Chapter Eight

“SO,” QUINN said. “I think we could probably stand to shift up the lines a little. Maybe get North skating on the second line, try it out in the third period? He’s got good stamina.”

You have no idea. Troy nodded and firmly told himself not to think about fucking Shane North. It wasn’t easy. That had been one of the most intense and sexually satisfying nights he could remember since… fuck. Since ever. It was rare he hooked up with someone who was so totally in synch with what he liked in bed. Or who could talk about attack angle drills until two in the morning after fucking.

But Quinn was supposed to contribute actual ideas to their team, so Troy really needed to pay attention and encourage him. “Yeah. I think you’re right. We’ll try that when we’re in Wichita next week.”

They had an excruciatingly long road trip to Wichita coming up, which was proof the ECHL schedulers were evil, sadistic creatures who wanted Troy to suffer.

“You okay, Coach?” Quinn asked, brows creased. “You haven’t been yourself the last few days. Looks like maybe you’re coming down with something.”

Just a bad case of stupid. “I’m fine,” Troy said. He tapped his pen on his notebook. “You don’t have to call me coach, you know.”

Come on, Coach. Fuck me hard.

“Oh sorry. That’s what Coach—ah—the other guy wanted me to call him.” Quinn flushed, clearly worried he would make Troy mad.

Which it did, because Troy’s patience was thinner on the ground than usual. “Jesus, Quinn, you can say his name. He’s not Lord Voldemort. I just meant I didn’t want the guys hung up on what he told them, that’s all. And you can call me Callahan, or Cally, or even Troy if you want. I don’t care. Just… you’re a coach too. Okay? You’re at the grown-ups’ table, for fuck’s sake.”

“Gotcha.”

It didn’t escape Troy’s notice that Quinn neatly avoided calling him anything. Troy rubbed his eyes briefly and then tried to “be nice” to his assistant coach, in a probably ill-conceived attempt to build some rapport between them.

“You married, Quinn?”

Quinn looked briefly alarmed, and Troy bit back a cruel laugh and the instant response of “Don’t worry. You’re so not my type,” but the expression eased back into Quinn’s usual neutral pleasantness so quickly that Troy thought maybe he’d imagined it. With his hair-trigger temper lately, he probably had.

“Divorced.” Quinn’s mouth set. “I have a daughter. She’s twelve. Lives with my ex in Denver.”

“You get to see her a lot?” Troy didn’t recall ever noticing a girl of that age around.

“She used to come visit for a few weeks every summer,” said Quinn in a tight voice. Clearly his kid was a no-go subject.

For some reason Troy was still trying to find some kind of common ground or conversation that wasn’t about hockey. “Seeing anyone?”

“Been out on a few dates, but nothing serious.” His mouth bent into an ugly shape, and his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “You’re lucky you’re gay. Women are fucking impossible to figure out. They don’t know what they want from a guy.”

It was such an un-Quinn-like thing to say that it took Troy completely aback. “Not like that’s limited to just women, Quinn. Believe me.”

Troy knew exactly what he wanted—or whom. He was in the locker room, listening to terrible thrash metal—whoever’s day it was to pick the music needed a bag skate—and sweaty from the practice they’d just finished.

“Sure,” said Quinn, and once again he was back to the smiling, pleasant, boring guy Troy knew him to be. “It’s just, sometimes I think maybe you gay guys got the right idea. Men are way less complicated.”

Troy stared at him and wondered if he could explain to Bowie why he’d stabbed his assistant coach to death with a cheap Paper Mate pen. He tried to figure out how to elucidate the myriad problems in that sentence, in words small enough for an idiot to understand, but he came up short.

He knew St. Savoy probably called Quinn an idiot all the time. While maybe—just maybe—they might agree on that, Troy couldn’t bring himself to do anything but say, “So, about the line combinations,” and hope Brian Quinn never said anything about the opposite—or same—sex to him ever again.

