself look away, despite a small part of me wanting to. It’s interesting watching him reign himself back in, pull the anger back and slide that indifferent mask back over his face. His hands shake and his spine straightens. The fact that he can look completely indifferent yet superior while straddling me is fucking weird.