A few days later, Sebastian sat back on the comfortable couch in Tristan’s apartment, shaking his head and holding up a hand as Tristan tried to offer him the last pot sticker. They’d ordered Thai, and while Sebastian was a runner and had what he considered a fairly healthy appetite, there was no way he could keep up with Tristan. And this was Tristan before the hockey season had started. He must eat like a horse to keep that physique of his when he was playing several games a week.
Thinking about hockey made Sebastian study the apartment as Tristan cheerfully finished off the pot stickers. It was a nice place, definitely new, with an updated kitchen full of modern appliances (the most used of which, Tristan told him with a laugh, was his Vitamix blender) and stylish furniture. Nothing flashy, which fit with what Sebastian knew of Tristan’s sensibilities, and while it was tidy, it was obvious someone lived here. Tristan had smiled when they’d first walked in with dinner, and Sebastian had seen the small neat pile of textbooks next to Tristan’s bookshelf, his sociology book on top.
“You don’t keep this one next to your bed?” Sebastian had teased, lifting the book up.
“I doodled your name in the cover,” Tristan had joked, grinning.
“With little hearts around it?”
“Nah.” Tristan had winked. “Dicks. Not little, though.”
Sebastian had laughed and they’d sat down to eat dinner on the sectional sofa in the living room. Once they’d finished, Sebastian carried the remains of their meal into the kitchen, stacking the leftover boxes in the fridge and throwing away the empty containers.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Tristan said, appearing in the kitchen behind him. “I invited you over, you know.”
“It’s not a problem.” Sebastian gently pushed Tristan up against the counter and leaned in, kissing him softly on the mouth. More of a tease than a kiss, really. He was enjoying the low burn of arousal, and happy that they didn’t have to keep their hands off each other. Now that they didn’t, though, Sebastian was going to enjoy making Tristan so hot for it he couldn’t control himself.
Revenge for those sweatpants.
Tristan wasn’t wearing them at the moment. He was wearing jeans and a nice shirt, as if they were going out instead of picking up takeout. Sebastian would have been fine with going out, but he knew exactly why Tristan wanted to be as close to a bed as possible. He wanted that too. Though the sectional would absolutely work if they didn’t have the inclination to make it to the bed. Sebastian had made sure to bring a few necessities in his messenger bag, just in case that happened.
Tristan was kissing him with obvious eagerness, his hands settling on Sebastian’s hips so he could curl his fingers into Sebastian’s belt and tug him closer. Sebastian allowed it, deepened the kiss, and thought about fucking Tristan over the table they hadn’t used, and then pulled away with a brief nip on Tristan’s lower lip.
Tristan looked dazed—which was flattering—and annoyed at Sebastian for stopping, which caused Sebastian to grin evilly at him. “In a hurry, Tristan?”
“Yeah, actually,” Tristan said, so honestly that it made Sebastian chuckle.
“We waited this long. We can wait a little longer.”
“Yeah, but why—”
Sebastian reached out and put two fingers against Tristan’s mouth. “Shh. Let’s not pretend you don’t like it when I make the rules.”
Tristan blinked at him, then smiled a little and maneuvered Sebastian’s fingers into his mouth. He sucked on them, and it went straight to Sebastian’s dick and threatened his self-control, making the table plan look better and better with each passing second. He pulled his fingers free and dragged them wetly down the side of Tristan’s face, then tapped lightly. “Be patient, Mr. Holt.”
Tristan sucked in a quick breath at the light tap, and his eyes flared hot—it gave Sebastian ideas, and made him wonder how into dominance play Tristan really was. He looked forward to finding out, but if he didn’t stop thinking about it, he was going to lose it and shove Tristan to his knees right then and there. And that was not the plan. Not tonight, anyway.
