Goal Lines & First Times (CU Hockey Book 3) Read online

  I prop my phone up on the pillow beside me, tighten my grip, and start to match the pace of Richie’s strokes.

  My gaze travels from his cock to his heavy balls, his thick hairy thighs, and back up to the abs that grace his profile picture. He’s got a trail of dark hair from his belly button that bypasses a catamount tattoo and reaches his neatly trimmed pubes.

  I focus on his V, following it to the deep crease between his thigh and his groin, and filthy images of dipping my tongue into it tip me closer to the edge.

  Richie’s breathing starts to get deeper, and he reaches down to roll his balls in his palm.

  My breath catches as I hurry to do the same, and my balls draw up so tight, I’m barely holding on. I want to see it to the end, to let go right as he does, but I’m not sure I’ll make it.

  A heavy grunt reaches my ears, and my hand flies back to squeeze my dick. I watch as Richie starts to fuck his fist in earnest, and my hips lift from the bed as I do the same.

  I’m so close, so close.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Einstein.”

  I’m too keyed up to pay much attention to his voice, and when ropes of cum shoot from his dick and coat his abs, it’s too much.

  My eyes slam shut, and I arch back with a groan, jerking my cock hard as the image of his cum-splattered abs sends me over the edge. Stickiness hits my hand and my stomach as pleasure rolls through me, and I keep stroking through it until my softening dick protests.

  My breathing is sporadic and my mouth is dry and my limbs are still twitching. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, completely goddamn spent.

  Holy shit that was amazing.

  Experiment well and truly conducted. I swallow and try to wet my parched lips as I sluggishly roll onto my side. The frozen clip of the end of his video is still displayed, and even though I’ve just orgasmed into a brain coma, I want to lean forward and lick my screen. Taste him. Get off over him again.

  One step at a time.

  I save the video and grab my boxers to wipe up all the mess.

  As the post-orgasm bliss starts to fade, I know I need to write back to him, but I’m not sure what. “Thank you” doesn’t quite sum up the way he made my brain explode.

  Richie: Either this silence is really good or really bad.

  Jesus, it’s been twenty minutes already.

  Einstein: No, I’m here. It was, ah, wow.

  Richie: Good wow?

  Einstein: Definitely good. I’m saving that video.

  Richie: Well that makes me feel less creepy for saving your pictures.

  I’m slightly nervous as I reply.

  Einstein: Adding them to the dick pic gallery?

  Richie: Yep.

  My gut sinks a little, but I did ask. And he’s been honest about sexting with others.

  Richie: The gallery has a whole two pictures now. No pressure, but you’re welcome to add more whenever you like.

  That’s more like it.

  Einstein: You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, FYI.

  Richie: I’m not. But, I kinda got some advice from this ace chick I know. She said to let you go at your own pace and I’m one hundred percent okay with you driving this thing.

  Einstein: You talked to someone about me?

  Richie: Yes. Is that okay?

  Einstein: Of course, but why?

  Richie: Because I’m slow at times and tend to put my foot in it a lot. It’s important I get this right.

  My pulse kicks up a notch.

  Einstein: Important because?

  Richie: I’m not sure I should say.

  Einstein: You can. You definitely can.

  Richie: Okay, well, I think I’m really starting to like you.

  I take a deep breath and hold it, trying to calm my racing heart. I’m really starting to like him too, which scares me more than I felt before this little jerk-off session.

  This online experiment is conclusive: I can form an attachment online, and that can definitely lead to sexual attraction, and gender doesn’t seem to be a limit.

  There’s only one way to go from here.

  He’s going to want to meet.

  And yeah, I want that too. But I’m terrified it won’t be the same in real life. In my head, things are safe. He doesn’t know what I look like, and I don’t know what he looks like. We can exist in this bubble where his words make my stomach flip and his video gets me off.

  I don’t want to ruin what we have.

  But he’s been vulnerable with me, so there’s no way I can hold off on him. It kills me to do it, but I go with total honesty.

