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“Team officials say Bergman is fine, but he won't be returning for the third period, due to the collapsed trachea he's suffered. All we know now is that he's expected to miss several games. The Capitals plan to make an emergency call-up from their minor league team, the Hershey Bears.”

  Rustin and Clay caught each other's eyes, exchanged grave expressions, and silently nodded. Looked like Clay's five-game vacation was about to be cut short. Not that he'd complain about it.

  “Whew. I'm glad he's only going to miss a few games,” Clay said.

  That was the best case scenario for both players. Bergman would be back in a week or so, and Clay would get a few games to show off what he's got. A chance to stay relevant in management's eyes.

  Maybe his last chance.

  “Me too,” Rustin agreed.

  After a long pause, Clay pointed into the distance. “Hey. Look. The Sun's about to set.”

  The brilliant amber-orange disc shimmered like a mirage as it hung over the horizon. Puffy clouds, lit with swirls of blue and purple, lingered in the sky like cotton candy.

  “Yeah. Sure is pretty.”

  Clay popped his door open, climbed onto the truck's hood and clutched a cold can of beer against his bare sternum.

  Guess he needs some fresh air, Rustin thought, climbing out of the truck after him.

  The two laid back and watched the sunset with their heads propped up on the windshield, their backs on the truck's hood, and their feet resting on the front bumper.

  A cool breeze picked up, rustled through the budding trees and the eagerly-growing spring grass. Rustin and Clay still didn't have their shirts on, and the air felt a touch nippy. But the truck's hood was pleasantly warm, and they laid on that hood like lizards on a heat rock, soaking up the engine's heat until it warmed their blood.

  They drank their beers and watched the Sun slowly begin its crawl behind the hills on the horizon.

  “Well, it sucks for Bergie, and it's going to suck not having you around here,” Rustin said at last. “But dude, I'm so pumped for you, Tex!”

  Clay laughed softly, took a sip of his beer, and gave a dismissive shake of his head.

  “What? What is it?” Rustin asked.

  “I've learned not to celebrate anything until it actually happens.”

  “Oh, c'mon Clay, loosen up. You heard the radio guys. The Caps have to make an emergency call-up. Who else would they want? You're the most reliable defender on the team.”

  “Until you actually get that call, Rusty, it doesn't mean anything. Anything could happen.”

  “Okay. You don't want to jinx it. I get it.”

  Clay nodded, and the two watched as the last sliver of the Sun disappeared.

  Lying next to Clay in the twilight, Rustin knew this might be his last chance, too. He wanted to make it count. He wasn't sure that he was truly ready himself, let alone if Clay was ready. But he couldn't just let Clay go without doing or saying something first. Who knew when he'd see him next? Like Clay said: anything could happen.

  Rustin swallowed heavily and slowly, gently, scooted across the hood. Closer to Clay. Until their feet brushed together and their shoulders touched.

  Clay didn't move away immediately: that was the first good sign.

  “And sure, I understand not wanting to jinx it, Clay. But let's be real. You're going to kill it in Washington. I know you are.”

  Clay didn't answer; he only stared at where the Sun had been a few minutes ago instead.

  “You're going to go up there and blow their minds. It's been what, two years since they've last seen you? Your game is so much more rounded out now. You're so complete now. You're bigger and stronger than ever. You're going to stick with the big club, and soon I'll work my way up there, too.”

  Clay's eyebrows arched, and he stifled a cynical laugh. Rustin knew that, to Clay's ear, he probably sounded like a kid drunk on childish fantasies. But that didn't change the fact that he believed every word of what he said—and if Clay just believed those words too, deep in his heart, they would come true. That's how things worked.

  Rustin knew he had to do something to make Clay believe in their future together. He walked his hand slowly, surely, over his own belly, and to Clay's. His breath was shallow and fast. His heart pounded with the excitement, the fear, and the thrill that comes when a man decides to climb out on a limb and face rejection.

  Clay blinked, as if suddenly waking from a trance. His eyes ticked down, and he noticed Rustin's finger-tips marching across his tight, toned abdomen. The sight of another man's fingers, caressing his abs, made Clay's neck muscles tense.

