Page 33 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

Beau sidles up beside me, grabbing a rag out of the drawer next to the sink so he can dry. His big shoulder rubs casually against mine and our arms bump as we fall into a familiar rhythm together, washing and drying.

“You think he’ll get cut?” he asks.

Beau and I have been playing like beasts together for weeks, and the rest of the team has been keeping up in their own way, but our chances of getting the cup this season are slowly slipping away thanks to Nilsson’s inconsistent goaltending.

“I don’t know. Stepanov is off suspension, but I think Coach is nervous that he won’t be able to keep his nose clean. Nilsson has one of the lowest contracts on the team—if they cut him, they won’t be able to afford anyone to replace him.”

Beau grunts in grim understanding. If they cut Nilsson, it’s likely someone else is getting cut too. It’s one of the biggest challenges athletes have to live with. Our lives are in management’s hands every day. They can trade us, cut us, send us to another city at the drop of a hat and there isn’t a damn thing any of us can do about it, other than try to play so damn well we’re indispensable. Even that’s not always a guarantee.

In an unspoken agreement to stop talking about depressing shit that we have no control over, we change the conversation to lower-stakes gossip.

“Did you see that D’Amore is going to be an extra on some hockey show?” Beau says.

“I think I saw something about that a few weeks ago.” I chuckle. “I can see it, actually. He’s got Hollywood written all over him. Maybe it’ll be enough of a distraction to affect his game.”

“It’s supposed to be filming next summer or something, during the offseason.”

“That makes more sense.” I nod, noticing again the way our skin brushes casually, the way Beau’s big, strong fingers wrap around mine briefly every time he takes a wet dish from me to dry it.

His fingers are thick and rough, with callouses from gym equipment and years of growing up handling his hockey stick bare handed, just like I did. My mind tugs me back to that night more than a month ago now when I walked in on Beau in our hotel room with his fingers buried inside himself while he got off. Heat skitters over my skin at the memory and my cock starts to tingle and swell again.

I glance at him and he looks over at the exact same time, our eyes catching. A smile twists on his lips that’s different from the one I’m used to. It’s a little shy, like the one I’ve seen on his face a few times when he was screwing up his courage to flirt with a girl he was really into. My stomach flutters again and my gaze zeroes in on his mouth.

He reaches for the wet spoon in my hand and his fingers wrap around mine again without either of us looking away from each other. It’s… strange, and intense, and…

I swallow hard and catch myself swaying forward half an inch, drawn closer to Beau without thinking about it. He starts to lean closer too and my heart thunders wildly.

What are we doing? And why don’t I want to stop?

His hand is still wrapped around mine and the edges of the spoon dig into my palm just enough to assure me that this isn’t one of the confusing, too-real dreams I’ve been having lately that I always wake up from with my dick aching and that strange flutter in my gut that lasts all day.

The shrill beep of the oven timer makes Beau jump back, letting go of my hand as the shy smile turns into an apologetic one and a blush creeps over his cheeks.

“Dinner’s ready,” I say stupidly, sounding breathless as I drop the spoon into the dry side of the sink and rake my damp hands through my hair to pull myself out of whatever that just was.

If the timer hadn’t gone off, was Beau going to kiss me? Did I want him to?

I’m in a daze as I open the oven and start to reach inside.

“Trav,” Beau barks, grabbing the back of my shirt and yanking me back roughly. “Oven mitts.”

“Oh, shit.” I laugh. “Thanks, man, you just saved my hands. That would’ve been so fucked.”

“That’s what your D-man is for. If I don’t protect your hands, who will?”

His fingers stay fisted around the back of my shirt as I grab the oven mitts and slide them on before reaching back in again.

“Yeah, if my hands were burned, we’d have to give our new pre-game ritual a rest,” I joke, and an awkward silence falls for a beat. We haven’t actually addressed the elephant in the room since I suggested we keep doing it, we’ve just… done it. Does talking about it make it weird? Is it weird?

“Yeah, right. You’d still be jerking off even with bandaged hands,” he fires back after a second.

I laugh, more out of relief than anything. “Fair point. Maybe I should start working on my flexibility so I can learn to suck my own dick just in case I ever lose the use of my hands.”

Heat flares in Beau’s eyes before he quickly looks away.

“Goals, right?” he mumbles.

I dish up our food, and for some reason, instead of taking our plates into the living room to sit in front of the TV like usual, we end up sitting across from each other at the kitchen table I almost never use. His foot nudges against mine under the table and I watch as he scoops up a spoonful of shepherd’s pie and takes the first bite. His eyelids flutter and he lets out a humming moan that goes straight to my dick… again. I shift in my seat and nudge his foot right back, liking the small connection. Something about it feels almost intimate; Beau’s socked foot bumping against my bare one under the table. Fuck, my dick is hard now, not just chubbed but fully stiff from listening to Beau’s moans and feeling his foot against mine.