Unrivaled, page 3
THE KIDS, Max decided after the game, were not all right.
The kids were fast, hungry, and young enough to think they were bulletproof, and they played today’s preliminary matchup like it was game 7 of the Cup Final.
The kids also hadn’t had defensive responsibility beaten into them yet, so Team Canada won 5–3, but it cost Max more in bruises than he wanted to admit to hold on to the puck for his two goals and an assist.
Worth it, though, obviously.
“Hey, Mad Max!”
And now his team was going to want to go out to celebrate, or play video games to bond, or both, but Max had an appointment to undress an internet stranger. Literally or metaphorically, depending on whether he showed and how hot he was.
Max looked up from pulling on his T-shirt and met Coop’s eyes. “Present.”
They weren’t friends, which, like, Max wasn’t upset about. He knew he was better at leaving rivalries on the ice than 98 percent of the league. But Coop and the other Philly guys always gave him a little extra side-eye because they were protective of Armstrong and somehow thought Max had broken his arm on purpose or that he was out to personally destroy the guy’s carefully controlled on-ice persona. It wasn’t Max’s fault he was good at distracting him from doing his job. It was Armstrong’s fault for being so easy to nettle.
Coop rolled his eyes. “Cute. You coming to dinner?”
Oh, wow, an official invitation.
Coop gave a sheepish smile. “Your pickpocket move saved me from looking like a pylon. Figure I owe you a drink.”
Howard Barclay, Team North America’s nineteen-year-old hotshot captain, had faked Coop out and intercepted a pass he never should’ve made, but Max had it covered. They scored on that play too.
“Nah, that was my pleasure.” Max wasn’t going to rub it in—if Coop was going to treat him like a human being for the next week, he’d lean into it. “Gotta keep the kids in their place, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Coop laughed. “But you’re not coming to dinner? You got a hot date or something?”
One of Max’s teammates from Jersey raised his head and glanced over. “Oh no. I know that look. It’s dick o’clock.”
Max blew him a kiss. “I’ll catch up with you guys at the restaurant. Text me details?”
“As long as you promise not to text me any.”
“Your loss.” He had the feeling today’s story would be a good one. He saluted the room with his phone and then shoved it in his pocket. “If I don’t text you by ten, assume I’m dead and send someone cute to look for my body.”
The idea made him snicker a little as he navigated the depths of the arena. Like, imagine the cops delving into his app history and finding out he’d set up a meeting with someone claiming to be Grady Armstrong, and Armstrong having to answer questions about his Grindr use.
He’d look like a wet, grumpy cat, and he’d be about as friendly about it. Max was getting a warm, fuzzy feeling. Sure, in this hypothetical scenario he’d be dead, but he’d be dead and still pissing off Grady Armstrong. God was good, et cetera.
It wasn’t that security was lax. It was just that Max was in the players-only area already—no extra measures required to keep people out.
If he’d thought about that a little longer, he’d have realized sooner. But he didn’t have time to think about it, because when he rounded the corner to the league’s best-worst-kept secret hookup spot, he came face-to-face with the grumpy wet cat himself.
Oh shit.
Max could feel his mouth dropping open, but he didn’t have the motor control to do anything about it.
For his part, Armstrong didn’t seem to have put two and two together yet. He glanced at Max and curled his lip in a sneer. “Get your own dark corner, Lockhart. I’m meeting someone.”
“I mean, I could leave,” Max said. “But then who’s gonna give you that orgasm?”
From the looks of it, that realization hit like a six-five defenseman twelve inches from the boards. Armstrong flushed an unfortunately attractive red from the apples of his cheeks down to his collarbones, lovingly displayed in the slutty V-neck T-shirt he was wearing. Damn, he’d dressed to impress in that shirt—Max wanted to put his hands all over him. Mouth too, if Armstrong was amenable.
It would really suck if Armstrong wasn’t amenable, but at least Max would have solid gold chirp material for the rest of his career.
“You’re…?” Armstrong said. Even his eyes were unfairly pretty, a blue-green color a model would die for. Right now they were as big as hockey pucks.
“A man of my word,” Max filled in. He stepped into the role he’d made for himself like he was stepping onto the ice. It was easy—right foot forward, then left, until he didn’t quite have Armstrong boxed in against the wall. He was going for sexy, not threatening.
He and Armstrong were the same height, which Max always forgot on the ice, where the twenty pounds of muscle Armstrong had on him made him seem enormous. Not that Max let that stop him from checking the guy every legal chance he got. It was fun.