  “Rusty,” he growled, his voice gritty and winded.

  “Mm?” Rustin sang in response.

  But he didn't stop the advance. Rustin rubbed his finger-tips over Clay's waist with small, smooth circles, teasing Clay until goose-bumps speckled his skin. His mouth gaping, Clay struggled for breath.

  Rustin smiled at the sight—this was it. He was really doing it.

  He was really about to seduce Clay.

  Rustin's hand went lower. Clay always had a bulge in the crotch of his gym shorts, but Rustin thought it looked bigger, rounder, more mouth-watering than normal.

  Sure enough, as Rustin's hand neared, he saw the growing package swell and throb.

  “Oh!” Rustin chuckled.

  Clay took a long pull from his can of beer. He gulped it down, one swallow after another, with a slightly troubled look on his face.

  “Rusty,” he tried to say again, but no words seemed to follow.

  “Shh.”

  Rustin's fingers had traced all around Clay's cock—nearing dangerously close, but never touching. Clay's manhood had gone wild with the tease. It was obvious! He hadn't merely grown longer and fatter—although he was long and fat. Deliciously so.

  But Clay had grown so hard that the head of his cock, purple and throbbing, emerged from the bottom hem of his gym shorts.

  “Oh!” Rustin said, delighted. He started to reach for it.

  But before he could grab it, a strong hand wrapped firmly around Rustin's wrist. Rustin glanced up. Clay had a serious look in his eye.

  “Rusty. Whoa. What're you doing.”

  Clay could protest all he wanted, but it was obvious the guy was secretly into it.

  Rustin smirked. “It's nothing we haven't already done, Clay.”

  Clay swallowed so loudly in response, Rustin heard it.

  Rustin struggled and pried his wrist free from Clay. And then his fist wrapped around Clay's hot, pulsing erection again.

  Clay took a few more swigs of beer.

  “Yeah. I guess. But …”

  Rustin set his finger at Clay's soft, full set of lips.

  “Shhh.”

  At last, Rustin snuck his hand up the leg of Clay's gym shorts. He wrapped his fingers around Clay's hard, steamy flesh, and began to gingerly stroke him.

  Clay's whole body weakened—every part of him went limp, except, of course, the part that mattered most. Rustin felt like he had all of Clay in his hand, every bit of his essence in those hard eight inches.

  Rustin let Clay's pleasured gasps, pants and moans guide his pace. When Clay's shallow breath quickened, Rustin tightened his grip and jerked his teammate off faster.

  Clay's cock pulsated with deep, longing throbs that made his entire body tense up. The tension in his body ratcheted tighter and tighter until, at last, one jolt after another unleashed over his whole body. Clay, gasping helplessly, thrashed and pounded his limbs against that warm truck hood.

  Rustin hadn't even set his lips on Clay's cock yet, but he had him yelping and panting like he was cumming—without even ejaculating! It was amazing. Rustin had seen this kind of multi-orgasmic thing before, but only with girls. Some girls could cum again and again like that … but guys? Well, apparently guys could, too, if you touched them the right way.

  Without saying a word, Rustin climbed over Clay and settled between his massive thighs. He was ready to take it to the next level. He
pulled Clay's gym shorts down and off his legs, until they were reduced to a small, crumpled up ball of sweat-soaked fabric. Clay's hefty cock sprung free, slapping against his firm belly with a fleshy thud.

  Rustin neared Clay's cock, wetting his lips with anticipation. Clay's earthy scent flooded his senses—his masculine smell, his intimate taste.

  And he wanted to taste more. He wanted Clay in his mouth. For once, he wanted Clay all to himself.

  With his open mouth hovering over the tip of Clay's throbbing penis, Rustin took one last look up at his friend and winked.

  “Just close your eyes and enjoy it, Clay.”

  3

  The Beat of the Heart

  – Clay Grayson –

  Clay, leaning on his elbows on the top of that truck hood, couldn't believe his body was reacting to Rusty's caresses the way it was. If you'd only been with girls, you wouldn't think that another man could touch you, and that you might actually get hard from it.

