Hot Jocks Box Set

Faceoff-3

In the penalty box, Christian watches the time count down his five minutes off the ice. He should’ve expected the fight—since he first heard they’d be playing their opener against the Rebels, Christian dreaded this game. Part of him hoped maybe there were no hard feelings about his trade. No one but Ronnie knows he requested it. No one but Ronnie really should have cared. But the hard glint he’d seen in Eric’s eyes said otherwise. He’s the traitor now, the sell-out.

Whatever, he tries to tell himself, but it still bothers him to think men he once played with, men he’d considered friends, have nothing civil left to say to him.

And then there’s Ronnie.

A minute into his penalty, there’s a shift change on the ice. Both teams switch players, and from the corner of his eye, Christian sees Ronnie skate into position. He’s a winger, stationed close to the penalty box, but he doesn’t bother looking over at Christian. His dismissal hurts more than Eric’s harsh words or tough blows ever could.

As play resumes, he turns back to his study of the clock, counting down the seconds until he’s free to leave his small glass prison. His team probably won’t score again until he gets back on the ice. He’s that good, with or without an assist from his teammates. The Blizzard is just a stepping stone for him, as were the Rebels. This time next year, he plans to be in the AHL and leave these petty fights behind.

Out of nowhere, the puck flies straight for him. Christian flinches out of reflex, but it just hits the glass in front of him with a loud thock!, then falls to the ice. He’s distracted from the time clock now—two men fly toward him, hockey sticks slashing at each others’ legs as they angle after the puck. One of them breaks away, giving chase, but the other slams into the boards right in front of Christian.

He flinches again as the glass shudders. And finds himself face to face with Ronnie Niedermeyer.

It seems like forever the two men stare at each other. The crowd fades away, the game dissolves—the chill that seeps into Christian’s tired legs and butt comes from Ronnie’s ice-chip eyes, and the look there freezes Christian’s heart in mid-beat. He still can’t read what goes on behind those cold eyes, but he knows from experience just how warm and loving they can be. Images rise unbidden in his mind—the two of them practicing on rollerblades, bodies pressed together as they checked each other’s swings; those eyes hooded with lust late in the evening, or drowsy with sleep in the early morning light; Ronnie’s too-pink lips kissing the firm muscles of Christian’s abdomen, those eyes glancing up as he moved lower, and lower…

Another player skates up behind Ronnie, coming in fast. Too fast. Christian’s gaze flickers over Ronnie’s shoulder and his former teammate notices. With a wink as if to thank him for the tip, Ronnie ducks low and hugs the boards as he skates out of the way. A second later, a member of the Blizzard hits the glass where Ronnie stood not a moment before.

“Almost had him,” the guy grouses. He flashes Christian a teeth-baring grin and returns to the game.

But Christian can’t focus on him. He can’t return to the timer, either, counting down the seconds until he’s out of the penalty box. His gaze follows Ronnie as he skates after the puck, and that wink sticks in his mind. He closes his eyes and sees it again. So quick, so surreptitious, so unexpected…

And so much like the Ronnie Christian used to know that maybe, just maybe, not everyone on the Rebels feels the same about his leaving.