Page 16 of Misconduct Zone

Lars stands and his dick sways with the motion. I lick my lips. He turns away and says over his shoulder, “I’ll get you some heat for it.”

“Thanks.” And so he won’t see me, I crawl down the hall and dive into my bed, pulling the covers up right before Lars enters with a heating pad—and no boner.

He hands it over but doesn’t speak or leave.

“You’re a lifesaver.” My voice is higher than usual from stress, but hopefully he assumes it’s the pain from a cramp.

“Call if you need anything. I’m in the next room. I can be here in a second.” He tentatively lifts his hand and brushes the hair out of my eyes.

“Thanks.” My voice cracks like a teenager’s. If my long hair is the reason he touches me, I’ll never cut it again.

He leaves and shuts my door. My lungs expel all the air from my body, and I reach into my sweats for some relief. I should get lube, but I have no patience.My dick’s furious and needs to come. He’s been patiently waiting for me to get some action, but he’s done with that.

I squeeze it and let out a moan. These walls aren’t thin, and I’m not quiet. Shoving my joggers down to my knees, I clamp my lips together to keep the sound in.

My usual spank-bank image of a celebrity doesn’t do it. A bunch of images float through my mind as my hand picks up speed. I hear a noise from Lars’s room and recall the sight of him sprawled out on the couch with a hard-on. It hurls me over the edge like I’ve been shot out of a cannon with no warning. My body curls in on itself as my muscles shake until I’m empty and flop back on the bed.

I might be hearing things, but I swear there’s a low groan on his side of the wall. It can’t be true because his bed is across the room.

In my wildest dreams, I watch him do it from the other side of his bed and then my hand takes over, jacking him until he spills into it.

Chapter 10

Lars

Dylon never disappears on me. And he wouldn’t ride back with someone else without telling me. He’s not in the locker room or showers, and the car is locked, so I search for him.

The shame of listening to him pleasure himself last night plagues me. His moan drew me to the wall separating us, and my ears strained to hear every sound.

The imagined visual brought my climax within a minute of his. Our living arrangement is taking me to a place I swore I would never go again. But the alternative is worse. I cannot let him go. I’m too selfish.

While searching for Dylon, I hear his raised voice and follow it down the cold linoleum hall to an empty training room with stale air and old equipment. He’s sitting on a therapy table with one knee bent and drawn up to support his elbow and arm holding his head.

He’s fresh from the showers, and I drown in his body wash, which reminds me of exotic vacation spots. Without thinking, I inhale deeply, catching his natural musky scent underneath, and step closer for more.

“Mom, I understand it’s a tradition to go to Uncle’s bar after I play in Detroit, but I’d like to move the party to a restaurant so he can enjoy it without working.” Dylon’s grinding his teeth, and my anger for his unsupportive mother boils.

He doesn’t see me, but I don’t want him to think I am eavesdropping so I clear my throat and hold up my keys to communicate I will wait in the car. But he reaches out and stalks toward me. My heart rate picks up.

“We always go there, and his customers will expect it. If you’re not there, he’ll lose business. You don’t want that, do you?” She sounds reasonable through the speakerphone, but I don’t trust her motives.

Dylon grabs my wrist, anchoring himself to me. Or me to him. I’ve lost sight of everything except what he needs.

“I’ll buy the bar a round so he doesn’t lose the money, and I’ll still pay your tab.” Dylon bangs his forehead on my shoulder, and the bone-on-bone contact hurts. I cup the back of his head to prevent bruising on either of us.

“Don’t you dare make this about me. I can pay my own bills, and this is about supporting the people who got you to where you are. This family sacrificed so much for your hockey. The least you can do is stop by your uncle’s bar. I raised you better than to be so self-centered.” His mother’s words hit Dylon, and his body deflates.

“Mom, I don’t drink, and I can’t be in a bar,” he pleads.

After Dylon made the commitment to get sober, he hasn’t wavered. I am so proud of his progress and the way he has handled all the challenges. His family falls into the challenge category. Sometimes I think they want him to fail and return home so they can feel better about themselves.

“You had a slight issue with pills after your injury. There’s no reason you can’t go to a bar. You’ve never had a problem with alcohol. Everyone is expecting you. I told them you’re coming.” His mother has no respect for his recovery. She’s one of the top five reasons I asked Dylon to move in with me after he got out of the hospital. I could help him and keep her away.

“It’s more than that. I love hockey and won’t put myself in a position to jeopardize that.” Dylon rubs his cheek along my shoulder, and it’s so hard not to pull him fully into my arms.

“So you’re going to choose hockey over your family? Again! I should’ve known you’d pull something like this.”

“What?” Dylon suddenly yells. “Be right there.” Then he lowers his voice. “Coach needs to talk to me. I gotta go. Bye, Mom.” He hangs up without waiting for her to respond and straightens, taking a few steps back. My arms rise, remaining outstretched for a beat.

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