Page 34 of Poetry On Ice

“No.” A slow, sultry puff of air is released in my direction. There’s ice in his voice. Fire too. “It means you get to blow me wheneverIwant.”

Oh damn, that’s hot.

15

Ant Decker

I’m out of control.I see it. I know it. I know it’s not good, but I simply cannot stop putting my dick in Robbie McGuire’s mouth, no matter how often I tell myself it’s a bad idea. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s not like I need to learn this lesson again. Life has already taught it to me plenty of times. And I was paying attention those other times. I was taking notes. The lesson has been learned. Guys like McGuire are bad for me. They’re trouble and they make me unhappy. I know that.

I need to get my shit together big time. Yes, the guy’s pretty, and his body is insane, but it’s not like he’s the hottest guy on the planet or anything. There are lots of hotter guys out there, believe me. There are. There are tons of them. They’re all over. I could name a long list of them if I had my shit together.

I could.

I definitely could. There’s…actors, and porn stars, and guys at the gym, and…

McGuire pushes off and glides onto the ice. His movement is fluid. A graceful interplay between steel and ice. Muscle and bone. A scorching white smile lights up his eyes when he sees me and slowly trickles down the rest of his face, curling his lips like paper singed at the edges, exposing a constellation of pearly white teeth.

Yeah, there are definitely hotter guys than him out there. There are. Of course there are.

I just can’t think of any off-hand.

McGuire skates over to me, and Coach joins us on the ice. He’s called another practice for two, and I can’t say I’m happy about it. The last thing I need is more one-on-one time with Robbie McGuire.

“Look, I’m not saying you aren’t playing better, you are,” says Coach. We’ve won three out of the last five games, so he’s right, we’re improving. He still doesn’t look happy with us though. When he looks at us, it seems like he’s making a conscious effort to breathe through his nose, not his mouth. “But I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and you haven’t come anywhere close to it during a game.”

He has us practice like we did last time. Just the two of us. It’s exactly the same as it was the first time, except thistime, it happens faster. Almost immediately. We click. We play like we’ve played together for years. Like we’re the same thing, part of the same machine. Like he’s the left arm and I’m the right. Like we’re a reflection, an echo of each other. Soft and hard. Hot and cold.

We play for a long time, the sound of steel cutting ice broken only by fiberglass meeting rubber and the rasping sound of air filling our lungs. We play until I can’t feel my legs. Or my arms. I can’t feel where I end and where my stick starts.

We rip the ice to shreds, moving at a speed I didn’t know I was capable of.

The whole time, every time there’s a pause or a lull, McGuire’s face is slashed into a broad smile and there’s a low, slow machine-gun cackle that stems from his belly and travels through the air toward me. It leaves through his mouth and sinks down, condensing and turning to liquid when it contacts the ice. It enters my body through the blades of my skates.

It’s scary what it does to me.

It’s so scary that when Coach finally calls the end of practice, I wait for McGuire to head to the locker room and then skate over to Coach. Though I’d rather die than willingly put myself into a situation that requires small talk, I do it voluntarily now. Freely. Almost happily. I’mkind of hoping that if I hang around for long enough, Coach might lose his concentration and default to one of his lectures. Sadly, he doesn’t. He waves me to the locker room a couple of times, and when I don’t take the hint, he taps firmly on his phone screen and starts placing a call while I’m mid-sentence.

I have no choice but to hit the locker room. I shuffle there as slowly as I can, hoping against hope that McGuire is having a moment of rational thinking. If he is, it’ll be his first one in a while. He definitely hasn’t had rational thoughts when we’ve traveled for any of our recent away games. He showed clear signs of irrational thinking in Pittsburgh last week. And in Washington a few days before that.

It’s been four days since we played in Pittsburgh. Four days since I’ve had my dick in his mouth. Four days is a long time to go without a hot mouth on your cock. A long-ass time. I’m shaky inside, and I can’t tell if it’s from what I just put my body through or if I’m having McGuire withdrawals.

Either way, it’s not good.

The only thing holding me together is that what happens between us only happens when we play away. It’s not much, but it gives me a desperately needed sense of structure. Of clarity. It puts a few boundaries in place.When we’re away, shit goes down, and as best I can tell, it’s going to keep happening for as long as Coach deems it necessary for us to share a room because I don’t seem to be able to do a goddamn thing to stop myself. The good thing about it, the only good thing, is that’s the only time it happens. When we’re at home, he’s off-limits. Or I’m off-limits. One of us is off-limits, so my dick stays in my pants.

It’s not much to cling to. A thin, flimsy thread at best, but it’s all I have.

I’m not a fucking idiot, and I’m not delusional. I’m horny as fuck, and I know myself well enough to know that the last thing I need is to find myself alone in the communal showers with Robbie McGuire.

I move as slowly as humanly possible to get to the locker room, hoping against hope he’ll have showered and dressed himself by the time I get there. No luck. I swing the door open and am met by reams and reams of tan skin. There’s a fuck-ton of muscle corded and knotted beneath it. I know from every time I’ve worked my hand down that body to reach for his dick that his skin is hot to the touch. Scorching. And smooth.

He’s stark naked except for his jock, barefoot, hair damp with sweat and tumbling into his face in untidy curtains that fall just below his cheekbones. Despitedoing my best to stay calm, the sight of him makes me draw a sharp breath.

His eyes flash, vivid green and brimming with indignation. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.”

“W-we’re at home,” I say dumbly.

Big, beautiful eyes blink an angry morse-coded question in my direction. Best I can tell, he’s not familiar with the Home vs. Away Game boundary. He’s never heard of it. Doesn’t know it’s a rule. And that’s a problem for me.