This was fun too, and something else besides.
Armstrong met Max’s gaze, but he’d schooled his expression. Max couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “You want on my dick that bad?”
“Hockey players who live in glass houses, bud.” Max flicked his eyes down Armstrong’s broad chest to his crotch. He was wearing sweatpants. His dick wasn’t all the way hard, but he wasn’t soft either. “You’re telling me you never thought about it?” Yeah, right. Max would bet his lucky cuff links he had.
Armstrong wet his lips. He’d thought about it, all right. Maybe only since Max made that pass at the NHL Awards, but Max wasn’t gonna get in his feelings about that. Armstrong was thinking about it now, and that was all that mattered. “Thinking about it’s not the same as acting on it.”
Max leaned closer—close enough that Armstrong would feel the words leave Max’s mouth when he spoke, voice a low promise. “Don’t you want to know what’s better? Your imagination…” He took a half step forward, so his thigh wasn’t quite between Armstrong’s. The heat from his body radiated through Max’s leggings. “… or my reality?”
Armstrong inhaled sharply. He was either going to break or balk.
For a second, Max was sure he’d balk. Disappointing, but he wasn’t going to be an asshole about it. But then, before he could take a step back, Armstrong put his hands on Max’s hips.
A challenging light came into those pretty eyes.
Energy zinged up Max’s spine. He should’ve known. Armstrong never backed down on the ice either. It was on. But he was going to make Armstrong say it. Max was a good multitasker. He could get his ego and his dick stroked at the same time.
“Tick tock,” Max said. “I’m into informed consent. You wanna take this for a test-drive or what?”
Armstrong’s eyes slammed closed and his head thunked back against the wall. He made a noise like he was in deep physical pain.
But Max didn’t have time to be disappointed, because the next second he’d been spun around and he was up against the wall, Armstrong crowding into his space, shoving his massive thigh against Max’s hard-on.
Max opened his mouth to swear, but he didn’t get a sound out before Armstrong’s crashed down over his and swallowed every syllable.
Oh fuck yes.
Grady Armstrong wasn’t fucking around. He kissed with his whole body—all two hundred pounds of it. He was mean about it too, tightening his fingers on Max’s shoulders and scoring his teeth over Max’s lip.
Max knew he’d be like this. He gasped under the onslaught and scrambled to shove down Armstrong’s waistband. That was the unspoken rule of the hookup basement—don’t linger. Get down, get it up, get off, and get out.
They’d checked off the first two, judging by the firm line of pressure against Max’s hip, and they were making excellent progress on the third.
This probably wasn’t going to last long enough to warrant the condom Max had optimistically shoved into the tiny pocket of his leggings.
The lube, on the other hand—
Armstrong pulled his mouth from its bruising campaign on Max’s lips and bit at the hinge of his jaw when Max wrapped his hand around his dick. Just like Max figured: thick to match the rest of him, and cut—too much friction.
Max snagged the lube from his pocket and shoved his own leggings down while ripping the packet open with his teeth.
“Really?” Armstrong said with more than a hint of judgment. “You brought lube?”
Max emptied the contents into his palm and took them both in a rough grip. “You’re welcome, bro.”
Armstrong sucked hard on the side of Max’s neck, right where he was sensitive. “Don’t call me bro when your hand’s on my dick.”
Somehow Max got out a breathless laugh instead of a moan. “What, you need some sweet nothings?” Thank God his mouth worked on autopilot. His brain was busy thinking fuck, fuck, that’s so good as Armstrong’s cock leaked all over both of them. “Want me to call you Daddy?”
The suck became a bite that made Max’s cock jerk and his knees try to buckle. “You’re such a shithead.”
The world narrowed down to Armstrong’s hand—in Max’s hair now, pulling like he knew how much Max loved it, or maybe like he didn’t care, which might be hotter—the warm, salty scent of him, the pressure of Max’s palm, and Armstrong’s dick next to his. Max was riding the edge.
“A shithead who’s gonna make you come,” Max pointed out, light-headed. Armstrong’s cock was hot and hard against his own. He had to be close.
“You first,” Armstrong growled, and he tugged Max’s head back hard enough to make his eyes water and bit the base of his throat.
Max couldn’t argue. He was too busy coming his brains out. The pleasure coursing through his body spilled over his fingers in a hot flood. Armstrong came too, groaning softly against Max’s neck, his stubble burning perfectly against Max’s sensitive skin.
