Page 31 of Poetry On Ice

I’m also worried Coach will stick to his guns and throw us into a room together again, and this time, it will be even more awkward than it was the first time. I’m worried I’ll start talking if that happens, and if it does, there’s no telling what I’ll say. Literally none. I could say the most embarrassing shit of my life and not have any way to stop it. It’s happened to me before when I was less stressed than this, so I know it’s a possibility.

I’m worried Decker will be a stubborn asshole and nothing will happen between us because of the stupid bet I made. And then I’ll die of some rare and terrible ailment caused by one’s dick getting so hard their brain stops working and they fall into a coma, or something like that, and that would be a horrible, embarrassing way to go. Just think of my mom and dad, having to live through something like that. The press would have a field day with it. They’d camp outside our house. My family would never hear the end of it. The trauma would be unreal.

God, it’s too loud in here. And too bright. There are so many tiny bulbs on the giant chandelier hanging overhead that they’ve seared a pattern into my retina. I see little yellow dots every time I blink, and it’s making me feel worse than I already do.

I’m almost beside myself by the time Warren calls out, “Decker, McGuire, you’re in 502.”

I’m hit by a storm of emotion when I hear the words, nerves and relief, trepidation and jubilation. I flick through each one so hard and fast that I almost forget to wipe the smile off my face as I step forward to take the key card from Warren.

My hand shakes as I swipe the card on the keypad of our door. Decker is standing behind me, a little too close and a little too far away. I hold the door for him. He enters and goes straight to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him and locking it for good measure.

He takes his sweet fucking time in there. The shower runs for twelve minutes and the sink faucet goes on and off three times. Listening at the door does nothing to calm my nerves, so I hit the mini bar, crack a beer, and prop myself up on a pile of pillows as I wait on my bed for him to come out.

By the time the bathroom door lock finally turns, my legs have that achy post-game feeling. Maybe I should’ve stayed in the ice bath for longer, but instead, I’ve sunk two inches into the mattress, and I can’t imagine myself moving any time soon. The feeling evaporates the second I see him. I’m not sure what one would call the feeling it’s replaced with, but it’s unusual, that’s for sure.Decker, that’s Ant Decker, Vipers right-wing and one of the NHL’s most infamous bad boys, has just emerged from a cloud of steam and moseyed into the room clad head to toe in checked flannel pajamas. I don’t mean flannel pants with a tight, sexy jersey-knit T-shirt. I mean the checkered jammies you’d usually see on kids under the age of four years old or on your grandad. I mean a blue-and-white button-down set. For good measure, he has them buttoned all the way to his neck.

“What the fuck are those?” I ask before I can censor myself.

He keeps his gaze four inches to the left of me and says, “They’re pajamas, McGuire. Sleepwear. You know, the kind of thing commonly worn so as not to make people around you uncomfortable.”

“Hate to break it to you, bud, but those aren’t pajamas. They’rejammies.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he lets out a tiny gust of air through his nose from the effort it costs him to remain silent.

“Feel free to use the bathroom.” He holds one hand out primly, showing me the way with the stick-up-his-ass posture of a man who’s been an usher at many staid, black-tie events in a previous life.

The bathroom is spotless. The floor, sink, and even the shower appear to have been wiped down. Decker’s toiletries are packed away in his toiletry bag, and the only signs he’s used the room are the damp towels hung neatly on the hook on the door and the light scent of citrus and man musk in the air.

For want of anything better to do, I brush my teeth and take a shower, even though I showered after the game and two showers in such a short space of time isn’t usually something I feel is essential.

My dick has been hard since I got on the bus, and being naked with the knowledge that Decker is in the next room is doing nothing to make it subside. I consider rubbing one out so I’ll have my wits about me to best navigate the strange jammies situation I have on my hands. I think better of it because I’ve jerked off so much in the last few days that I’m starting to suspect it’s doing more harm than good.

Instead, I fuck around with my phone, taking some footage for my socials. The video I end up with is a little more in your face than usual, but I like it. Let’s see if Decker can keep up his boycott of my TikTok in the face of no shirt and gray sweatpants.

My heart is beating out of my chest by the time I leave the bathroom. I’ve played out at least eleventy billionscenarios in my mind of what’s likely to go down the next time Decker and I are in a small space together, but still, nothing could have prepared me for what I find.

Decker is in bed with the covers pulled up under his armpits, still as a corpse. Not only that, he has a slightly oversized travel eye mask covering the top half of his face.

“What are you doing?” I ask, half in dismay, half in disbelief.

“It’s called leading by example, McGuire,” he replies curtly, a thread of tension tugging at the corners of his lips, turning them downward. “It’s called putting the needs and well-being of the team first. It’s called thinking with your head, not your dick.”

“Oooh.” I make it sound like I’m agreeing or at least giving the matter serious consideration. The tension around his lips fades slightly. It pleases me. It’s exactly what I was hoping for, so I go in for the kill.

I walk over to his bed and come to a stop close enough to it that my knee digs into his mattress, jostling it slightly. I’m not touching him, and I won’t unless he stops this jammie-eye-mask nonsense, but I want him to know I’m nearby. I want him to feel me the way I feel him. On the ice. And in bars. And in locker rooms and hotel lobbies. I want him to feel me like I feel him all the time. Everywhere.

And he does. He must because before I open my mouth to talk, his entire body tenses. His chest rises sharply and falls slowly.

I keep my voice soft. Non-threatening and sweet. “Would you like me to blow you?”

“No!” His voice cracks, and he quickly tacks on a breathy and too quick, “Thank you,” which comes out sounding more like one word than two.

“Okay.” I pad over to the luggage rack near the TV where my bag is. I get my lube out, making sure to hold it where he’ll be able to see it on the off chance there’s a gap in his mask and he happens to be peeking at me. He doesn’t move or breathe funny, so maybe there isn’t.

I ease onto my bed and flick the lube cap open without making any effort to do it quietly. I have a feeling Decker is the kind of guy who will recognize the sound of someone lubing their dick, and I’m not wrong. Beside me, I see him stiffen. He doesn’t move at all. Not his hands. Not his head. Not even his ribcage.

I play with the waistband of my sweatpants for a while, snapping the elastic a couple of times before easing them over my hips.

“W-what are you doing?” he asks.

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