As he left the office, Troy caught sight of Shane standing by Xavier Matthews’s locker along with Evan Snyder and Cory Martin. They were talking about something that Troy couldn’t quite make out because of the music.

“Who picked this shit?” Troy yelled. It was terrible, as though a bunch of hyped-up third graders had been given electric guitars and then handed the mic to their irate older brother so he could whine about their dad. “Is this even music, or did someone record their car in a fight with a screeching metal monster?”

“I told you it sounded like a monster truck rally,” Wes Kelly said triumphantly. “I hate it too, Coach.”

“Then when it’s your turn, don’t make us listen to NPR,” said T.J. Clarke, which made it the first time Troy remembered ever hearing the tall, acne-prone defenseman speak without first being spoken to.

“I’m sorry none of you care about the world we live in,” Wes huffed as he turned back to his locker.

“I care about the world, dude, but like, come on.” Cory threw what appeared to be a balled-up sock at their goalie. “That’s some seriously boring shit you made us listen to.”

The balled sock sailed past Wes and hit defenseman Ryan Muse in the head. “Shouldn’t you have stopped that?” he accused Wes, affronted. He tossed the sock at Wes, who caught it deftly. “You’re the fucking goalie, man.”

“Shouldn’t you have stopped that dude in Evansville from getting a breakaway off a bad turnover?” Wes asked, all wide-eyed. He was quiet and unassuming most days, but his snappy rejoinder made Troy smile despite himself.

Still, the coach in him wouldn’t let that one pass. “Kelly’s right about that game in Evansville, Muse. You should’ve stopped that play. And you’re gonna, next time, or you can try out the press box and see how that suits you.”

“Yes, Coach Cally.” Muse looked appropriately abashed but not destroyed by the criticism. “But dude, Kels. You know everyone goes low glove side on you when they get a breakaway.”

Wes reached out to playfully shove at Muse’s shoulder. “And here I was gonna see if you wanted to catch a ’Canes game with me ’cause I scored some sweet seats. But not if you’re going to be an asshole.”

“Fuck the Hurricanes,” said Muse, who—if the Capitals sweatshirt he pulled on was any indication—was not a fan of North Carolina’s NHL team. “But I’ll go if you buy me a beer.”

Troy listened to them banter, and his anger all but dissipated at the sight of his hockey team acting like a team. In his opinion that meant they could turn off the music. “None of you are doing anything but a bag skate if you don’t make that goddamn racket stop. I’m not fucking kidding.”

T.J. Clarke picked up his phone where it was lying on the bench, next to the speakers. He pressed something, and the music stopped. The silence was blissful.

“They have really meaningful lyrics,” T.J. informed them all.

“I didn’t realize there were lyrics,” said Xavier. “Do you have something less thrash metal for when it’s your turn to pick the music again?”

“I got some Danzig,” T.J. said, and he started an embarrassing air guitar performance.

“The next time one of you wants to nail something to my office? Make it a door and save my poor fucking ears.” Troy smiled to show he was mostly kidding, and he waved a hand. “Have a good weekend. Be here on Monday by six thirty or you’ll be walking to Wichita.”

“Yes, Coach Cally,” they all chorused and went back to their conversation. Their record might not be as stellar as previous years, but the change in his locker room from the beginning of the season was remarkable. He’d like to win more games, but that would come in time. Or he’d start playing some of his parents’ Gordon Lightfoot and see how his team liked hearing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” on repeat. Maybe even while they were on the ice for practice.

Troy turned and saw Shane leaning against the locker, arms crossed, giving him a look that Troy chose to interpret as “Bend me over and fuck me.” The little smirk on his mouth meant he was doing it on purpose, and Troy was so tempted to do it. The morning after they slept together, Troy took Shane to the mechanic’s and informed him they couldn’t do that again. Shane snorted, rubbed Troy’s cock through his pants, and kissed him so thoroughly that Troy had to go home and jerk off before he headed to the arena. Motherfucker.