Oh my God, Max thought as he tried to catch his breath. He’d known the sex would be good, but simultaneous-orgasm good? For a quickie hand job in the arena basement?
Would they even survive if they fucked in a bed?
Max wanted to find out, like, yesterday. It left him wrong-footed.
“Holy fuck,” he said finally. His voice sounded hoarse. Had he been screaming?
Armstrong didn’t answer. He was leaning his full weight against Max, breathing heavily into the damp skin of Max’s neck. Max probably looked like a chew toy. Worth it.
But this was getting a little too… cuddly. Max was generally a fan of cuddling, but Armstrong wouldn’t be into it, at least not with him. He needed to remind them both of that before he got too comfortable.
Carefully, Max withdrew his hand from their cocks and then, less carefully, wiped it on Armstrong’s T-shirt.
That got his attention. “What the fuck!” He jolted like Max had electrocuted him.
“Don’t be such a baby. You left your mark all over me. Fair’s fair.” At least Armstrong could wash the shirt. Max raised his clean hand to his neck and touched the side of it. He was going to hear all about that at dinner.
Still worth it.
“I’m supposed to walk out of the arena like this?” His face was scarlet. His lips were swollen. He looked halfway between fucked out and ready to go another round. If Max didn’t have dinner plans, he’d be tempted.
Hell, he was tempted anyway.
Max needed to get a grip on himself. “I still have a spare shirt in my stall.” It was a Team Canada shirt with Max’s number on it. He was pretty sure Armstrong would prefer to wear jizz. “I guess I can part with it for a good cause.”
“You’re all heart.”
Despite himself, Max laughed. “You’re so salty.” Max made an effort to be cheerful. That was what people expected from him. Grady Armstrong obviously didn’t give a fuck about expectations. Max respected that.
He tucked himself back into his leggings. “I can’t believe you made a Grindr profile with your NHL profile picture. The hell were you thinking, bud?”
“It’s Grady,” Armstrong—Grady—said grumpily. “I’m not your bud.”
“You could be,” Max said impulsively. Off the ice, anyway. Max wasn’t gonna stop chirping, checking, or getting in his face, but he was willing to add sucking, fucking, and coming on his face. Or vice versa. He wasn’t picky. “Anyway, the Grindr profile? You didn’t wanna be a little more subtle?”
Grady sighed. “My sister set me up with an online dating… thing.”
Oh my God. Max bit his lip hard and took a deep breath to rein in the laughter. He doubted Grady would appreciate it, and it might keep him from agreeing to a round two in the future. “She downloaded and filled out the app for you, didn’t she.”
This time the sigh was longer and deeper. “How’d you know?”
Max cleared his throat. “Well. For one thing, Grindr’s a hookup-and-sexting app.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. She got you, bud.” It slipped out. Max didn’t bother to correct himself.
Grady let it slide. “She probably didn’t realize it was the wrong app. But that does explain a lot.”
It sure did. Max pushed open the door to the locker room and waved him in. It was empty. “Yeah, if you’re looking for more than a half hour of romance, you’re better off looking elsewhere.”
With an expression of distaste, Grady pulled off his shirt. Max didn’t hurry to find him a replacement. “Grindr’s never heard of foreplay, I guess.” He tossed the shirt in the trash.
The shoulders on this guy. The waist-to-hip ratio. There was just so much of him, all round with muscle and… biteable.
Max didn’t need to know Grady was into a lot of foreplay. Not if he wasn’t going to give a hands-on demonstration, at least. He tore his eyes away and dug in his duffel for that T-shirt. “Grindr is foreplay.”
“If you say so.”
“Here.” Max thrust a bundle of red-and-black cotton at him. “No more wardrobe malfunction.”
Grady took the shirt and unfolded it. The expression of distaste returned. “I can’t wear this. It has your number on it.”
Max gave him a smile full of teeth. “My number or my DNA. Your call.”
Grady glowered. “What am I going to tell people if they see me wearing this?”
Max spent a few seconds imagining it. God, it would be glorious. “I don’t know, not my problem. Tell them you lost a bet.”
“You’re the one who lost the bet.”
“Did I, though?” Max asked. “Doesn’t feel like I lost. Feels like I got exactly what I wanted.”
A muscle at the corner of Grady’s jaw twitched. Nora was totally right about the tooth grinding. “Just… take your shirt off.”
The sudden change in tactic had Max blinking. “Round two already? I have dinner plans, but I could be convinced—”
“The shirt you’re wearing doesn’t have a number on it, at least.”
