It’s official.
Sweat is dripping down my face, down my back. Every muscle in my body is tired and sore, yet he looks like he’s taken a leisurely stroll. I swear he’s smirking at me.
“Scrimmage!” Coach yells and the team groans.
We’ve been running drills for an hour.
“Let’s go boys!” Coach blows the whistle and we break into our normal scrimmage teams, third line versus the second line, so now I have to fight Carmichael to get to the goal.
Brendon, Paul, and I make up the third line forwards. Paul was on the second line when we got here, but after summer camp, Coach moved him to the third line with me and Brendon since we gelled well. Carmichael, however, is on the second line, because of course he is. Show off.
Everyone gets set and I face off against my teammate for the puck. I’m quicker, so I fling it to Brendon, my right winger, and we set off down the ice. With a burst of speed, I’m down the ice and looking to find the puck in Johnson’s possession. My left winger sees me and shoots it toward me. The puck has barely made contact with my stick when a brick wall rams into my side, knocking me into the boards, and the puck goes flying back down the ice.
“What the fuck!” I turn on Carmichael but hurry to get back in the game.
“Gotta watch that blind spot, Albrooke,” he yells at my back.
I’m fuming. Anger heats my blood more than the physical exertion. One of our D men slam the puck away from the goal and I snag it, quickly turning and racing back up the ice.
“Sloppy footwork, Albrooke,” Carmichael calls with a shake of his head as he zeros in on me, reading my next move as soon as I’ve thought of it. I shoot for the net and he blocks it, sending it back over the center line with an insane amount of power.
“My dead grandma is faster than you.”
Coach is yelling directions at us from the sidelines, but I don’t hear it. The only thing in my head is Preston fucking Carmichael. I’m making stupid mistakes because I’m frustrated and tired. Mistakes he has no problem calling out as soon as I do them.
I’m going to hit him.
I’m not the only one he’s doing it to, everyone on the team is getting the same treatment, but I appear to be getting the brunt force of it. He’s not even upset. No, it’s all very casual. I think that’s worse.
The coach blows his whistle and we leave the ice. We’re trudging down the chute to the locker room, exhausted and limping, most of us sporting new bruises from being slammed by Carmichael.
“Your new roommate is a dick,” Brendon says as we get to the locker room and push the doors open.
“No shit. I may suffocate him in his sleep. Fucker was up at four am.”
He was passed out cold by the time I was done pissing and since he didn’t have any bed shit, I tossed a blanket over him, trying to be a nice guy, but after today, he can fuck off. I hope he freezes.
“With the season starting soon, practices will be more intense. You all need to work on your endurance. Perfecting little things like footwork and being aware of your surroundings. Longer practices and more workouts in the gym. Carmichael is the only one here that looks ready to play.”
I look around the room but don’t see mister perfect.
“Hit the showers, increased gym hours start tomorrow morning. Make sure you’re asleep on time. And keep your damn grades up!” Coach leaves the locker room and we finish stripping out of our gear and underlayers.
“This year is going to kill me.” Brendon groans as he steps under the shower.
I quickly scan the showers, but Preston isn’t in here. What the hell?
Fuck it, I don’t care. I’m starving and exhausted.
“Who’s up for pizza?” Paul Johnson, my left winger, asks.
“Sounds good to me,” I chime in. “But I can’t be out late, I gotta finish my homework.”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you there,” Brendon adds in. A few of the other guys agree to head down to the pizza shop as we finish up in the showers and start getting dressed.
“Hey, meet me in my room and walk down together?” I ask Brendon. I need to get off and we were interrupted last time.
“I uh, got something I gotta do first. I’ll see you there.” He slaps me on the shoulder and leaves before I’ve got my shoes on. Fuck.
I want to change into jeans anyway, so I head back to the dorms and am surprised when Preston isn’t there already. Where the fuck did he go?
Grabbing a pair of jeans out of the dresser, I kick my shoes off and slide my sweats off. Laying back on the bed, I push my boxer briefs down and wrap a hand around my dick. With just a few pumps of my hand, I’m hard. My stomach muscles tighten and despite being tired and sore, the only thing I can focus on is how much I want to cum.
And Preston Carmichael.