As much as he wanted to wait around until everyone was gone and bend Shane over something, Troy made himself be a responsible adult and go home. When he got there, he was still restless and turned on so he changed into running pants and a T-shirt and then went downstairs and ran six miles on the treadmill while he watched the NHL Network. The drone of the commentators and the familiar rhythm of his feet took care of the restlessness, but during his postrun shower, he gave in to the temptation and jerked off thinking about Shane. When he was finished, he needed to distract himself or he would call Shane and tell him to get his ass over there.

Shane would do it. There was no doubt in Troy’s mind about that. But he wouldn’t break first. Oh no. No fucking way. It was probably stupid to think they weren’t going to hook up again, but Troy would absolutely not initiate it. This time it wasn’t so much about ethics. Troy just didn’t want to be the first one to break.

Troy pulled on sweatpants and an old Rangers shirt and walked into the second upstairs room. In addition to his dining room table, it also held his one and only hobby, which he’d never told a single soul about… except Gabe. And then only because he was drunk.

Troy settled into the chair, reached for a puzzle piece and searched for the right place to put it. The puzzle was the most absurd one he’d ever owned—a thousand-piece photograph of a bunch of Dalmatians. Gabe gave it to him for a housewarming present. He reasoned, “You might need cute pictures of puppies if you’re all stressed out. And you will be stressed out. Because you’re you, and you always are.”

That wasn’t fair. Troy was high-strung, maybe, but he wasn’t stressed out. He was just… whatever. It didn’t matter. He would do this fucking doggie jigsaw puzzle, frame it, and give it to Bowie for Christmas.

The puzzle was next to impossible, but it was a perfect activity for Troy. He’d always liked making sense of things and putting pieces together, even metaphorically. It was probably why he was a much better coach than a player, because he could see the whole picture of the game. And also tell everyone what to do, which he genuinely enjoyed.

But fuck those Dalmatians, man. Troy spent two hours muttering under his breath as he slid pieces around the slick wood of the table and sympathized with Cruella de Vil’s wardrobe choice. By the time he went to bed, he saw black-and-white spots when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t as hot as Shane’s sweat-glistening back or tattoo-covered arms holding him up while Troy fucked him, but it was a lot easier to fall asleep.

IF TROY had ever spent any significant time in Wichita, Kansas, he couldn’t remember it. It was a flat town that took forever to get to, and by the time they arrived, he was faintly nostalgic for the days when his team was quiet and didn’t talk. Troy liked his team, but he didn’t want to listen to them discuss in great detail the celebrities they’d bang. Sure, they were young guys in their twenties and sex was a thing they both thought and talked about, but it just made Troy think about Shane, and that pissed him the fuck off.

Although it was fun to shout Idris Elba in response to the “hottest celebrity you’d like to fuck” question. At least, it was funny until Wes Kelly said, “Wait. Isn’t he really old?”

The Twisters, their opponents for three straight games in Wichita, were a good team that was still smarting from their loss in the finals the previous year to the eventual champions, the Spartanburg Spitfires. They took the first game—which, after that goddamn bus ride, Troy didn’t know how anyone was supposed to play anything but checkers—but the Ravens rebounded, took the last two games, and looked something like competent while they did so. They needed to look more than competent if they wanted to make the playoffs in a few months, but he wasn’t too displeased with his team’s performance.

During the third game, Troy went with Quinn’s suggestion and put Shane on the second line, which gave Shane a lot more ice time and gave Jamie Moore a bit of rest. Shane skated well, but his skill was clearly in his ability to make the Ravens communicate. Troy wondered idly if Shane thought his line promotion was a result of sleeping with the coach, but he dismissed the idea. Shane knew better than to think that would ever work.

Moore didn’t look pleased about his line demotion, though, and Troy made a note to have him put in some more conditioning hours. But he saw Shane go up to his teammate in the locker room after their final game, give him some tips about what to do in practice to increase endurance, and talk about how he’d hated conditioning drills in every hockey league he played in. He was telling Moore about some drill that the Ravens’ GM, Gabriel Bow, had been fond of when he was an assistant coach with the Ducks in Anaheim.

