I’m not benched. I repeat those three words on a loop as I mindlessly drift out of the office and toward the locker room. I think I might sit in my stall for a few minutes and let my ears stop ringing.
Turning down the hall I finally start to feel the pressure leaking out of my head. It’s annoying as fuck I’m going to be glued to Denault for the season, and the fact he could end this with the title I deserve pisses me off, but in the grand scheme-
Before I can finish my thought, the air gets forced out of my lungs as I’m thrown against the wall. Grunting, my shoulder blades meet hard concrete, and it takes me a second to realize it’s Denault who has me pinned. He’s taller than me by a few inches, and his muscular forearm is pressed to my throat while his fist wraps around the thin fabric at the front of my shirt.
He isn’t putting all of his weight on me. I know that because I’m still breathing. My instinct is to fight him but seeing as that’s what got me into this mess, I hold back. It takes everything in me.
Glaring at him, I wait to see what this is. Does he want another free shot because I came at him? Wasn’t the bloodied face enough?
His eyes meet mine, and they are blazing. Even in our most heated of arguments in the past, I’ve never seen him like this. My heart starts to slam into my rib cage, and I’m painfully aware of the pulse point on my neck fluttering under his hold.
His face comes close to mine, and for a fraction of a second, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. I push the thought away violently as my traitorous cock stirs at the thought of it.
“Listen to me closely Sinclair because I’m only going to say this once.” His lips are close enough to my ear that I can feel his breath ghosting across my skin. My heart thumps with even more force, and I’m certain he has to feel it against the fist pressing into my chest.
“If you fuck this season up for me, I am going to make your life a living fucking nightmare.” The pressure on my trachea increases just enough to have my smart-ass retort die in my throat. I’ve never seen Denault so deadly serious, and yeah, it’s fucking terrifying. So I don’t move. I barely dare to fill my lungs with the amount of air they are desperate for. I have to blame that lack of oxygen for the fact my goddamn dick is still stirring in my jeans. What the fuck is happening?
“You need a fucking therapist, and if you don’t leave here and find one I’m ending this whole thing and letting coach negotiate a trade because this team is never going to win the cup if you and I can’t get our shit together.” He rocks back enough to meet my eyes again, and the challenge roaring in them has me weak in the knees.
“Got it?” I want to answer him, but I don’t trust my voice right now. My cock is threatening to rip through my jeans, and I’m terrified opening my mouth will unleash the moan that’s been building inside of me since I’ve been trapped here, feeling the heat radiating off of him.
Mistaking my silence for dissent, his stance shifts. The fist wrapped around my shirt tightens as he presses me back against the wall with renewed force. Suddenly I’m operating in slow motion as pressure against my rock-hard length forces out a groan I can’t hold back. Belatedly I realize it’s Denault’s thigh providing the delicious friction I was aching for.
Instantly he releases me, and my body protests at the freedom as I stumble forward a few steps, subconsciously seeking his strong hands again. The reality of the situation hits me like a freight train, and my eyes fly open wide as I look at him petrified, waiting for him to react.
“Sinclair. Am I clear?” His words are clearly meant to give me an out. Pretend this didn’t happen. I jump for the life raft like a rabid dog.
“Yes.” I bark out. I could almost convince myself he didn’t notice and that I’m in the clear, except Denault isn’t in much better shape than I am now. His nostrils are flaring as his chest rises and falls like he’s just gotten off the ice. We stay locked on to one another for one, two, three beats too long before Denault spins on his heel and heads in the opposite direction of the locker room.
Once he’s almost at the end of the hallway, I find my voice again. “Denault!” I call after him, my mind running a million miles an hour. “Nothing happened.” His voice and the slam of the door he disappears through ring through the now-empty hall.
What the actual fuck?
Shaking myself off as I finish the short walk to the locker room I sink into my stall.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need therapy. Not even because I got crazy turned on by my teammate. Who happens to be a guy. Honestly, that part I’m not even too surprised by. I experimented in college, but after a fucked up experience and ten years of not actually feeling any sexual attraction to a dude I assumed I was just an adventurous straight guy. Who would rather no one know about said adventures. So, I must be pretty fucked in the head if the one guy I hate can get me the hardest I’ve ever been.
A wave of frustration pours over me as a memory forces its way into the front of my mind. The hardest I’ve ever been besides when a sexy as fuck babe patched me up in an alley and then disappeared when I asked her to wait for me. Fuck this.
With a sharp push, I’m back on my feet and moving around the mat to the ice baths. I need to put my dick on notice and then go home and invite some bunny over for a favor. The only explanation for why I’m so on edge has to just be that I need release. My dick’s dramatic reaction to alley girl and Denault is obviously just a side effect of needing to clear out the pipes. That’s it. It has to be.
As objectively attractive as Denault is, I hate everything he stands for. He’s gotten his career practically handed to him. He’s fucking perfect and pretentious, and it drives me up a goddamn wall.
As the sting of the ice envelops my muscles I start to formulate a game plan. I will get a therapist, one that specializes in anger management. Then I will keep as much space as possible between Denault and I considering Coach’s stupid plan. Finally, I won’t think about alley girl again. In fact, I won’t think of anyone again.
I need to win this cup and I’m not going to let my fucked up head or my broken dick get in the way of that. In fact, fuck the bunnies. I have my hand. I will not let anyone distract me from my goals. Once I have the cup, I’ll celebrate with a pussy parade. Until then, I’m on ice.
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