  Einstein: I don’t think. I know. I’m starting to really like you too.

  November

  Einstein: What are your Thanksgiving plans?

  Richie: Staying on campus. I don’t usually go home for Thanksgiving. You?

  Einstein: It depends. My parents might be going to see my brother, so I might be spending it on campus too. I won’t even have my best friend this year because if they go, he’ll go with him.

  Richie: Why’s that?

  Einstein: He’s dating my brother and it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. So I get it. It’s just … hard.

  Richie: Yeah that does sound sort of shitty.

  Einstein: We had a bit of a fight a few weeks ago that we’re over now, but that never used to happen with us.

  Richie: Friendships are hard.

  Einstein: Sorry, totally killing the mood here.

  Richie: Don’t be sorry. I want to know this stuff about you. If it helps, my best friend got engaged a little bit ago but he only told me about it over the summer. He’s the one dude I ever kissed. So I’ve gotta assume the dynamic has changed there, but we’ll see.

  Einstein: Well yeah, for one, I’d assume there’s no more kissing.

  Richie: Lucky I found another guy to kiss. Eventually. When he’s ready. Any chance you’ll be ready by Thanksgiving? Instead of spending it alone, we could spend turkey day together … Or not. Up to you.

  Einstein: I’ll think about it, but …

  Richie: I won’t get my hopes up. I guess I’ll have to wander around campus and hope a wild turkey somewhere is looking up at the sky and drowning so he can be my dinner.

  Einstein: I looked up your drowning turkey trivia, you know. Total lie made up by farmers. So we’ll need to find another way to get the bird on the table.

  Richie: Damn. Looks like I need to find another spirit animal.

  Einstein: Is it technically cannibalism if you eat your own spirit animal?

  Richie: Don’t get too philosophical on me. It hurts my brain. Maybe I am a turkey.

  Einstein: At least you know not to look up at the sky when it’s raining. Your spirit animal should be one step higher than drowning turkey.

  Richie: That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.

  9

  Seth

  Saying goodbye to my parents and Zach the day before Thanksgiving is when it hits me that I’m about to spend my first holiday alone.

  I honestly didn’t think it would bother me. Turns out, it does. My dumb ass should have gone to Montreal.

  I told them a week ago I wouldn’t be able to make it—that I’m taking the short break to catch up on some research, but that was a lie. The plan was to build the courage to ask Richie to meet me seeing as I know he’s staying in town, but I’ve yet to even mention it to him, and I can’t bring myself to do it.

  I spend most of Thanksgiving moping around my place feeling sorry for myself. Tyson and my other friends have gone to see their families as well, so I have to deal with the fact I’m chickenshit on my own.

  My family calls to check in around lunchtime, and then … hours of nothing. UVM is doing a Thanksgiving lunch for people who can’t go home, but I can’t think of anything worse than sitting in a cafeteria surrounded by other people in equally shitty moods as me.

  My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I want to message Richie, but then I’ll have to te
ll him the truth. I didn’t go to Montreal, but I’m still not ready to meet him.

  Meeting face-to-face will change things. Hopefully for the better, but the sick weight in my stomach is giving me doubts. Richie is almost too perfect.

  If he meets me and suddenly all he sees is Foster, I’m going to be pissed. If we meet, and the attraction isn’t there, it’s going to devastate me. Because I really, really like this guy.

  And given my track record with relationships, it’s more likely to fail than not.

  My phone buzzes with a message.

  Richie: Happy turkey day!

  Einstein: Gobble, gobble.

  Richie: Okay, you can’t say ‘gobble’ and expect me to not think about sex.

  Einstein: The hardships of a horndog.

  Richie: It’s a rough life.

  Einstein: So what are you up to? Turns out this whole spending the holidays solo isn’t the fun time I was envisioning.

  Nerves stir in my gut as I reread what I’ve typed. I’m alone. Which means I didn’t go with my family. Will he pick up on that?