“Mmm. No promises, Professor,” Tristan said, and then went around him to get a couple of beers out of the fridge. They were good beers too, with actual hops and an alcohol content. “I gotta enjoy these before training camp starts. After that, it’s Miller Lite or Mich Ultra.” He made a face. “So, you know. Basically water. Although I did read in Martin Brodeur’s book that light beer was a perfect replenishing drink for an athlete. Like, it was the best mix of carbs and water and way better than Gatorade.” Tristan laughed. “Maybe I can convince Coach to let us put that in our water bottles.”
“I think I’d rather have water,” Sebastian said, as they walked back into the living room. He took a moment to study the décor, which was, predictably, all centered around hockey (with one or two concert posters thrown in for variety). Tristan had what appeared to be a hockey puck in a shadow box (“My first NHL game,” he explained to Sebastian), a framed jersey from the University of Wisconsin, and a few other pieces of memorabilia.
“You know, I feel ridiculous telling you this, but I’ve never watched a game of hockey in my whole life,” said Sebastian. He sat back on the couch, and Tristan settled right next to him. He liked that Tristan wasn’t shy about being close, and in fact, seemed to relish that they could sit so close. “I understand the basic premise, but as for the intricacies of gameplay itself . . . I’m lost.”
“Hey, well, lucky for you, you know a guy who can explain it.” Tristan picked up the remote off the coffee table and switched on the television. It was absurdly large, which reminded Sebastian for a moment how young Tristan was. Though, honestly, if he’d come into a lot of money at Tristan’s age, he probably would have spent it on something similar. Maybe not a television, but he might have gotten his GTO a lot sooner than he had.
Tristan turned on the NHL Network. “Something tells me you don’t have this channel.”
“You’re stereotyping,” Sebastian said, teasing, but he kept his face impassive so it didn’t show.
Tristan rolled his eyes. “You just said you didn’t know anything about hockey! I figured if you had it, and you wanted to know about it, you’d watch that.”
“Yeah. This is my long con to figure out a sporting event. I learned how to fix up my GTO by dating a mechanic too,” he joked. “It’s so much easier than using Google.”
Tristan snorted. “Your sense of humor reminds me of our goalie. All right, here we— Haha, oh, wow. This is a coincidence.” He gestured toward the game. “That’s the playoff series that my team ended up losing.” He pointed with the beer bottle to the television. “I’m number fifty-seven.” He cleared his throat. “In the green and gold.”
Sebastian bumped him with his shoulder. “I know that much.”
“Okay, so, this is hockey.” Tristan winced. “Ugh, I can’t believe Morley let that guy through the zone. Anyway, so, my job is a defenseman. That means I try to keep the puck in the offensive zone—that’s this end of the ice, where the opposing team’s goalie is—so our offense can score. And, I mean, sometimes I score goals.”
Tristan’s tone reminded Sebastian of TAs from grad school, who were just getting that distinctive “lecture” voice. According to his family and friends, Sebastian had been gifted with that voice soon after he’d learned how to talk. It was endearing to sit and listen to Tristan explain the game to him, because he had as much passion for hockey as Sebastian had for sociology.
Tristan was a good teacher, and he was able to break down the fast-moving game into parts and explain to Sebastian how they functioned as a whole. It reminded him, strangely enough, of his father telling him about engines and how all the separate pieces worked together to make the car run.
“Wait, why did everyone stop playing right there?” Sebastian asked, leaning forward. He liked the fast pace of the game, and the sheer athleticism it must take impressed him. It definitely explained why Tristan worked out so much and could eat so many pot stickers, even before the season started.
“That was icing,” Tristan explained. “Basically, you can’t whack the puck down the ice like that, where it crosses the center line—” he paused the game and pointed to a red line on the rink “—and the goal line, here, without someone touching it. It’s so you don’t put a guy down next to the opposing team’s goalie and shoot the puck down the ice all day so the guy can score goals uncontested.”
“Ah.” Sebastian nodded. “So it’s like soccer, where you try and not score any goals and thereby excite the audience?”
