After Game 7

After seven games, the series is over. We lost. We shook hands with the opposing team at center ice. My breath caught when their goalie made his way to me. He's a little taller than me, blue-eyed. We've been eyeing each other across the ice all week. At least, I don't think I imagined that.

Now, we stand side by side in the hotel elevator. We don't make eye contact. He punches the button for the 6th floor, for his team, then pauses and hits the 5th floor, too. For me.

"Thank you," I say.

"Of course." Something twinges inside me, warm.

The elevator begins to move and I swallow hard. "Do you-- ah--"

"Hm?" He looks over at me now, his eyes shockingly blue.

I don't think I imagine the tension between us. And I'm damn sure he's aware of it, too.

"Would you like a drink." The words come out of me in a rush. "I had-- ah-- I had some vodka in my room. In case. You know."

"Oh," he says. His eyes roam over my face. Trying to read me. The elevator dings gently as it reaches the fifth floor.

"If you want." I shuffle awkwardly as the elevator doors begin to open. "I mean--"

"I'd like that," he says.

We walk out of the elevator and toward my hotel room. The hallway is silent; the team is mourning its championship woes. I slide the keycard into the reader for my door, and he follows me inside.

"Looks just like mine," he says, chuckling at the patterned wallpaper and plain carpeting.

"Yeah, this fucking sucks," I reply, reaching for a pair of glasses from next to the ice bucket. "The precautions, I mean." He hums in agreement. Before I can think, I ask, "You have anyone back home you're missing?"

I feel him pause. "No," he says quietly.

"Oh," I manage. The glasses feel like they're going to break in my hand.

"Do you?" he asks.

I set the glasses down on the hotel desk. Reach for the mini-fridge with the vodka. Try to play it cool. "No," I say.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't suck," he says.

I laugh nervously. "Yeah." The bottle of vodka retrieved, I start to pour. Are my hands shaking? I hope not. In any case, the glasses are intact. I hand him a glass and he accepts it gratefully.

We drink in silence for a moment.

"Congrats on your win," I finally say.

"Thank you." He chuckles. "I am sorry to see you go."

"Oh?" And maybe it's the vodka making me bold, but I feel myself stepping toward him. Closing the gap, as it were.

"You're a good goalie." He takes a sip, and his blue eyes meet mine. Something warm twinges inside me again.

"So are you," I say. Has my voice changed? I think it has. I try not to look at his face, at his lips.

I'm failing miserably, because immediately he cracks a smile. "You nervous?" he asks.

"I-- What? No." I straighten up and take another sip of my drink. He's looking at me with amusement. "I'm not-- No."

"Good," he says, setting his glass down on the desk. "Me neither."

When his lips touch mine, it's like a wave crashing through me. I haven't been kissed in so long that it feels almost unbearable. And this feels like it's been building the whole series, this need for him. He tastes like vodka and sweat.

He pulls back a little to breathe. His eyes are inches from mine. Blue with flecks of green.

"Are you nervous now?" he whispers.

"Fuck no," I say, fumbling to set my drink down on the faux wood desk, to put my hands in his hair, to pull him into me. He kisses like he's been thinking about me all series, too. Like he's thought about this every time we saw each other across the ice, too.

He pushes me up against the wall. One of his hands pushes up the bottom of my shirt, traces along my stomach. I wince, and he pulls back.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Bruises," I mutter. "You know."

"I do," he says. He steps back, pulls his shirt over his head. He's gorgeous, but his chest and shoulders are mottled with bruises, too.

"Do you want me to be gentle?" he asks as my eyes rove over his body.

"What?" I say.

"Do you want me to be gentle with you," he asks again.

Fuck. "I-- ah-- no. Not really. No."

A smile creeps across his face. Then his mouth's back on mine, and his hand's on the back of my neck, and his whole body's pressing me into the wall. I trace my fingers along his back and let out a small moan into his mouth.

He pulls away to take my shirt off, look at my bruised chest. I look him over too, his muscles, his bruises, his cock bulging under his jeans.

"You are so fucking hot," I murmur.

"And you," he replies. His eyes are tracing my body. His gaze feels searingly warm.

I reach out, grab the belt loops on his jeans. His chest tumbles into mine, and the feeling of skin on skin contact after weeks in this hotel is so intense that we both gasp. While we kiss, his hands fumble for the buckle on my belt. I feel my pants loosen, then fall to the floor. He slides down my body, planting a few more kisses on my torso as his mouth finally reaches the same height as my hips.