The dark gray eyes that pierce me when he looks at me. The carefully cut and styled black hair and muscled build I know is under his clothes.
I hate that he’s hot. That I want to feel him against me.
My dick leaks precum at the image of him holding me down, losing some of that control he holds so tight to while he fucks me.
My cock throbs and my balls draw up tight against me as my hand pumps furiously.
The image in my head morphs to his hands on my skin. Is he as aggressive in bed as he is on the ice? Would he leave marks on my skin with his teeth?
My orgasm races through me, spilling onto my stomach, and leaving me gasping for breath. Damn it. I should have taken my shirt off.
I lay back on my bed, spent and trying to catch my breath. Footsteps outside the door have me pulling my underwear back up. As I slide out of my cum stained t-shirt, the door opens. Awesome.
I freeze for a second, not sure what Preston’s reaction to finding me cleaning up will be. It’s obvious what I just did and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. It definitely smells like jizz in here and I’m sure my cheeks are flushed.
He doesn’t know you were thinking about him, dumbass. Relax.
I get the shirt balled up as Preston stands in the doorway, holding it open while staring at me. He’s freshly showered in clean clothes, the look on his face blank, like he’s not really in there.
“Uh, some of the guys are going out for pizza. You can join if you want.” I sit up and pull my jeans on, slip my feet into my shoes, and stand to grab a clean shirt. Preston closes the door and eyes me as he walks past to his bed.
“I don’t eat that shit. It makes you fat and slow.” He looks me over like what he’s saying is written on my body. “Clearly.” He just drops the words like facts, as casual as if he was talking about the weather.
“Wow. Okay then.” I shove my head through the shirt and leave the room. Slamming the door behind me harder than I needed to. What the actual fuck is that dude’s problem?
I ignore the looks from the girls that get into the elevator a floor below mine. They whisper back and forth, one of them glancing back at me as I lean against the wall. They’re cute, but I’m not interested. Girls don’t do it for me.
“You’re Jeremy Albrooke, right?” The blonde turns to me.
“Yup.” I lean my head back against the wall, trying to tell her I don’t want to talk without having to be rude.
“Is it true Charles Preston Carmichael is playing hockey here this year?”
Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t roll your eyes.
“Yup.”
He’s also an asshole that appears to get some kind of sick joy from picking on others. Real stand-up dude.
The brunette with her swoons and it’s all I can do not to tell them not to bother, I doubt he’ll give them the time of day.
“He’s so hot,” the girl says, hands waving at her face.
The elevator digs and opens on the bottom floor and I’m grateful for the escape.
“Do you know what room he’s in?” the blonde asks, and over my shoulder I say “no,” since I’m not giving them my dorm number. Absolutely not.
By the time I make it to the pizza place off campus, the guys have ordered and are taking up half the booths. I slide in next to Brendon and Paul and grab a slice of pepperoni, shoving it in my face.
“Jesus, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Paul looks at me over his cup of soda.
“What?” I snap at him. Okay, take a deep breath and chill out.
I close my eyes and force my shoulders and jaw to relax. I didn’t realize how tense I was.
“Who pissed you off?” Brendon asks this time.
“Did you know that pizza makes you fat and slow? Carmichael was nice enough to point it out and tell me if I ate better, maybe I would play better. Pompous fuck.” I dip a piece of crust into some ranch before shoving it in my mouth and chewing. Take that, fuck head.
“Damn, dude is seriously a hard ass. That practice was brutal.” Paul shakes his head and grabs another slice of pizza.
“Pretty sure my spleen is bruised from being slammed into the boards,” Brendon adds, rubbing at his back.
The guys around us grumble about him too, complaining about bumps and bruises.
“He’s going to make us better,” Carpenter pipes up, talking to everyone. The captain taking some control over the situation. “He could have gone anywhere, but he came here. We need to learn everything we can from him and work hard to keep up.” He looks around the group. “We have the best D man in junior league history on our team, we need to take advantage of that and be a team he can be proud of. Take what he says and learn. He’s obviously not afraid to bruise egos, or bodies for that matter. If he says you’ve got sloppy footwork, concentrate on your damn footwork.” Carpenter looks from me to Paul. “If he says you’re slow, start doing more speed drills.” He takes a deep breath. “None of us are above improvement.”