“The crowd, Sebastian,” Tristan said with a sharp grin. “‘The audience.’” He shook his head and went back to the game. “Okay, so, see, there’s me keeping that guy from getting the puck out of our offensive zone and back into his. And there’s Morley fucking up and letting him clear the puck on the power play.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t do that,” Sebastian interrupted.
“Well, you can when it’s a power play. That’s because your team is down a man, so you’re allowed. But that means the face-off comes back to your defensive zone . . . am I losing you?”
“No, I think it makes sense.” Sebastian watched a little more. “I missed whatever the guy did to be . . . not on the ice. In the penalty box?”
“Right. Uh, I don’t know, let’s see.” Tristan rewound the game to right after he’d initially paused it to explain icing. “Oh, a trip. Ugh, the fucking Marauders. They’re such assholes.”
“You spend a lot of time on the ice,” Sebastian pointed out as they watched a little more. “More than the . . . forwards?”
“Yup. And yeah, defensemen usually do. We don’t get all the glory of, say, Sidney Crosby but, you know. We do our part.” He sounded proud, and he should. Sebastian couldn’t imagine the skill it took to get to this level, with so many other guys out there trying for a spot.
They watched an entire period with Tristan patiently explaining the mechanics and Sebastian asking a few questions, and by the time they put the game back on “live” mode, it was getting ready to start the third period.
“So, we win this one.” Tristan set the remote on the table. “Which is good. I wouldn’t want to show you a game where I sucked.”
Sebastian smiled and said nothing.
“So, how about this,” Tristan said, voice suddenly heated, a playful glimmer in his blue eyes. “I’ve given you the lesson, and now it’s time for the quiz.”
“Oh, is that so?” Sebastian liked where this was going, especially because Tristan’s hand was on his knee and moving slowly up his thigh. “Are you a hard grader, Professor Holt?”
Tristan snorted. “Not as hard as you are. A ninety-four? Really?”
“I told you,” Sebastian said, “You didn’t format those footnotes correctly. And there was a part in the middle of your paper that could definitely have been a tighter argument.”
Tristan groaned and fell back on the couch. “Why did I ask?”
Sebastian gave him a wicked grin. “You earned the second-highest grade in my class, Mr. Holt. Don’t complain.”
“Second highest?” Tristan made a face. He didn’t look like he was kidding, either. “Who got the first?”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow at him. “This is really what you want to do right now?” He took Tristan’s hand and moved it a little higher on his thigh, and nodded at the game. “I’m getting incredibly turned on watching you defend the puck. And you want to talk about grades?”
“Sorry,” Tristan said, without sounding the least bit sorry. “I don’t like to lose.” He paused. “Then again, I got the second highest grade but I also get your dick in my mouth, so I think I won, after all.”
“I’m glad you feel better about this,” Sebastian said dryly. “Back to my quiz?”
Tristan laughed. “Right. Okay, so . . . what’s the guy in front of the net called?”
“A control freak?”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t be the goalie,” Tristan teased. “Come on, I had that figured out from the first day of class. You like being in charge.”
“I do,” Sebastian murmured, desire curling low in his stomach as blood pulsed hot and went right to his dick. “That’s true.” He reached out and put a hand on the back of Tristan’s neck. “And you like it. I figured that out the first time I put you on your knees.”
Tristan sucked in a sharp breath, focus going from the game to Sebastian, which Sebastian found gratifying. God knew Tristan had distracted him from work enough times over the last few months. “Yeah. I—I like that. A lot, actually.”
“Mmm. So, maybe you should reward me when I get the answers right.”
“Okay,” Tristan said, eyes wide and caught by Sebastian’s own. The eagerness . . . fuck, Tristan was really into this, and it was something Sebastian liked a lot. He didn’t generally have relationships where he was able to devote a lot of time or energy into exploring it. Something about Tristan brought it out in him more strongly than usual, though, and it appeared they were both into it . . . so why not?
“How—how many offensive lines are there?” Tristan asked.
Sebastian had to think about that one for a minute. “Three?”