  Richie: I’d know. I spend most of them here. I’ve learned that it’s easier to either go out and get drunk, or pretend like they’re not happening. The holidays are the one time I actually study.

  Einstein: Yikes. Well, I study always so I was actually hoping to have some time off.

  Richie: Drunk, it is then.

  I wait for him to ask to join me. He doesn’t. I try not to be disappointed because this is what I wanted, but there’s a niggling feeling that maybe he doesn’t actually want to meet.

  My head drops forward because now I’m confusing myself. How I can be so desperate to know him and yet so terrified at the thought that I can’t even suggest a drink or two?

  We message back and forth for most of the afternoon, but by the time I’d usually be stuffed full of turkey and close to a food coma, I’m too restless to sit still.

  So I take Richie’s advice.

  There are a few bars open near my place, but going somewhere new doesn’t appeal to me, so I take an Uber to McIntyre’s. It’s busier than I expected, but not as packed as usual, so I order a drink and claim a booth all to myself.

  I’m going to watch the people around me and drink.

  There are a few familiar faces about but no one I’ve spoken to, and before I know it, one drink turns into three and then seventy-jillion. Each one tastes more delicious than the last, until the Christmas lights hanging above me dance in my vision.

  Wait … they’re not Christmas lights. It’s one light. And damn, it’s bright. My hand reaches for it, and—“Ouch, that thstings.” I put my finger in my mouth. Fucking hot burny giant Christmas light.

  I’m debating with myself whether another drink will be one too many, when a large body knocks into my table.

  “Hey, sorr—Seth? Seth Grant?”

  I look up and shoot finger guns at Cohen. Yay, someone familiar-ish. “One of Foster’s groupies, hi.”

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with your family?” His broad smile takes over his face as he drops into the seat across from me. I watch as he kicks up his feet and makes himself comfortable.

  “Had to stay back to study. Today was shit. Everything is shit. Online dating is shit. It’s allllll—”

  “Shit?” Cohen looks pointedly at my beer. “How much have you had to drink?”

  I hold out my hands as if I’ve caught a big fish. “Thiiiis many.”

  “Nice.” He leans forward and knocks his glass against mine. “Gotta love the holidays for making you feel good about yourself.”

  “I feel really good. Except for the Christmas lights. Those fuckers burn.”

  Cohen tilts his head sympathetically like he knows all about it. I bet he doesn’t.

  I point above me. “Touch them. They’re hot.”

  “Uh, Seth, that’s the overhead light. Every table has one, and even I know not to touch them.”

  “Oh.”

  He leans in. “Because I may have done the same thing freshman year.”

  I snort. Not a little huff of a laugh, but like a damn pig. “Oops.” I snort again.

  Motherfucker!

  Cohen answers my laugh with his own. “I kinda get the feeling if I leave you like this, Grant will kick my ass.”

  “I’m fine. Super fine.”

  “Except for the first-degree burn on your finger.”

  I nod emphatically, and Cohen bounces all over the place. No, wait, that’s my head still moving. “Except that.”

  “I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you’re a mess.”

  I lean forward, hitting my head on the table. “You’re so right.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  My head snaps up. “With you?”

  “Ouch, but fair. I guess. It’s not like we’ve ever hung out before. You just like to bodycheck me outside cafés.”

  That reminds me of our other run-in. I point at his glass. “I thought you were getting too old for this scene?”

  “I meant frat parties. Drinking never gets old. Gotta say though, I didn’t pick you for the drinking alone type.”

  “I think holidays are the exception to every rule.”

  “Smart. Are … uh, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Nah, but I will be.” My eyes widen. “Please don’t tell Foster about this.”

  “About you being drunk? He’s not your keeper.”

  “No, but he’ll want to talk about why I didn’t go to Thanksgiving so I could drink myself stupid. Why, Seth? We have perfect lives, Seth. We’re privileged and get whatever we want, Seth. Why are you unhappy? Why? Why? Why? Maybe because you get whatever you want, you have the perfect life, and you’ve got every single thing figured out, don’t ya, little brother?”

