Page 7 of The Hockey Stud

Simply telling Dover that we need to talk is not going to be enough. I am fully aware of this fact, yet despite my better judgment, I went ahead and sent that exact message to him via text about twenty minutes ago. Since then, there has been no response from him—not even an indication that he has read the message. The read receipt remains stubbornly absent, and my anxiety grows with each passing minute. I know for certain that he is still somewhere in the building. In fact, a large number of the team are still present, many of them having families here tonight.

Given these circumstances, I quickly make the decision to head over to the family suite, reasoning that it is the most likely place to find Dover among the crowd. However, I am painfully aware that I am not as fast on my feet as I used to be. Ever since I was shot, my ability to walk swiftly has been compromised, and this lingering injury continues to be a source of frustration and resentment for me.

Despite this, I push myself to cover the distance as quickly as I can, ignoring the ache in my side and focusing on my determination to reach Dover. The hallways are crowded, filled with people moving in and out, but I weave my way through them with as much speed as I can muster. Finally, I arrive at the entrance to the family suite and find myself lingering at the edge of a bustling group of people. I stand on the periphery, scanning the faces in the room, searching for any sign of Dover among the sea of bodies, my heart pounding with anticipation and unease.

Like a homing beacon, my gaze instinctively seeks out and settles on the man I have come here to speak with, cutting through the crowd with unwavering focus. The moment I spot him, a surge of anticipation runs through me, but it is quickly replaced by a sharp edge of irritation as I notice who he is conversing with. My eyes narrow and my expression hardens when I realize that standing beside him is none other than Graham Fletcher—the same arrogant jerk who set Dover up the previous night. What the hell is he doing here, of all places, and why is he talking to the very person I need to see?

Taking a deep breath and struggling to regain some semblance of control over the tense situation, I cautiously edge my way along the perimeter of the room. My movements are deliberate and measured, each step calculated to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. As I approach from behind, I can see Dover standing a short distance ahead. Before I can reach him, Graham’s eyes flicker in my direction. He notices me first, his brow furrowing in confusion as he tries to place my face. There is a moment of silent recognition—or perhaps just uncertainty—before Dover finally turns around. Upon seeing me, he exhales heavily, a weary sigh escaping his lips that seems to carry the weight of resignation. He opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head. “Not here.”

Without another word, I reach out and firmly take hold of his elbow, guiding him out of the room with a determined grip. He follows me without resistance, not uttering a single protest. However, once we step beyond the threshold and into the hallway, the situation changes dramatically. He suddenly stops in his tracks, planting his feet stubbornly on the ground, and forcefully yanks his arm out of my grasp. His eyes flash with confusion and irritation as he demands, “What the hell has gotten into you?”

I whirl around to face him, my frustration bubbling over. “Me!” I exclaim, my voice rising in disbelief. “You’re the one making a complete fool of yourself with that asshole.” I can hardly keep the anger out of my tone as I glare at him, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

He narrows his eyes, suspicion written all over his face. “You’re jealous,” he accuses, his voice low and challenging, as if daring me to deny it.

My mouth tightens into a thin, hard line as I struggle to keep my composure. “That asshole,” I spit out between gritted teeth, barely able to contain my fury, “is the one who set you up with the photographer last night.” I take a shaky breath, my anger mounting with every word. “His friend is the one who took, and then posted online, the compromising pictures of you and him. One of which, you have your hand on his dick,” I snarl, my voice trembling with outrage. My face flushes with heat, and I’m certain that if it were possible, steam would be pouring out of my ears at this point.

“Are you sure? I mean, he’s Gemma’s friend.” Dover shakes his head.

“Yes. I’m sure,” I say calmly. “Rosie tracked it all down.”

“I’m not interested in him, Levi,” Dover admits, his voice barely above a whisper, betraying a vulnerability he rarely shows. “He was a distraction, and not even a good one. Honestly, he barely held my attention. He was the one who came up to me, not the other way around. It was Gemma who invited him to the game, not me.”

Despite my best efforts to remain composed, a wave of relief crashes over me, so intense it borders on overwhelming. Irritated by my own lack of control, I reach out, grabbing Dover by the front of his shirt and pulling him roughly toward me. My lips find his in a desperate, hungry kiss, pressing against him with a force that leaves no room for doubt. I shove him back until he’s pinned against the wall, my body pressed tightly to his, ensuring he can’t move away even if he wanted to. Dover’s hands fly to my hips, his fingers digging in with a possessive urgency that sends a jolt of arousal through me. The sensation is electric, and I instinctively press myself even closer, feeling his erection growing hard against mine, the friction igniting a fire between us. Our mouths remain fused, breathing each other in, and his fresh, clean scent fills my senses, making my head spin and stoking my desire even further. I can’t remember ever being this turned on, this quickly before. The intensity of my reaction to him is unlike anything I’ve experienced, and it leaves me breathless, desperate for more.

It feels as though a bucket of icy cold water has been dumped over me, shocking me out of the moment. Instinctively, I jerk back, putting sudden distance between us, and my gaze locks with Levi’s. In his eyes, I can see the shift—the raw lust that was there only seconds ago begins to fade, replaced by a dawning confusion that mirrors my own swirling emotions. My voice comes out low and tense as I admit, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Dover, however, doesn’t seem ready to let the moment go. “In the hallway or in general?” He steps closer, invading my personal space with a confidence that both irritates and unsettles me. His hand brushes deliberately over the front of my pants, lingering on the obvious evidence of my arousal, which refuses to subside despite my conflicted feelings. The sensation is almost unbearable, and I’m painfully aware that I’m still so hard I could probably drive nails into wood.