  You'd think that there would be some kind of biological block that was hard-coded into your genes. Surely there was something, some kind of barrier, that prevented a straight guy from getting a boner for another guy, right?

  But no. Apparently there wasn't.

  Because there it was, plain as day. The embarrassing, shameful hardness that bulged and visibly throbbed in his gym shorts.

  There it was, that thick log of flesh, slowly inching down his thigh. Until at last his glans emerged from the bottom of his shorts.

  That feeling—that heart-wrenching rush—when your most intimate and sensitive part is revealed. When the cool, crisp air kisses hot, sweltering flesh. At that moment, you know there's no returning back.

  Fuck. Is this really happening?

  Hell yeah, it was. With the rhythmic beat of his heart—ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum—Clay's cock grew plumper and inched longer.

  Rusty looked at the head of Clay's exposed cock with a desire in his eyes. No, not just desire—but something else, something deeper and more primal. Something that hadn't seen the light of day for a very long time. And now that it was finally let loose, he looked like he'd been overcome by a wild hunger.

  Whatever it was, it scared Clay. He tried to stop Rusty. He grabbed his wrist, pulled his hand away, asked him what he was doing. But Rusty just wrestled his hand free and said it so simply, almost arrogantly—

  “It's nothing we haven't already done, Clay.”

  Which, well, was sort of true. But at the same time, technically, it wasn't true at all. Because this wasn't what they'd done in the past … this was—well, something else entirely.

  But when he tried to protest, Rusty just put his finger—his thick, salty, male finger—against Clay's bottom lip and shushed him. And whatever fight that was left in Clay's tightening chest was put to rest. Extinguished, like a wet blanket smothering a fire.

  Rusty knew it, too. With a light dusting of freckles across his nose and the tops of his cheek-bones, Rusty always looked young, carefree, innocent. But he didn't look so pure now—not with his lustful eyes poring over every detail of Clay's manhood. Instead, Rusty's expression darkened with the gleeful knowledge that he was going to wreck Clay.

  And so Clay could only helplessly chug his beer and watch as Rusty snuck his hands up the leg of his gym shorts. Rusty wrapped his fist around Clay's big dick. Slowly, with his hand burrowed under Clay's shorts, he tugged Clay up and down, up and down.

  Blisteringly hot waves of forbidden pleasure rushed from Clay's cock, up the base of his spine, and flowed all through his body. A growing brightness smoldered in his core. His arms and legs rumbled and shook; his fists pounded at the truck's hood with every turbulent peak of pleasure.

  Oh. Oh, God—God damn.

  Clay couldn't move. It didn't matter that he didn't know what to make of this moment. All he knew was that it felt good. Damned good. And of course it did— Rusty had a cock too, after all. That meant he knew exactly how to handle one: when to grip it tighter. When to slow down, and when to speed up.

  And when Rusty hooked his fingers under Clay's elastic waistband and pulled at his shorts, what did Clay do? He didn't just let them go without a fight—he lifted his ass off the truck hood to help him.

  Damn. What the fuck am I doing? Do I actually like this?

  Clay watched Rusty size his manhood up, with a twinkle of reverence in his eyes—fuck, he looked like he practically worshiped Clay's throbbing bigness. And Clay knew then that Rusty planned to blow him. And that fact was exciting, yeah, but also deeply troubling.

  And Rusty must have seen that trouble in Clay's expression. He looked up, winked, and told him to close his eyes and enjoy it.

  And so Clay closed his eyes and wondered how things had ever come to this point.

  4

  Tight Bond

  – Clay –

  It was three years ago when Clay first met Rustin Kellar at the Capitals' NHL pre-season training camp.

  It was Kellar's first camp, and the 20 year old pretty boy with the thick, flowing locks of auburn hair had showed up with some high hopes. Unrealistically high. He went into camp thinking that he had a good chance of making the Caps' NHL roster.

  But that was nothing new; the young bloods always think they're going to light the world on fire as soon as they're handed their first chance. They never realize how hard it is, how much blood, sweat and tears he'll have to shed, before he's seasoned enough to stick with the big club.

