the ice rink cools my sweat-slicked skin during practice. The smell of the blood, sweat, and tears that have been spilled in this rink give it history and I am never unaware of it.
After spending most of my life playing hockey, the last two years in the best league in the US, I love that I’m here in Denver, playing for Darby University. It’s a Top-Tier Division One school and I am honored to be here. Add in that I get to play with my best friends from Muskegon and this is going to be an amazing year.
We’ve been practicing for weeks now, getting back in shape for the season. Since we have a new coach this year, we don’t really know what to expect from him, but he’s kicking our asses. Classes start on Monday and we’re all falling into our workout and practice routines.
The team is pulling off our practice gear in the locker room after a hard practice when Coach gets our attention.
“Alright, boys, a few things.” His gruff voice has the room falling quiet. “Carpenter, congratulations, Son, you’re captain this year.”
The room breaks out in claps and whoops. I cup my hands around my mouth and cheer for him with a big smile on my face. The senior is smiling as he heads toward Coach to grab the jersey he’s holding up with the embroidered C on it. I don’t know him well yet but he seems like a good dude.
“Thanks, Coach,” he says before turning to face the room. “We’re gonna have a bomb-ass season. Work hard and kick ass.” The room erupts again and he heads back toward his spot in front of his cubby, clapping each teammate he passes on the back and ruffling their sweaty hair.
“Next,” Coach yells and everyone shuts up. “A few of you still need to get your physicals done with medical. Get on it. Lastly, we have a new transfer coming in this weekend. We are very lucky to have Charles Preston Carmichael joining our team. His father has made a gracious donation to our school and to our team. You will make him feel welcome.”
The room goes silent, with everyone side-eyeing each other.
Charles Preston Carmichael.
My head goes blank. Empty.
There’s no way.
He’s expected to be the first defensive draft pick this year. On the ice he’s brutal, focused, angry, and calculating. I faced him before and came back broken and bruised. In all honesty, he’s fucking terrifying. I’m not entirely sure how he hasn’t caught assault charges for some of the shit he pulls on the ice. Why the hell would he transfer here? Our team is good, but he signed with Boston. What the hell happened?
Our D men are going to be pissed.
“But why?” the words are out of my mouth before I can think better of it. In the quiet of the space, my question echoes loud enough for Coach to hear it. The angry, intimidating, former NHL player meets my gaze. Shit. He’s going to murder me.
“He’s your new roommate, Albrooke.”
Fuck. Me.
Coach leaves the room and we finish getting undressed and into the showers. We’re all sweaty and disgusting.
“That sucks for you, man.” Brendon Oiler, my best friend since we were eighteen and playing in the juniors league together, claps me on the shoulder. I’m glad he was able to come here with me after we aged out last season. Since you can only play in the juniors league until you’re twenty, we all had to come up with another plan so we all decided on college. Paul Johnson played in Muskegon with us on the Lumberjacks until last year when he turned twenty and talked up this school a lot. He basically talked Brendon and me into applying here. It’s weird to be in classes with freshmen when you’re twenty-one but it’s pretty common for hockey players.
“Fuck you,” I grumble, pulling off my base layer and grabbing a towel, the sound of his laughter following me into the showers.
I thought I got lucky and wouldn’t have to room with anyone this season. God damn it. I can only imagine how much fun he is to live with. He’s probably a major asshole. Cocky and full of himself.
I’m soaping myself up, ignoring the fact that there’s hot, naked, muscular, wet jocks around me, and focusing on hockey stats while staring at the wall. Despite the fact that I’ve been playing hockey since I was eight and showering in locker rooms since I was eleven, I am very aware of how long my gaze stays on anyone in here. I spend most of my time with my back to the room, just so no one gets jumpy if I get hard. Most of the team doesn’t know I’m gay. I’m not really hiding it but I’m not announcing it either. They’ll figure it out. Why did I have to fall in love with a sport that has men with the sexiest asses? It’s just unfair.
Shit. What if Carmichael is a giant homophobe? Cold anxiety slithers up my spine at the thought.
