Page 101 of Him
“Babe, do you want to wear this?” Jamie indicates his suit.
“Really?”
He shrugs. “You don’t have to, but…”
“Let’s try it.” I laugh, because this is crazy. But that’s what happens when he and I are together. Crazy happens.
And we are just about the same size. Jamie’s waist might be a little wider than mine, but he’s wearing a belt.
He’s looking down at himself, doing the same math. “What size are your feet?”
“Ten and a half.”
“I’m eleven,” he says. “Close enough.”
We’re grinning like idiots as we strip off our clothes in the big empty bedroom. Jamie is down to only his dress socks, and I groan at the view. “I hope this dinner doesn’t last too long. Will you stay with me tonight at the hotel?”
He licks his lips. “Sure. But you’ll have to tell me where that is.” He passes me his shirt and I put it on. It smells like him. I’m going to be horny all evening. The best kind of torture.
We make the switch and I don’t look half bad. The jacket shoulders are a little wider than I’d wear them, but fuck, who cares. “I forgot something.”
“What?”
I work on tying Jamie’s tie, but there’s no mirror, so it’s slow going. “That night we were making the list of benefits of being gay? Borrowing your boyfriend’s clothes.”
Clucking his tongue, he pushes my hands out of the way and straightens the knot. “You look hot in my suit.”
“You look hot in anything.”
He reaches down and squeezes my dick through the wool trousers. “You get a blowjob later, just for saying that.”
I groan. Then I have a thought so evil I almost can’t say it with a straight face. “Tonight, I want you in nothing but my Toronto jersey.”
Jamie sputters with laughter and gives my cheek a fake slap. “You ass. I’m not your puck bunny.”
“Please? I’ve never fucked a puck bunny. This is my only chance.”
He wraps his arms around my body and squeezes my ass. I receive a single, bruising kiss before he steps back. “Now give me your hotel key and go to your dinner already. No more lip.”
When I step out onto the sidewalk a few minutes later, I’m a little dazed and walking carefully in shoes that are slightly too big.
And I’ve never felt better in my life.
38
AUGUST
Wes
At the end of my first week of training camp, Coach Harvey shifts the lines around and puts me in the second line with Erikkson and Forsberg. The latter led Chicago to a Stanley Cup win three seasons ago before being traded to Toronto. The former was tied for highest-scoring offensive player last season. And then there’s me—Ryan Wesley, wet-behind-the-ears rookie, skating with two goddamn legends.
It’s a promising sign, because that means they’re seriously considering me for the roster this season, instead of sending me down to the farm team for more development.
Our shift lasts two minutes, and just before Coach shouts for a line change, I slap a one-timer past the goalie (another former Stanley Cup champ) and accept a vigorous back clap from Erikkson, who’s grinning behind his facemask.
“Shi-it, kid, that was a beauty!”
The praise warms me up inside. And I’m even giddier when I notice Coach nodding in approval from the bench. “You’ve got solid instincts,” he tells me when I heave myself over the boards a moment later. “No hesitation. I like that.”
