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How do these guys do this? Why?
It had taken me all of thirty seconds to Google TJ when I got back to my hotel room in Calgary. And I’ve watched games lately. Several of them. Curiosity. That’s all it is.
I’ve read magazine articles. They call him an enforcer. One of the best in the league. What does that even mean? My suspicions about his sexuality were confirmed when I saw several photos of him with women…different women, lots and lots of different women. It was annoying. Surprising that it was annoying. Not at all unexpected and yet still, somehow, annoying. He flirted with me. Of course he did. Not the first straight guy to do that. Possibly the most beautiful straight man to do that. But I won’t go down that road again, no matter how goddamn gorgeous he is. And he is. Holy fuck.
The entire Colorado team is loaded with lookers. I researched Davey too and his bullshit made-up title. He was a former professional player. No photos of the man who owns his heart. That man Davey is charged with making look good is the General Manager. The one who stroked his arm across that glorious ass is one of the coaches and they share each other and a wife. Wow.
TJ slams another player up against the boards and comes away with the puck, which he quickly dishes off to someone else. I wait, holding my breath. Shoot it. Shoot it. The recipient of TJ’s pass does. They score. I smile. The crowd on the television goes wild.
When I look away from the TV smiling, I see Fynn standing in my living room, scowling at me. I didn’t hear the door fly open and since it is Fynn standing before me, that is how I know said door flew open. That is how Fynn does things. Loudly. With flare. With purpose.
“Hockey?”
I don’t respond.
“Knocking? You ever hear of it?”
He shrugs. He could tell me he did, and I didn’t hear it, because I was caught up enough in the moment not to hear him enter. But I also know he never knocks. Never has. Not when we were in school together. Not when we shared an apartment, and he felt it was his right to charge into the bedroom or bathroom anytime he pleased. And certainly not now that he is just two floors down from my penthouse apartment.
Fynn Archer has never met a closed door he won’t open.
“Who is he?”
“Who?”
“The one who has you watching hockey.”
I shake my head. “It was just on.”
Fynn snorts. “Riiiight. You never have the TV on period. Like, I wonder why you even own one. And if you do bother to turn it on…sports? Seriously.”
“It doesn’t matter if there is someone. He’s straight.” I start to add they all are to console myself and stop even entertaining the idea of TJ and hearing that baritone voice…please, sir. Oh God, just imagining it brings my cock to life. But they aren’t all straight. The Colorado Grizzlies have a lot of representation. From top to bottom. No puns intended there. But the man in question who currently has my rapt attention, whether or not I like it, is very, very straight. But the way he looked at me the other night.
My looks have always gotten me attention. For as long as I can remember. Sometimes because I was the lone brown man in a sea of white. Often because I was a young brown kid sporting dreads and a Spanish accent with Scandinavian parents. But none of that phased me. Honestly, it’s probably because such wealthy, white progressive thinking people adopted me that I wasn’t exposed to the horrors a lot of kids in a mixed-race family would have to deal with.
The cost of my prep school was prohibitive to many people without means, even with a scholarship program, and that usually meant a lot of white or Asian kids. I was the only black boy. There were a few girls whose first language was Spanish. But that’s it. The teachers and parents celebrated our differences and, as such, us kids embraced it too.
Add to all of that the realization early on that I was also gay…and very good looking. I didn’t come out until later, but I didn’t exactly hide it. I mean, I didn’t actively pursue anyone. But I also didn’t hide my identity by dating girls or attending dances with them. Fynn and I were instant friends, and he did wear his gayness on his sleeve. Something that got him tossed out of his home at 16 and he moved in with us.
A pseudo stepbrother, which just deepened our already tight friendship. And it didn’t prevent us from adding some benefits later on in life after we’d moved out of my parents’ house and into an apartment together at college.
“Meet me at the club later? I have some new toys I want to play with. I suspect you need to release some tension,” Fynn smirks and plants a kiss on my cheek, as he reaches a hand between my legs and squeezes my cock.
“Yep,” he says. “That’s what I thought.” He grabs a banana off the counter and makes a show of deep throating it before turning toward the door. “You can even pretend I’m that hot hockey player you aren’t paying attention to.”
I allow myself one more glance at the game on the TV. Fynn follows my gaze and winks at me. I grab the remote and turn the TV off.
The club. The wildly successful sex club we own.
Overture.
Turns out people will pay a lot, and I do mean a lot, of money for membership to a club where they can release tension in all manner of ways without being judged or ridiculed…or jailed. A place to share spouses. A place to try something you’ve never tried before. A place to experiment. Just don’t bring those experiments home. Ever.
Chapter five
I pause slightly when I hear voices coming from Davey’s office.
The door is open, but the voices are hushed. The voices of lovers. Of promises being made. Of yearning. Of want.