  Cohen blinks at me. “Are you still talking to me or having an imaginary fight with your brother? Is it weird I feel like I’m intruding on your private conversation when he’s not even here?”

  I sigh. “Sorry. Like you said, messssssy.”

  Cohen presses his lips together. He has a beard which makes them disappear, and it looks like he’s wearing a wig on his face.

  I chuckle. “Wig face.”

  “What?”

  It makes me wonder what Richie’s face looks like. Does he have facial hair? He doesn’t have any chest hair. I know because I’ve only watched that video he sent about a billion-jibberty times. Is he like Zach and lacks complete ability to even grow facial hair? Is his whole body alllll smooth? No, wait, I’ve seen his dick area. He has to at least manscape down there.

  Cohen clicks his fingers in front of my face. “Are you spacing out?”

  “Yeps. I’m thinking about manscaping.”

  “Man … scaping.”

  “Yeah, you know, shaving your bits so your partner doesn’t floss their teeth with your pubes.”

  Cohen bursts out laughing. “I had absolutely no idea Foster’s brother was so much fun.”

  I wink. At least, I think I do. Maybe my eye is twitching. “I’m lots of fun. The best part about me is I never talk about hockey. Because eww … dude. Eww.”

  “Have you forgotten my name?”

  “Co … Cooooooo. Damn it, I know it. I just forgot hows to says it.”

  “Well, yeah, everyone calls me Cohen, but my name is—”

  Someone across the bar drops a tray of drinks, and glass shatters everywhere.

  “It’s snowing!” I yell and go to stand, when Cohen pushes me back down.

  “You really are drunk. How about I take you home?”

  “Did you just hit on me? How many guys on the team are queer as fuck?”

  “Jesus, hell no. Your brother isn’t my teammate anymore, but bro-code still counts. Teammates’ siblings are off-limits.”

  “Good. Because I’m kinda seeing someone.”

  Cohen leans forward in his seat. “Oh, really? Where is this person tonight, then?”

  “I don’t know.” Well, I do kno
w. Probably in his dorm room. Alone. Because I didn’t have the guts to ask him out.

  “You don’t know?” Cohen asks.

  “Yeah. Uh …”

  I get distracted by Cohen taking another sip and his tongue darting out to lick at his wet top lip.

  Shit, I must be fucking hammered if I’m finding that attractive.

  For some reason, it triggers something in my mind, and I’m suddenly remembering him in that costume which spirals into Richie’s video and jerking off until I almost passed out.

  Which is something I’ve done more times than I’ll admit since.

  And if sex can be that intense without him even there … I shiver as I think about him jerking off in front of me for real.

  “I need to go home,” I blurt.

  Cohen stands. “I think that’s a good idea. I’ll help you. Did you drive here?”

  I shake my head. “Boobered.”

  “Boobered?”

  “Yeah, you know. Boobered. Why can’t I say Boobered right?”

  “I’m guessing you mean Ubered?”

  I point at him. “Yes. That. Has anyone ever told you that you could be the smartest hockey player in the history of hockey players?”

  Cohen chuckles. “Definitely not, but it’s good to know I jump up a few IQ points when the people around me are drunk off their asses.”

  “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I should get everyone drunk?”

  “Exactly! Being dunk if nuf.”

  “Sure it is, whatever that means.” Cohen wraps an arm around my shoulders and leads me outside.

  It’s freezing out, but the alcohol makes my brain not feel it. Or maybe not care. I know it’s cold but refuse my coat when Cohen tries to put it on me.

  I spin in his arms. “Tell me what you think about sex.” For some reason my mouth thinks that’s a perfectly valid question.

  “Hello, randomness. Umm, sex is sex. And you? What are your thoughts on sex?”

  I turn the question over in my mind which is made so much harder by the alcohol drowning my brain. “Some days I think it’s overrated and a lot of pressure—I mean, why is everyone so obsessed about who people are fucking anyway? Other days, I think I get the appeal. Sex with the right person is … goddamn mind-blowing.”