Page 55 of Tempting the Teammate
Something else grew in me, soft, rounded, filled with brilliant warmth. Something that frightened me as soon as I recognized it. Something that made me clench my abs hard and focus on Griffin’s pretty hazelnut eyes. Because the thing inside me that was swelling to the surface was words. Big and terrible and wonderful at once.I think I love you. I know I do. I’ve always loved you, and you need to hear it, Griff.
His other hand moved over my lips, just like when he had fed me chocolate, and I bit his finger to stop myself from blurting a truth that was far, far too big to say so early.
Griffin made a littletssound and grinned, letting go of my foot and biting his lip as his finger entered my mouth a little deeper, the second one following.
I sucked on his fingers, our gazes locked, and I saw all he felt then. I saw the admiration, the history of our friendship, the future of our lives together, the hopes of a man who didn’t want to think too much about it for the fear of breaking it and never knowing how to put it back together.
Griffin placed his other hand around my throat, squeezing playfully while his fingers filled my mouth and his dick pushed deeper into me until I could feel his heavy balls pressed hard against my ass.
My tongue pressed against his fingers, saliva coating them, and Griffin took on that look of mischief I probably loved the most about him. His fingers slipped out of my mouth, shining, and he reached down. As I opened my mouth to stop him, to tell him that if he touched me now, I would come without any control, his fingers passed over my dick, ignoring it, and spread around my hole, his dick sliding between them and into me.
In the heartbeat that followed, my mouth opened wide, air stuck somewhere in the middle of me, and he slipped both fingers inside my body together with his cock, stretching me and taking away my ability to speak.
I held my breath, all of me tense and strung so tight I was about to snap. As Griffin pushed deeper into me again, my eyes watered, tears welling until all I saw was a blur of his figure and the flare of the light.
The orgasm roared through me like a wave that rose so tremendously high, lifting me with it. Cum spilled from my hard cock, hot ribbons splashing over my stomach, pooling in my belly button, until I reached down and held myself, tugging my dick with quick, desperate motions, making it last a moment longer.
Griffin pulled his finger and his dick out, keeping his hand on my hole to soothe it with gentle rubbing while his other hand took off the condom and stroked his length to the climax, cum shooting over me when I finally managed to inhale without falling apart.
My lungs stung, but the scent of sex in the air filling my nostrils calmed me down, and the heat of Griffin’s cum on mybody was like a painting, like proof of something impossible to hold on to, but something that was promised to us both.
He lowered himself down, his fingers relaxing on my hole, and kissed me gently on the lips, inhaling deep through his nose.
“You’re the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me,” he said.
And I love you so much I could burst, I thought. “Kiss me again,” I said instead.
NINETEEN
Griffin
The game wasa bloodbath between us and the Steel Saints. Despite all the drills, all the practice, all the strategizing, the Steel Saints were mean opponents, willing to get hurt just to get the job done.
This was the first game we played against them, and Easton wanted to prove a point. They’d stolen the awards last season right from under our noses, employing the mean bastards like Rhett Morrison and Elio Castelli against Andrei and me.
Their tactics changed, but their strategy remained the same. They started hard and kept it at a hundred, never too tired, never losing wind, never giving ground.
Andrei and I played like we always did, in perfect unison, and with a flowing grace that the Saints couldn’t match. Even so, when Castelli slammed me into the boards, I heard Andrei’s frustrated shouts and the undertone of genuine fear.
The word spun around me as my head smashed against the glass, my lip stinging where it split, and I lost balance, falling down just as a camera ran toward me from the other side of the boards.
Andrei skated over, helping me up, while Castelli pushed on to our goalie. Truly, the lucky thing was that it hadn’t been Patrick, who was much faster than the big brute.
“Fuck,” I spat while Andrei’s hand slapped the back of my head and he gazed into my eyes to see if I had any clear signs of a concussion. “I’m good. I’m alright.”
“Don’t scare me like that,” he whispered under his breath, then immediately mouthed a curse. The little microphones picked up on every breath. That line would be on all promo materials for this episode, and we both knew it.
I winked at Andrei. The camera couldn’t see it, but he could, and it dispelled a bit of that fear. Whatever they made out of it, we’d weather it.
“Let’s kick their asses,” I said. “Castelli’s a dead man walking.”
Andrei laughed wickedly as he skated back to our positions, glaring at Elio as he tucked his tail between his legs and chased after Mason, who had the puck and was on the offensive.
The pace only got uglier from there. The Steel Saints didn’t just play to win. They played to dominate, to crush rhythm, to drag every shift into the mud. Every pass we made was met with a body or a stick. Every shot we took, they threw themselves in front of it like they’d rather bleed than let it through. The puck snapped between blades like it was wired with electricity, twitching and changing course with every brutal collision. There was no time to think, barely time to breathe. Just react or get swallowed.
They played dirty. There was no pretending otherwise. Slashes came quick and sharp behind the ref’s back, just below the padding where they’d sting the most. Hooks curled around hips and wrists, masked as reach-arounds or failed poke checks. Shoves sent us flying into the boards at angles that flirted with disaster. Rhett Morrison leveled Mason with a cross-check tothe chest that should have earned him five minutes and a one-way ticket to the locker room. The whistle stayed silent. Andrei shouted at the ref, arms spread wide, his voice slicing through the noise, but the man in stripes didn’t even glance back. The Saints smelled blood and leaned into it.
On the bench, Phoenix was seething. His voice carried over the roar of the crowd, over the scrape of skates and rattle of sticks. He shouted orders that turned hoarse by the second, face flushed, expression hard. “Keep your heads down and fight through it!” he yelled again and again, like he could will us to survive it. Because that’s who Phoenix was. No matter how ugly it got, he stayed in it with us.