Frustration boils over, and I react without thinking. I shove him away from me, putting a firm barrier between us. “In general,” I snap, my voice sharp with frustration and embarrassment. Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and stride away, desperate to put space between myself and the confusing, electric tension that still hangs in the air.

I stand frozen in absolute shock, my eyes fixed on the man who strides away from me, his entire body radiating tension that matches my own. Every line of his posture screams agitation, and it is clear that just moments ago, he was so riled up, so overwhelmed with emotion, that he reacted without thought. And yet, despite all that energy crackling between us, the asshole just turns on his heel and walks away, leaving me reeling. Well, I’m not about to let him get away with it—not this time, not now.

He disappears from view, slipping around a corner with practiced ease, but I know exactly where he’s going. I trail after him, weaving through the maze-like corridors of the building, my mind racing with questions. Why is he taking this route? His office, which he shares with two other colleagues, is actually located a couple of floors above us, so his current path makes little sense. My brow furrows in confusion as I watch him stride purposefully ahead, only to stop abruptly and press the call button for one of the rarely used service elevators.

He glances back at me, his gaze unreadable, as I hesitate in the doorway, unsure of his intentions. “Get in,” he says, his voice firm but weary. “We need to talk, Dover.” There’s a heaviness in his tone, and as he speaks, I notice the subtle slump of his shoulders, a sign that he’s more exhausted than he’s letting on.

Without saying a word, I step into the elevator. Levi enters right after, his presence filling the small space. The metallic doors slide shut behind us with a soft hiss. He reaches out and presses the button for the parking garage, but then, unexpectedly, he hits the emergency stop, halting our descent between floors. The elevator shudders to a stop, and the sudden stillness feels charged with tension.

Levi leans back against the wall, running a hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the fatigue and frustration. After a moment, he finally speaks, his voice low and edged with concern. “Social media is buzzing right now,” he says, fixing me with a serious look. “There are photographs circulating of you with your hand on another guy’s dick.” The words hang in the air, heavy and inescapable, as I process the gravity of the situation.

My heart pounds rapidly in my chest, the rhythm echoing my growing anxiety as the realization settles heavily into my confused and overwhelmed mind—this situation is far from ideal. For some reason my brain goes off in a slightly different direction. Instead of dealing with the social media storm, I can’t help myself.

“Graham isn’t the one I’m interested in,” I admit, my voice trembling slightly as I force out a hollow laugh, devoid of any real amusement or joy. “I tried to give it a chance, really I did. I wanted to see if I could feel something, but it just wasn’t there. No matter how much I tried to convince myself, the connection was missing.” I pause for a moment, letting the weight of my words linger in the air before continuing, my gaze locking firmly onto his eyes. “You know it’s always been you.” With deliberate intent, I take a step closer to him, closing the distance between us. My voice drops to a lower, more vulnerable tone as I ask, “Does it bother you, even a little, that my hands have been on another guy’s dick, but never on yours? That I’ve crossed that line with someone else, yet never with you?”

"Shut up," he snarls, his voice rough and edged with frustration. His eyes flash as he glares at me, jaw clenched tightly. "I'm too old for you," he bites out, the words sharp and defensive, as if trying to convince himself as much as me.

I can't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from my chest, light and teasing. "Sure you are, old man," I reply, my tone playful, deliberately provoking him. My eyes dance with mischief as I meet his intense gaze, refusing to back down.

"Stop!" he snaps, his patience clearly fraying. Without warning, he shoves me back against the heavy doors behind us, the impact sending a jolt through my body. Our bodies are pressed close together, the heat between us almost tangible. I feel his heart pounding, matching the wild rhythm of my own. The air is thick with tension, every nerve in my body alive with anticipation. The need simmering between us is so powerful, so overwhelming, that I fear it might very well consume me entirely.

The instant his gaze drops to my mouth, a surge of reckless determination overtakes me. I think, fuck it, and reach out with both hands, gripping the sides of his head with a fierceness that surprises even me. Without hesitation, I pull him toward me and crash my lips against his in a desperate, hungry kiss. The contact sends a violent shudder rippling through his entire body, and I feel the tremor echo through me, as if our nerves are wired together.

“You’re not too fucking old,” I growl against his lips, my voice rough with desire and defiance. I attack his mouth with renewed intensity, my tongue darting past his lips to tangle with his, tasting him, claiming him. He responds instantly, pressing his body more firmly against mine, closing any remaining space between us. Our cocks are hard and throbbing, straining against the fabric of our clothes, the heat and pressure building with every passing second.

My hips grind into his, seeking more friction, more contact, and the sensation is so overwhelming that a whimper escapes me, muffled by his mouth. My fingers tangle in the short, coarse strands of his hair, tugging him closer, desperate to keep him anchored to me. The kiss grows more frantic, more consuming, until it feels as though we’re both on the verge of losing ourselves completely.

“We need to stop,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, yet thick with desire and hesitation. Despite his words, he leans in again, capturing my lips with his, and our mouths meet in a hungry, urgent kiss. Our tongues intertwine, exploring and tasting, while our bodies press even closer together. The friction between us intensifies as our erections rub insistently through the thin fabric separating us. The sensation sends electric tingles racing up my spine, making my entire body feel lightheaded and overwhelmed with pleasure. Precum soaks into my shorts, a warm, wet reminder of just how close I am to the edge. My need for release is almost unbearable, and from the way he clings to me, I can tell he’s just as desperate.