“It’s Friday night…party?” Brendon asks as he grabs the shower next to me, wagging his eyebrows at me. He turned twenty-one last month and no longer needs to hide his drinking.
“Getting drunk does sound pretty good right now.” I eye him with a smirk. Over the years, we’ve fucked around a bit. Brendon is bisexual and during the season there isn’t much time for dating, so we end up fucking when we need to take the edge off. As far as I know, only Paul knows, since he was around when we first started it. “Where are we going?”
“Rocky’s.” Brendon ducks his head under the water to rinse off. Rocky’s is the bar right off campus that the team likes. It’s convenient since we can walk back to the dorms instead of worrying about rides.
I rinse off and grab my towel, scrubbing my skin to rid myself of the water. “I gotta grab my shit from my room, meet me there in ten?”
He turns to lift his eyebrows at me with a knowing grin on his lips and I walk away before I start to chub up. We both know what this means.
Fifteen minutes later, Brendon is pushing me onto my tiny twin size mattress. My shirt is somewhere on the floor, his hands on my skin, pulling me closer to him. His lips leave mine as he pulls at my sweats and boxers. I growl when my dick smacks against my stomach. It’s been so fucking long, this is gonna be quick.
“Oh fuck.” The words are forced from my throat as my dick disappears into Brendon’s mouth. He lays between my thighs, his hand wrapped around the base of my cock and his head bobbing over the tip.
I dig my fingers into the long red hair on top of his head, encouraging him to move faster. We’ve been fucking around on and off for two years now, he fucking knows how to do this but he’s taking his sweet ass time and I’m not in the damn mood.
His head pops off my dick and he grins at me. “When is your roommate supposed to get here?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Hurry the fuck up.” He chuckles at my impatience but gets back to work with increased vigor. My hips buck off the bed on instinct and electricity starts humming through my veins. God damn, I’m going to cum.
I open my mouth to warn him of my impending orgasm as the door to my room opens.
In a matter of seconds, Brendon is off the bed, my dick is back in my pants, and we’re both standing. I don’t need to look at him to know his face is bright red, all the way to the tips of his ears. My breathing is ragged as adrenaline and fear tightens my muscles for the incoming attack. I know guilt is written all over me but I can’t seem to look up for more than a few seconds.
The guy standing in my doorway is staring at me. Hard. Unblinking. I can feel it like a physical weight on my shoulders and Brendon won’t look at me. In fact, he’s looking anywhere but at me or the newcomer.
Shit.
“See ya later, man.” Just like that, Brendon is gone, pushing past my new roommate, at least, that’s who I’m assuming it is, and leaving me alone to deal with the fallout. Did he see anything? Does he know Brendon was sucking my dick? I think he does but I don’t really want to meet his gaze either.
“Charming.” The single word spoken in that flat, almost bored tone has my spine straightening.
I will not be made to feel less-than because of my sexuality.
Lifting my gaze off the floor, I make eye contact with the cold face of my new roommate. His spine is straight as a board, jaw set like he’s grinding his teeth, with no emotion or thoughts showing through the mask he wears. Great.
“Uh, hey, I’m Jeremy Albrooke.” I lift my hand to shake his, but he doesn’t take his eyes off mine. It’s uncomfortable and awkward. “Okay then.” I let my hand drop and cross my arms over my chest.
Carmichael looks so much like his father, it’s kinda creepy. He’s like a clone. Doctor Andrew Carmichael is basically a celebrity. Everyone knows him. His face is on the side of buses and on TV; he does work on celebrities and professional athletes. The man is charming, always smiling, and comes across as a really nice guy. This dude does not.
“So uh, this is about it.” I shrug, waving my hand around the room. Two twin beds and nightstands, dressers, desks, tiny closets, and a bathroom. There’s a mini fridge between the nightstands with a microwave on top of it.
He looks around the room quickly and slides his bag to the unmade bed. The dude is a beast on the ice when he’s in all his gear and pissed off. I’ve been slammed into the boards by him more than once over the last few years, healed up my fair share of bruises, but this doesn’t seem like the same guy.
He hasn’t said anything else and everything about him is stiff and tense. I don’t understand what I’m seeing here. Who is this guy?
