Page 82 of Puck the Coach's Son
I swallow.
“Okay.”
“I don't mean my hand. I don't mean your mouth. Those are warm-up. I mean I want to be inside you. Tonight.”
My cock is already hard. It was hard three minutes into the walk from the arena. The pint glass is sweating in my palm.
“I've never,” I say.
“I know.”
My thumb goes to the rim of my glass. Runs it. “I don't know how to...”
He leans back against the vinyl. Waits.
“I do.”
I look at the scratched table. At the rubbed-out initials. “I'm...”
I don't know how to say it. I'm scared. I'm so turned on I can't sit still. I've been thinking about this, literally about this, since the second practice, and every time I've thought about it I've also thought,I'll never actually get to do itbecause I had no idea he'd ever actually do it. I thought it was a joke, I thought I was a joke, and now he's saying it to me at a table in a bar and the only thing I can do is nod.
“Nervous,” he says.
“Yes.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up. Not quite a smile.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Nervous means you're paying attention.” He takes a pull of beer. “Scared?”
I think about it. I could say yes. Scared of hurting. Scared of doing it wrong. Scared of wanting it as much as I want it. But the thing I'm scared of isn't him.
“No,” I say.
Something moves across his face. I don't know what it is. He looks at his beer a second. Then back at me.
“Good answer.”
He slides a hand across the table. Not to take my hand. He puts his fingers on the back of my wrist where the skin is thin. He doesn't grip. Just puts his fingers there. His fingers are warm.
“Come home with me.”
“Yeah.”
His thumb stays where it is on my wrist.
“Right now.”
“Yeah.”
He drops a twenty on the table and he stands and he's pulling me out of the booth before I've got my coat on straight.
He lives in a building the team owns. I know this because one of the equipment guys mentioned it in a van ride, off-hand,yeah that's a Wolves place, and I filed it under “things Paul would hate.” Third floor. Corner unit. The elevator is slow and stale. He doesn't touch me in the elevator. He stands against the opposite wall with his arms crossed and he watches my throat work when I swallow.
The hallway is carpeted in that low gray industrial stuff. His door is 304. He gets the key out. The key shakes a little in hishand. I see it. He sees me see it. He shoots me a look that saysdon't you dare.
