Nothing cleared Tristan’s mind quite like the sharp crunch of skate blades biting into ice. For Tristan, the noise held a sensory appeal. Whenever his brain got too loud, too cluttered, he closed his eyes and imagined the sound to center himself. It never failed—until lately. Since the prospectus meeting with Professor Cruz, not even the slicing scrape of skates-on-ice could save Tristan’s concentration for long.
During class, Tristan forced himself to recite parts of the NHL rulebook whenever he got distracted by thoughts of how his professor’s long, lean body might feel against his. Outside of class, he spent more time than was probably healthy having filthy student/uptight professor daydreams. Tristan wondered about the taste of Professor Cruz’s come, about how he smelled up close and personal. He imagined that low, growly voice giving him orders. Fuck. The other day he’d even tripped and nearly broken his nose by face-planting on the treadmill when he let his mind wander and it drifted straight to the fantasy of Professor Cruz smirking and asking him things like, Do you want to choke on my dick? before forcing his cock deep into Tristan’s throat.
As Tristan had groaned in pain from his position on the floor, Morley had laughed himself stupid and abandoned his own run to catch his breath. He’d stood there, chuckling and wiping tears from his eyes, while Ryu grabbed Tristan a towel to try to staunch the bleeding from his nostrils. Afterward, Tristan looked like he’d taken a vicious right hook to the schnoz, which earned him a double take from Professor Cruz during the following class.
A few days later, he met Ryu and Morley at a small local rink to run some practice drills. Despite being in his element—on the ice with a stick in his hand and a puck on his tape—it took Tristan an unbelievable amount of energy to focus.
He didn’t understand why he was so preoccupied with fantasies about Professor Cruz when they’d spent maybe a grand total of twenty minutes alone together. Possibly, it was the lure of the unattainable, and Tristan’s growing assurance that his attraction was far from one-sided. He’d felt that gaze lingering on him, and he’d watched Professor Cruz shake his head, consternation clear on his features, when Tristan looked up and caught him staring—three different times.
But Tristan couldn’t afford to be so distracted. What if he seriously injured himself or broke a limb? That would be fun to explain to the coaching staff when training camp started. Somehow, he didn’t think they’d appreciate hearing, Sorry, guys, I have a hard-on for my professor and can’t stop thinking about his dick. Or mine.
Tristan almost laughed aloud at the thought. Trying to center himself, he circled the rink for half an hour, practicing his turns and stops and dribbling the puck around a few makeshift obstacles. He wasn’t as good at stick-handling as some of the forwards on the team, and he didn’t have any flashy tricks up his sleeve, but he liked to think his skills weren’t anything to sneeze at either.
When Ryu banged his stick against one of the goal posts to call his attention, Tristan took a puck down the ice and aimed for Ryu’s weak spot—top shelf left. It sailed cleanly over Ryu’s shoulder.
Morley guffawed behind Tristan. “Guess training with that Swedish dude didn’t help, eh, Ryu? You might want to get your money back. Is there a refund policy?”
Ryu sent him a steely-eyed look through the cage of his mask and knocked the puck out of the crease. “Why don’t you try me?”
Morley shrugged one big, padded shoulder. Tristan moved aside as he skated to the blue line and tried a quick slapshot. Ryu easily caught the puck, dropped it to the ice, and kicked it away with enough attitude Tristan broke into a grin.
Morley laughed good-naturedly. “Hey, bro, I’m not here to make goals. I’m here to stop the other team from making them.”
Ryu ignored him, jerking his chin at Tristan. “Again.”
For the next hour, they took shots at Ryu and ran passing drills while skating the length of the ice. Ryu shut down Morley’s every attempt and gave him a tiny, vicious smile when Morley growled in frustration. He could’ve goaded Morley further, but Ryu wasn’t much for trash talk. He let his actions speak for him, standing casually in net with his arms draped along the crossbar, which needled Morley more than any insults Ryu might have slung at him.
Tristan was chuckling at Morley’s pissed-off expression when the arrival of about a dozen miniature hockey players signaled the end of their time. Unlike most Atlantans, who’d likely pass Venom players on the street and be none the wiser, these kids and their parents actually recognized the three of them.
“Holtzy!” the smallest boy yelled, nearly mowing down his teammate in his rush to get to Tristan. “I wanna be a D-man like you when I grow up. I’m gonna be on the Venom too, and we’re gonna win The Cup for sure.”
Tristan grinned. “Is that so?”
“Yeah! On my day, I’ll eat Fruit Loops and drink beer out of it. Maybe both at the same time. And I might even let my little sister touch it, if she asks nicely.” The kid shot him a gap-toothed smile. “Hey, can you sign my jersey?”