His breath is warm, even through my briefs. It's warmer once my briefs are around my ankles. And it's warmest when his mouth is wrapped around my cock, not sucking, just lingering, waiting. His tongue snakes around the underside, teasing me. "God fucking damn it," I say, gritting my teeth, and he grins up at me. Then he's bobbing his head on my cock, sucking and licking, and the moan that escapes me isn't as small this time. My hand grabs a fistful of his hair, guiding his head up and down. He moans too, and the vibrations from his throat feel incredible.

Too soon, he's done. I'm still rock hard while works his way back up. He kisses my stomach, my bruises, my chest, my shoulder, then his lips trace the side of my neck up to my ear. "You want me to fuck you?" he whispers.

It's a question, but it isn't. I breathe a "yes" back.

He doesn't move. "You have lube?" he whispers.

I laugh. "In my duffel."

He gives me a sloppy kiss on the lips and heads across the room to retrieve the lube. I watch the muscles of his ass, still in his jeans, as he bends down to hunt through my duffel bag. I step out of my pants and briefs and step cautiously toward the bed.

"I hear you," he says.

"Goalie instincts?" I joke. I reach out to smack his ass and his arm shoots out, blocking my hand. We both laugh. He turns around, lube in one hand, and gives me a quick stroke with the other.

I groan. He laughs again, placing the lube on the nightstand. He slides his jeans and boxers to the floor, revealing more bruises--and a gorgeous cock. I feel my mouth water, but before I can think about getting on my knees, he's pushing me onto the bed. His body slides on top of mine, our cocks touching, our tongues intertwined.

We roll across the bed until I'm on top of him. We're both breathless. He fumbles for the lube, squeezes a little onto his fingers. Knowing what's coming is enough to make another moan pass my lips. Then I feel his fingers circling my hole, slippery and firm and probing, and I feel myself losing control. "Please," I manage to say.

"Please what?" he replies. That smile is back on his face. One finger slips inside me, pumps quickly, retreats.

"Please fuck me," I say.

"Thought you would never fucking ask," he says. He slathers himself with lube. "You can take me?"

I lean back, and my eyes trace over his cock, throbbing and lubed up for me. "Yes," I breathe.

He slowly slides his cock inside my hole, and I gasp. It's been so long since I've been filled like this. He's cautious, sliding in and out of me at a gentle pace, his eyes flickering between my face and my cock, bobbing between us.

After a few minutes of his steady fucking, I give an experimental bounce on his cock. The sound that escapes his lips is electric. My legs splay to the sides and I let myself go to work, bouncing my ass up and down.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Never been with another goalie before."

I grin at him. "You like the splits?"

"Yeah." His breathing is heavier now. His hands grab at my thighs, my ass. "You're so tight."

My cock's begging for attention, bouncing against me. He seems to sense it, too. Or maybe he noticed the precum dripping onto his stomach. Either way, there's a fiendishly hot look on his face as he watches me bounce on his cock.

Suddenly his grip tightens on my ass, holding me in place. It's fully sheathed, he's twitching, I'm trying not to whimper.

"Hold on," he says.

He rolls me over then, pinning me on my back, his cock still firmly inside my hole. He's propped up on his elbows on either side of my face. I can smell the sweat from his pits.

I finally have a hand free to stroke myself. He seems to like that, fucking me a little faster. As he pumps inside me, he works the side of my neck, sucking and licking, pausing to bite down for a second.

"What-- what if someone sees it?" I manage to ask, breathless.

He leans back and looks me in the eyes. "It's just another bruise."

And God, his eyes, the blue, I'm lost again. My cock's throbbing in my hand. He's hitting the perfect spot in my ass. "I-- can I--"

"Are you asking permission?" he says, not breaking eye contact.

"Yeah-- yeah." The words struggle to get out of my mouth.

"Cum," he says, and it's all I need to hear.

As I'm cumming, I can feel him pulling me closer onto the hilt of his cock, stroking himself off into me. I feel him hardening, then twitching, then exploding.

Then he's still. Both of us breathe. Our chests are both sticky with sweat and cum. His face is inches from mine, and I notice his eyelashes are blond.

"You're a good fucking goalie," he murmurs.

"We can't ever talk about this," I say, realizing what we've done. "We can't--"

He shakes his head. "I know."

"But-- I-- this was good."

"Was?" His cock slowly slides out of my hole, and I groan. Sweat drips from his forehead onto mine.

"You-- ah-- do you want to shower?" I ask.

"With you?" he asks.

I feel a smile pass over my lips. "Sure."