Tristan made a buzzer sound and slid his hand slightly lower and away from Sebastian’s dick. “Try again.”
“Four,” Sebastian guessed, mainly because he knew it couldn’t be two.
“Yeah,” Tristan agreed, voice heavy. He went to move his hand up, but Sebastian stopped him with a light squeeze on his wrist.
“Put your hand on my cock, Tristan.”
Tristan swallowed visibly and obeyed. Sebastian made an appreciative noise, then put his hands behind his head and turned his attention back to the game. “Next question.”
“What, uh . . . what’s it called when one team has an extra player on the ice ’cause the other team has a player in the penalty box?”
Sebastian definitely remembered that one. “Power play.” He waited for Tristan’s answering nod, then said, “Unbuckle my belt.”
Tristan did so with hurried gestures, his fingers a little clumsy in his haste. It made Sebastian want to stop playing games and throw him on the ground and fuck him hard. “Next question.”
“What position am I?”
“Power bottom,” Sebastian said immediately, then gave a low chuckle at the expression on Tristan’s face. “Defenseman.” When Tristan’s fingers went to the button on his jeans, Sebastian shook his head. “That was too easy. I want a hard one.”
“That makes two of us,” Tristan quipped, and Sebastian had the odd thought that he couldn’t remember the last person who made him laugh quite so easily. “Okay, what’s it called if you’re the team who is down a guy, ’cause the refs are maybe blind and think a good hockey play is a penalty?”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “I think it’s . . .” He had to search his memory. “Penalty game?”
“Mmm. Close, but not quite.” Tristan peered up at him hopefully. “How about I undo one button since it was mostly right?”
“Not a chance.”
“Buzzkill,” said Tristan.
That triggered his memory. “Penalty kill. You can unzip my jeans now.” He lost his breath for a moment as Tristan did so, doing it with enough pressure on Sebastian’s dick to make his eyes roll back in his head.
“What’s— Ah, what’s the— What’s it called when you score three goals in one game?”
“Lucky?” Sebastian asked, then laughed at Tristan’s look. He knew this one. “Hat trick.”
“That’s right.” Tristan stared expectantly at him, breathing a little harder, his face flushed.
“Take my cock out,” Sebastian said, his voice soft. He made an appreciative sound when Tristan did as instructed, taking his cock in hand. He focused on the game again. “Ask me another question.”
“Ah . . . dude, even I’m forgetting about hockey right now,” Tristan said, his fingers warm and his grip tight on Sebastian’s hard cock. “Okay, what’s . . . uh, what’s offside?”
Sebastian had no idea. He squinted at the television. “It’s . . . when the players start too soon?”
“Nope. This one is advanced. Probably more in the blowjob category than a handjob,” Tristan informed him. He sounded a little smug too. That wouldn’t do.
“Who said we were stopping at a handjob—or a blowjob, for that matter?” Sebastian demanded, fixing Tristan with a sharp stare. He already knew that Tristan liked the professor voice, and lucky for him, it came fairly naturally to Sebastian. “Hmm?”
“No one,” Tristan said. “And I— This is hot as fuck, Sebastian, but if we have to watch hockey until you get enough questions right to fuck me, this is gonna take a while. I’m pretty sure the game after this is the one where we lose, and I don’t think I’m going to be in the mood for anything hot after that.”
“Then you better get me ready to fuck you before this game’s over,” Sebastian said, as if he were unmoved by Tristan’s admission—when in fact, he appreciated the subtle cue that Tristan wouldn’t want to keep playing this particular game much longer. Honestly, Sebastian wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up, either.
“Offside is when a player not carrying the puck crosses the blue line first,” Tristan said, a little breathless. “And now they can call back goals for that, which is kind of stupid since it can honestly happen ten seconds before the goal is scored and that’s an eternity in hockey.”
“It feels like an eternity at the moment too,” Sebastian said pointedly, and gave a little push of his hips. “The next question, please.”