The volume increased as Morley and Ryu were surrounded as well. Tristan signed sticks and helmets while experiencing the same out-of-body surrealism that overtook him whenever he got asked for an autograph. It didn’t make sense that people would want his signature on anything, let alone seem so thrilled about it. It was humbling too. He remembered being a starry-eyed tyke at his first NHL game. He must’ve been four or five at the time. Even now, meeting some of the players he’d admired as a teenager left Tristan awestruck. He didn’t think he’d ever get over the oddness of being on the receiving end of the admiration.
After showers, they met at a nearby restaurant for lunch. Tristan’s carb intake was huge during the regular season, but in the summer, when he wasn’t burning through calories almost faster than he could consume them, he focused on eating healthier. His meal was a grilled salmon salad, a slice of multigrain bread, and water with lemon.
Morley eyed Tristan’s plate in disdain as he chomped on his bacon double cheeseburger. “I don’t get how you can be satisfied with that, bro. That’s bird food.”
“I like it.” Tristan shrugged. “And it’s what you should be eating too.”
Morley patted his muscular stomach. “It takes more than romaine to keep this tank running, Holtzy. I’m a growing boy.”
“You’re twenty-seven,” Ryu said flatly. He was eating a wrap of some sort with fruit on the side. “The only growing you’re going to be doing is outward.”
Morley cupped one huge hand over his ear. “I can’t hear you from down there, shrimpy. Do you need me to ask the waiter for a stepladder?”
Ryu leveled Morley with the dead-eyed stare he usually reserved for game time. “Take your taunts back to middle school, Morley. Your juvenile humor is wilting the lettuce in my Caesar wrap.”
Tristan choked on a bite of salmon.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Ryu continued. “Like how distracted you’ve been lately, Tristan.” Aside from the coaches and trainers, Ryu was the only teammate who called Tristan by his first name. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you whiffed twice today and missed an easy pass from this one over here.” He nodded toward Morley. “It’s not only that, though. You’ve been weird every time I’ve seen you.”
“That’s probably why he almost broke his face on the treadmill the other day,” Morley said around a mouthful of chewed-up burger. “He’s been body-snatched.”
Ryu’s lip curled with disgust. “Swallowing should happen before speaking.”
Morley grinned. “That’s what she—”
“Really? Could you not?” Ryu’s voice dripped with scorn. “That joke is over a decade old.”
Morley’s voice boomed as he said something about classics enduring through the ages. Tristan tuned out their bickering while he collected himself. He wasn’t surprised his friends had noticed his distraction. Of course they had. It would be obvious to anyone who knew him.
Fucking Sebastian Cruz with his deep, sexy voice and that lean, strong body. Something about him turned Tristan’s crank like nothing else in a long time. Tristan wanted a chance to explore their chemistry, but whether or not they would get it, Tristan knew he couldn’t take another of Professor Cruz’s classes again.
It was too damned distracting. He’d imagined himself in the submissive role with someone domineering like Professor Cruz about a thousand times. When he was alone in bed at night, he craved dominance. Someone to help him just . . . let go. But he didn’t know how to ask for what he needed. Usually, given his size, the guys he hooked up with expected him to lead, to take control and do the fucking. Requesting anything different had led to some embarrassing moments. Why he felt like Professor Cruz would understand, and more than that, give him exactly what he wanted, Tristan couldn’t explain.
But daydreams were for children, not grown men. He needed to remember that before other aspects of his life began to suffer.
“Yo, earth to Holtzy.” Morley’s big paw waved in front of his face.
Tristan snapped to attention “Sorry, guys. I’m good. Acclimating to taking classes again, you know? It’s harder than I thought it would be.” Pun intended.
Morley grabbed his strawberry milkshake and peered, frowning, into the mostly empty glass. “I still don’t get why you’re bothering, bro.”
“I already explained. Backup plan, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Morley slurped the rest of his shake and signaled their waiter. “Hey, can I get another one of these? No, make it chocolate this time. Or can you do half and half?”
Tristan felt the weight of Ryu’s scrutiny and looked up. Ryu was regarding him with narrowed eyes, but thankfully, he didn’t press the issue once Morley was distracted.
The conversation turned to the recent NHL draft and the new prospects they might see during training camp. Speculating about who might actually join them on the ice in the near future was enough to divert Tristan’s thoughts, and soon he put Sebastian Cruz from his mind entirely.
Of course that only lasted until he got home. He stared at the sociology textbook on his kitchen table and contemplated starting his final paper. It wasn’t due until the end of July, which meant he had plenty of time to write it. He wanted it to be perfect, though, not something scraped together at the last minute. He couldn’t stand the idea of turning in anything less. Not only that, homophobia in professional sports was obviously a subject near and dear to his heart. He owed it to himself and every other queer athlete to give the topic the respect and consideration it deserved.
Decided, Tristan went to change into some sweats. He had plenty of reading to do before he outlined a rough draft. Might as well be comfortable.