Max could’ve argued, but the thought of Grady Armstrong putting on clothing still warm with Max’s body heat tickled something primal in the back of his brain. He took the shirt off and traded it.
“I can’t believe this,” Grady muttered.
“What? That you’re wearing my shirt, or that you ravished me in the hookup basement?”
The scowl deepened. “I didn’t ravish—”
Max cleared his throat as he caught his own reflection in the locker room mirror. Yep, Grady did a number on him, all right. He gestured to his neck. “You were saying?”
Grady smoothed his hands down the front of his—Max’s—shirt. “You didn’t exactly complain about it at the time.”
“I’m not complaining about it now.”
That earned him a twitch. Max couldn’t tell if it was an irritated twitch or if he was trying not to smile.
God, this was fun.
Perhaps sensing he couldn’t win, Grady changed the subject. “That one wasn’t me.” He pointed to a livid purple bruise running from Max’s hip to shoulder. “That from the game?”
“Wow, are you studying for the detective’s exam?” Max pulled his shirt on. He didn’t need Grady knowing where to land a hit to make it hurt. “Yes, it’s from the game.”
“Who did that?” He sounded impressed.
So maybe his interest was academic. Max could relax a little. Grady wasn’t a dirty player—at least not without a little effort on Max’s part. He offered a wry smile. “Eric Chen, if you can believe it.”
Grady’s eyes went wide. “Chen? That kid weighs, like, a buck fifty!”
“Tell that to my ribs.” Max grabbed his bag from the stall and slung it over his shoulder. “Either he hit a growth spurt this summer or he discovered the joys of anabolic steroids.”
Grady snorted. “Thanks for the warning, I guess.” The US was playing Team North America next.
“No charge.”
They left the locker room, and Max realized it was time to part ways. They’d have to travel through public areas, and while he didn’t care about being seen fraternizing with the enemy, Grady would.
Especially when wearing the enemy’s shirt.
Max didn’t want to examine the twinge of sadness he felt at that, so he said sunnily, “Okay, well, this is where you leave me. I recommend you call an Uber for the ride back to the hotel. If you jog through the lobby, maybe no one will notice your shirt.”
“I hate you,” Grady told him, voice flat.
Max only grinned wider. “I know.”
GRADY HAD taken a hit to the head in practice.
That was the only explanation he could come up with for why he’d agreed to meet a stranger for sex in the depths of another team’s arena.
It was definitely the only explanation for why he’d gone through with it after learning the stranger was Max Lockhart.
And then, of course, reality reasserted itself, Max returned to being a shithead, ruining Grady’s shirt, which he had to wear in public, and Grady had regrets—regrets he couldn’t put words to, not that he wanted Max to know about them. It made Grady feel like a pod person, reverting to small talk with a guy he’d always gone out of his way to avoid, but Max was… distracting.
The kids were fast, hungry, and young enough to think they were bulletproof, and they played today’s preliminary matchup like it was game 7 of the Cup Final.
The kids also hadn’t had defensive responsibility beaten into them yet, so Team Canada won 5–3, but it cost Max more in bruises than he wanted to admit to hold on to the puck for his two goals and an assist.
Worth it, though, obviously.
“Hey, Mad Max!”
And now his team was going to want to go out to celebrate, or play video games to bond, or both, but Max had an appointment to undress an internet stranger. Literally or metaphorically, depending on whether he showed and how hot he was.
Max looked up from pulling on his T-shirt and met Coop’s eyes. “Present.”
They weren’t friends, which, like, Max wasn’t upset about. He knew he was better at leaving rivalries on the ice than 98 percent of the league. But Coop and the other Philly guys always gave him a little extra side-eye because they were protective of Armstrong and somehow thought Max had broken his arm on purpose or that he was out to personally destroy the guy’s carefully controlled on-ice persona. It wasn’t Max’s fault he was good at distracting him from doing his job. It was Armstrong’s fault for being so easy to nettle.
Coop rolled his eyes. “Cute. You coming to dinner?”
Oh, wow, an official invitation.
Coop gave a sheepish smile. “Your pickpocket move saved me from looking like a pylon. Figure I owe you a drink.”
Howard Barclay, Team North America’s nineteen-year-old hotshot captain, had faked Coop out and intercepted a pass he never should’ve made, but Max had it covered. They scored on that play too.
“Nah, that was my pleasure.” Max wasn’t going to rub it in—if Coop was going to treat him like a human being for the next week, he’d lean into it. “Gotta keep the kids in their place, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Coop laughed. “But you’re not coming to dinner? You got a hot date or something?”