Tristan watched the game for a moment. “What are the two guys on an offensive line besides the center called?”
“Left wing and right wing,” Sebastian recalled. At Tristan’s nod, he said, “Start stroking me. Not too fast. You’re not trying to get me off.”
“Mmm.” Tristan started moving his hand slowly, giving a little flick of his wrist when he got to the top of Sebastian’s dick that made him suck in a sharp breath. “What’s the . . . Fuck, Sebastian,” he muttered, shaking his head. His eyes were glued to Sebastian’s cock. “What’s a Gordie Howe Hat Trick?”
What the hell? Sebastian had no idea, and had to admit that was annoying because he was starting to become more interested in fucking Tristan than learning about hockey. “Who’s Gordie Howe?”
“Former player. Died recently.” Tristan’s thumb dragged across the tip of Sebastian’s dick.
“So . . . he scores three goals? From the afterlife?”
Tristan grinned at him. “Nice try. It’s a fight, an assist, and a goal.”
“Why?”
“It just is.” Tristan shrugged. “Okay, what’s an assist?”
“That’s when someone helps you score a goal,” Sebastian said, and added, “Context clues, Mr. Holt. Take your shirt off.”
That clearly surprised Tristan, and he looked a little disappointed to let go of Sebastian’s cock to remove his shirt. But honestly, if he didn’t, this was going to end with Sebastian shoving Tristan’s head in his lap and having Tristan blow him. Sebastian slowly fisted his own dick, enjoying the show.
“What’s the difference between a major and a minor penalty? How many minutes in the box,” Tristan clarified, chest heaving with the rapid pace of his breathing.
Sebastian did remember that one. “Two minutes and five minutes. Rub your cock through your jeans.”
Tristan was kneeling on the couch now, and he did what Sebastian wanted with obvious enjoyment, palming his hard cock through his jeans. His head tipped back and his eyes went half-closed, and Sebastian had entirely tuned the game out in favor of watching Tristan touch himself and show off for him. “You want me to fuck you, Tristan?”
“Fuck, yes,” Tristan hissed, giving Sebastian a heavy stare. “I’ll ask you about Corsi statistics if that gets me fucked hard.”
“I’ll settle for you asking for it,” Sebastian said, ready to stop playing games—at least, this particular game. He had a few more in mind. “Convince me you’ve earned it.”
Tristan bit his lower lip, then started undoing his jeans. He waited for a moment when he got to the zipper, clearly making sure it was all right, and that was so hot Sebastian had to squeeze the base of his dick to keep himself under control.
Tristan shoved his jeans down to mid-thigh, along with his underwear. He was kneeling right next to Sebastian, and he started fisting his own cock, hard and fast. “I really want you to fuck me. I think about it a lot. You have no idea.”
He had some idea. Sebastian was transfixed by how sexy Tristan looked, how completely uninhibited he was about his body and showing it off. Sebastian’s mouth was dry, but he didn’t want to look away or stop touching his cock long enough to reach for his half-finished beer on the table.
“How do you want it?”
“Hard,” Tristan said immediately, voice low and rough. “Just bend me over and fuck me.”
Sebastian was about at the limit of his patience, so that was fine with him. “Then turn the television off and show me where the bedroom is.”
Tristan had the remote in his hand before Sebastian had finished talking, and he turned the power off, tossed the controller negligently to the floor, and then climbed in Sebastian’s lap. “You have a problem fucking on the couch, Professor Cruz?”
“Not at all.” Sebastian grabbed the back of Tristan’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him. He wrapped his free hand around their cocks, jacking them off. They both moaned. “I have supplies in my messenger bag.”
“Yeah? Well.” Tristan threw his head back with a choked groan, then gave a slow grind of his hips. “I have some right behind that couch cushion. I had a feeling we wouldn’t make it to the bedroom.”
“Mmm. Good thinking.” Sebastian kissed him once more, let himself enjoy another few rough strokes with their cocks pressed together, and then said gruffly, “Take your clothes off.”