“It seriously sucked, dude. Like I thought I was going to die. But no lie—it got me faster, and as much as I hated it, it definitely helped my endurance and my breathing.”

Moore seemed pleased at the idea of doing a torturous hockey drill, because hockey players were crazy. “You want to show me after practice, maybe? When we’re back?”

“Sure thing, Moorie,” Shane said and clapped him on the back. “You can even call me all the names you can’t call Coach Cally.”

“You can call me names, but I got a few drills up my sleeve too,” Troy said. Moore grinned and looked unperturbed. He shouldn’t. Troy knew all about those drills, and there’d be no smiling when Moore finished them.

“Nice of you to step up like that,” Troy told Shane as they packed their gear and got ready to board the bus. “Some guys would keep their mouth shut and keep their spot on the second line.”

Shane shrugged and shouldered his duffel. “Some guys would. I guess I just like to open my mouth too much, Coach. What can I say?”

Jesus Fucking Christ. Troy gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the low-simmering lust that grew hotter and hotter the longer the trip went on. “You might want to work on keeping it closed now and then.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Get on the fucking bus, North,” Troy snapped. He ignored Shane’s knowing smirk as he turned to look at something—anything—other than Shane’s mouth. He really needed the trip to be over. And fast.

Except they had a fifteen-hour bus ride, and that was the exact opposite of fast. Not to mention that the drive involved some of the most boring landscape Troy had ever seen in his life. There was enough room on the charter bus for everyone to have a row to themselves, but that didn’t help, since Troy never had been able to sleep on a bus.

So, at three in the morning, Troy watched coaching videos as he slumped down in his seat with a pair of earbuds. He was scowling at the videos and muttering under his breath about how stupid they were when he felt someone slide into the seat next to him.

Shane, of course.

“You are fucking kidding me with this,” Troy hissed as he yanked his earbuds out. He looked around the bus, even though it was obvious from the silence that everyone was asleep, and even if they weren’t, Troy was up near the front, and the person closest to him—Quinn—was snoring with his head on the window and had one of those sleep-mask things covering his eyes.

“You ever stop working?” Shane slouched down in his seat, which made him barely visible to anyone in the darkness of the bus’s quiet interior.

“I can’t sleep on these things. And no. Not really. I even dream about fucking hockey.”

“Yeah? You sure it’s hockey you dream about fucking, and not… something else?” Shane leaned in closer, and his breath ghosted against Troy’s neck. “Like my mouth?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Troy’s cock hardened immediately. “You trying to get me fired?”

“Everyone’s asleep, Coach. Thought you could show me some of those videos.” Shane’s smile was sly. He reached out, took Troy’s phone, and magically made the videos reappear. He grabbed one of the earbuds and put it in his ear. “You should really passcode lock your phone.”

“You should really go back to your own seat.” Troy flipped to the next video. “Hang on. Let me find one about not making stupid fucking choices on a moving bus while your teammates are asleep at o-dark-thirty.”

“Mmm. Sounds good.” Shane dropped his hand to Troy’s lap. “Come on, old man. Dare you to let me.”

That kind of bullshit should not work on Troy. It should not. But goddamn. Shane was so hot, and he was palming Troy’s cock, so what the fuck was he supposed to do? Troy dropped his head back. “This is so fucking stupid,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

To Shane he said, “Don’t fuck around. If you’re going to do this, do it.”

“Am I going to do it?” Shane’s voice was just as soft. “You gonna ask me for it?”

Troy reached down, grabbed Shane’s wrist, and halted the mind-numbingly good things Shane was doing to his dick. “I’m not going to ask you for anything when we’re on a bus traveling back from a game, North.”

“It gets me hot when you talk to me to like a rookie, Coach.” Shane’s laugh was just as quiet as his voice. “You think you’re, what? Taking advantage of me? Jesus, Troy. I’m a big boy. We’re adults. I haven’t stopped thinking about how good it was, have you?”