  You can tell they're not ready from the first moment they arrive at camp. They're all smiles and laughs. They act like camp is going to be fun, that it'll be a time to crack jokes, rub elbows and pal around with the boys.

  And that's the first rookie mistake they'll make.

  Going into camp, the only correct attitude is that these guys, your future teammates, are your enemies. The guys you're going to war with over a roster spot. And a rookie won't understand that until he's felt that horrible, sinking nausea when he can't find his name on the roster taped to the dressing room door.

  To be fair, Kellar was a promising player who oozed real, raw, hockey talent—the stuff you can't teach a guy. You're either born with it or you don't have it. And Kellar had a real, unteachable knack for breaking up plays and moving the puck out of the defensive zone and back up-ice in a hurry. He could turn defense into offense in the blink of an eye.

  As for his pedigree? He was fresh off a huge season in Junior hockey, where he was named the defensive player of the league. He also represented Team Canada in the World Junior Championship—which is really quite a prestigious honor. The hockey media, so often obsessed with the game's youngsters, loved to throw Kellar's name out there as 'the future' of the Capitals defense for years to come.

  Which might very well have been true.

  But defensemen often marinate in the minors for years until they've fully developed and matured. They don't rely on youthful speed and flash like forwards do. They rely on technically-sound mechanics, dependability, consistency, maturity. If there's one thing a coach hates, it's when a defenseman fucks up—because a d-man's fuck ups often end with the puck in the back of the net.

  There's a saying that you don't notice a defenseman on the ice when he's good at his job. When he's bad at his job, well, he stands out like a sore thumb. And those guys get their asses stapled to the bench real quick. Make too many costly errors in the NHL, and he'll find his ass riding a bus in the minors in no time.

  So a defenseman has very little room for error. Every strength of his game has to be practiced to perfection. All the personal weaknesses, bad tendencies, faults and kinks in his game must be worked out, until he never makes them again. Sort of like raising a well-trained dog.

  And so on that first day at camp, Clay took one look at the skinny rookie named Rustin Kellar and knew immediately he wasn't yet ready.

  First, he seemed in awe of some of the big names he shared the ice with. Too often, between drills, the kid seemed to look around with the big, eager eyes of a doe, seemi
ngly content to just take in the moment. Like he was pleased as punch just to be there on NHL ice.

  When it came to Kellar's play? Sure, he was fast and skilled. But he was reactive rather than proactive—too often he waited to let the play come to him, instead of dictating the play himself.

  Oh, and talk about a kid who badly needed to bulk up—the NHL pros would've thrown him around like a rag doll if given a chance. He'd have to add another ten to fifteen pounds minimum to that spindly frame. He reminded Clay of a boy trying on his Dad's suit.

  Simply put … Kellar wasn't ready.

  And the more experienced guys like Clay weren't about to simply roll over and hand the keys to the future to some kid who looked more like a male model from a magazine ad than he did a hockey player. The veterans were about to teach Kellar the first tough lesson of his young career: it's not about how good of a hockey player you are or, worse, might be someday.

  It's how bad you want it. And that can't be taught; that has to be learned, that has to be carved into your DNA. You have to fight and scrap and claw your way to a roster spot like your life depends on it.

  That year, Clay survived the first round of cuts as he expected. Rustin Kellar didn't, as Clay also expected. Kellar was told to report to the team's minor league team in Hershey.

  After he heard the news, Clay found the youngster silently cleaning out his locker. Tears strolled down his cheeks, but thankfully he didn't sob or sniffle or whine.

  Ah, god damn it, Clay thought. He rolled his eyes. He hated to see the youngsters cry. He wanted them to toughen up and not be so weak and pitiful.

  But at the same time, it always upset Clay to see another man cry. His own heart felt swollen and vulnerable. He felt his own voice go weak and shaky, like he was about to break into tears, too. Why the hell was that?

  Clay clapped his mighty hand on the grieving youngster's shoulder and gave him a good squeeze.

  “Hey kid.”

  Kellar looked up at him, but didn't speak. Clay doubted if the rookie could speak. His throat was probably swollen shut.

  “The first cut's always the deepest. Do yourself a favor and remember this feeling, how much this hurts. You'll come back hungrier next year.”