Tristan slid off his lap. Sebastian stood up on legs that weren’t quite steady and eyed the back of the couch. Tristan was taller than Sebastian, but if he leaned over the back, it should work.
Tristan stripped with haste that would have been amusing if Sebastian weren’t so goddamned desperate for it, and Sebastian rummaged around in the couch until he found the condoms and the tube of lube. “Come here,” he said.
When Tristan was in front of him, Sebastian couldn’t resist palming his nape and yanking him down for a hot, thorough kiss. Their height difference would never mean Tristan was in control, and Sebastian wanted him to know it. He pressed the condom into Tristan’s hand. “Put this on me.”
“Fuck,” Tristan muttered, and got the condom open while Sebastian pushed his own jeans and underwear out of the way. Tristan smirked and took way too much time sliding the condom on, which made Sebastian mutter and give him a stern look that did nothing to make Tristan go any faster.
Tristan was apparently waiting for further instructions, so Sebastian opened the lube and gestured to Tristan. “Lean over the back of the couch.”
The smile Tristan gave him made Sebastian’s gut tighten with something other than lust, but the sight of Tristan bent over the couch, ass up in the air . . . it was impossible to concentrate on anything but how badly Sebastian wanted to fuck him. He lubed up his cock and shuddered a little at the feel of his hand on himself, and he was glad for the condom or else this might be over way too fast. And he’d promised Tristan a good, hard fuck . . . so that was what he was going to give him.
Sebastian positioned himself behind Tristan and made a few adjustments, then slicked his fingers one last time before tossing the tube to the couch. He reached down and rubbed between Tristan’s cleft, lubing his hole and then lining himself up. He steadied Tristan with his hands on Tristan’s hips and eased himself inside, breath catching as Tristan’s body took his cock. He paused once he was all the way inside, leaning down and mouthing at the sleek muscles of Tristan’s back, giving Tristan time to adjust.
“All right?” he asked, voice gravel-rough, kissing Tristan’s spine lightly.
“No, ’cause you’re—you’re not fucking me,” Tristan panted out, which was answer enough for Sebastian.
“Then hold on.” Sebastian straightened. He got a firmer grip on Tristan’s hips and pulled out slowly, then slammed back inside in one deep thrust. They both groaned, and Sebastian found a rhythm. Tristan moved with him, thrusting back on his cock and panting with harsh, rapid breaths.
Sebastian eventually settled one hand low on Tristan’s sweat-slick back and kept the other on his hip, trying to keep up as the couch lurched forward on the hardwood floor. Sebastian briefly thought about stopping and switching locations, but Tristan looked over his shoulder and said, “Fuck, do it harder,” and that was the end of thinking about logistics.
“You like it?” Sebastian asked, hips snapping forward. “This what you wanted?”
“Mmm, fuck, yeah,” Tristan ground out, head thrown back. “Fuck, yes.”
Sebastian wanted to make this last, wanted to make Tristan beg to come, but he couldn’t—it felt too good and he was already too close. “Get yourself off,” he ordered, and the second Tristan got a hand on his dick, his body tightened around Sebastian’s cock and Sebastian groaned loudly. “Yeah, that’s it, make me come.”
It only took a few seconds before Tristan cried out and came, and Sebastian followed him soon after, half collapsing on Tristan’s back as he shuddered hard with his own release. He was gasping for breath and half-aware of the couch sliding again, and he could feel Tristan laugh beneath him.
“Uh, shouldn’t have . . . gotten those . . . furniture feet things,” Tristan said, clearly still out of breath.
He was doing better than Sebastian, though, who couldn’t quite speak yet. Sebastian snorted and eased out of him, leaning against the couch for a moment to catch his breath.
Tristan straightened, then turned and flashed him a grin. “Not bad, Professor. I’d say definitely a ninety-four. At least.”
Sebastian didn’t have enough breath to speak, but he somehow still managed a laugh. Brat.