Troy knew he needed to stop. He knew it. But he couldn’t help the illicit thrill he got out of it either—both the location and Shane calling him Coach. Even the aborted hand job made Troy’s breath catch in his throat. “No. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“So, tell me about this video…. Jesus, Cally, you are obsessed with forechecking,” Shane muttered and rolled his eyes, but his hand was moving and Troy wasn’t stopping him anymore.

“You saw the end of that first game.” Troy’s eyes closed briefly as Shane’s thumb rubbed over the head of his dick through his pants. “It was fucking pathetic.”

“We’d been on a bus for fifteen hours,” Shane murmured, and his eyes were on the video but it was clear his attention was on the movement of his hand in Troy’s lap. “That’s gonna make it hard for anyone to perform.”

Troy gave a surprised, somewhat strangled gasp of laughter that was way too loud for what they were doing.

“Tell me some more about that video. See if you can keep it together while I make you come in your pants.”

“You are not making me come in my pants,” Troy whispered furiously. “You’re gonna get me there then finish it with your mouth. You don’t think you can manage that, North, then keep your hands to yourself. Or better yet, go back to your seat.”

“Wait. What happened to not asking me for sexual favors on the bus, Coach?”

“I’m not asking.” Troy didn’t miss Shane’s sharp inhale or the subtle shift of his body as he tried to give his own cock a stroke without breaking the rhythm or dislodging the awkwardly positioned smartphone that played the video neither of them were watching. “You can stop whenever you want if you’re not into it. But if you think I’m coming in my pants, you’re wrong.”

“Why does it turn me on when you talk to me like an asshole?” Shane’s fingers slipped deftly inside the sweats Troy had changed into for the long ride back to Asheville.

“Because you’ve got a goddamn screw loose, North. That’s why.” Troy gave up and rested his head back against the seat as Shane wrapped his rough, calloused fingers tightly around his cock and stroked. “Do it fast.”

“God,” Shane muttered, and he moved his wrist quickly as he braced his forearm against Troy’s side to keep his shoulder from moving up and down with his movements. “You want to come that bad?”

“I want my dick in your mouth so you shut yours.” They both knew that was a lie. Troy reached down, wrapped his hand around Shane’s, tightened his fingers, and helped him move faster.

“Gonna go get off in that bathroom back there after you come in my mouth,” Shane said.

Troy actually twitched in his seat as the impact of that—both the words and the image—slammed through him. “Get your fucking mouth on me now.”

It happened fast. Shane bent down and put his mouth around Troy’s dick about two seconds before Troy came with a silent shudder with one hand on the back of Shane’s neck. It wasn’t any longer than a few long, hot moments, but it felt like an eternity and an instant at the same time. And then Shane sat up and rubbed the back of his hand against his smirking mouth.

He did have the heel of his hand pressed against himself, though, and Troy could see the line of his cock through his loose running pants. He felt dizzy from holding his breath and tried to regulate his breathing quietly so it didn’t sound like he’d just gotten off in his seat.

“I’ll get you back for that,” Troy threatened, and if there was any chance they would stop hooking up, it went right out the window somewhere in Missouri along with that blowjob.

“I’m counting on it, Coach.” Shane took a moment to adjust himself and then slid out of the seat and made his way toward the back of the bus.

Troy waited as long as he could and then turned around to survey the bus, half convinced he was going to see every single Asheville Raven staring wide-eyed at him from their seats. But everyone appeared to be sleeping. Quinn had stopped snoring, but he was still wearing that dumb mask, so everything seemed to be in order.

He should probably spend the next however many hours berating himself for acting like an idiot and the completely unprofessional thing he just allowed to happen, not remembering how much he liked it or how hard it made him come. Troy was absolutely not going to close his eyes and think about Shane getting off frantically in the tiny bathroom at the back of the bus, if that was even what he was doing.

Time to watch a few more videos.