One of Max’s teammates from Jersey raised his head and glanced over. “Oh no. I know that look. It’s dick o’clock.”
Max blew him a kiss. “I’ll catch up with you guys at the restaurant. Text me details?”
“As long as you promise not to text me any.”
“Your loss.” He had the feeling today’s story would be a good one. He saluted the room with his phone and then shoved it in his pocket. “If I don’t text you by ten, assume I’m dead and send someone cute to look for my body.”
The idea made him snicker a little as he navigated the depths of the arena. Like, imagine the cops delving into his app history and finding out he’d set up a meeting with someone claiming to be Grady Armstrong, and Armstrong having to answer questions about his Grindr use.
He’d look like a wet, grumpy cat, and he’d be about as friendly about it. Max was getting a warm, fuzzy feeling. Sure, in this hypothetical scenario he’d be dead, but he’d be dead and still pissing off Grady Armstrong. God was good, et cetera.
It wasn’t that security was lax. It was just that Max was in the players-only area already—no extra measures required to keep people out.
If he’d thought about that a little longer, he’d have realized sooner. But he didn’t have time to think about it, because when he rounded the corner to the league’s best-worst-kept secret hookup spot, he came face-to-face with the grumpy wet cat himself.
Oh shit.
Max could feel his mouth dropping open, but he didn’t have the motor control to do anything about it.
For his part, Armstrong didn’t seem to have put two and two together yet. He glanced at Max and curled his lip in a sneer. “Get your own dark corner, Lockhart. I’m meeting someone.”
“I mean, I could leave,” Max said. “But then who’s gonna give you that orgasm?”
From the looks of it, that realization hit like a six-five defenseman twelve inches from the boards. Armstrong flushed an unfortunately attractive red from the apples of his cheeks down to his collarbones, lovingly displayed in the slutty V-neck T-shirt he was wearing. Damn, he’d dressed to impress in that shirt—Max wanted to put his hands all over him. Mouth too, if Armstrong was amenable.
It would really suck if Armstrong wasn’t amenable, but at least Max would have solid gold chirp material for the rest of his career.
“You’re…?” Armstrong said. Even his eyes were unfairly pretty, a blue-green color a model would die for. Right now they were as big as hockey pucks.
“A man of my word,” Max filled in. He stepped into the role he’d made for himself like he was stepping onto the ice. It was easy—right foot forward, then left, until he didn’t quite have Armstrong boxed in against the wall. He was going for sexy, not threatening.
He and Armstrong were the same height, which Max always forgot on the ice, where the twenty pounds of muscle Armstrong had on him made him seem enormous. Not that Max let that stop him from checking the guy every legal chance he got. It was fun.
This was fun too, and something else besides.
Armstrong met Max’s gaze, but he’d schooled his expression. Max couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “You want on my dick that bad?”
“Hockey players who live in glass houses, bud.” Max flicked his eyes down Armstrong’s broad chest to his crotch. He was wearing sweatpants. His dick wasn’t all the way hard, but he wasn’t soft either. “You’re telling me you never thought about it?” Yeah, right. Max would bet his lucky cuff links he had.
Armstrong wet his lips. He’d thought about it, all right. Maybe only since Max made that pass at the NHL Awards, but Max wasn’t gonna get in his feelings about that. Armstrong was thinking about it now, and that was all that mattered. “Thinking about it’s not the same as acting on it.”
Max leaned closer—close enough that Armstrong would feel the words leave Max’s mouth when he spoke, voice a low promise. “Don’t you want to know what’s better? Your imagination…” He took a half step forward, so his thigh wasn’t quite between Armstrong’s. The heat from his body radiated through Max’s leggings. “… or my reality?”
Armstrong inhaled sharply. He was either going to break or balk.
For a second, Max was sure he’d balk. Disappointing, but he wasn’t going to be an asshole about it. But then, before he could take a step back, Armstrong put his hands on Max’s hips.
A challenging light came into those pretty eyes.
Energy zinged up Max’s spine. He should’ve known. Armstrong never backed down on the ice either. It was on. But he was going to make Armstrong say it. Max was a good multitasker. He could get his ego and his dick stroked at the same time.
“Tick tock,” Max said. “I’m into informed consent. You wanna take this for a test-drive or what?”
Armstrong’s eyes slammed closed and his head thunked back against the wall. He made a noise like he was in deep physical pain.
But Max didn’t have time to be disappointed, because the next second he’d been spun around and he was up against the wall, Armstrong crowding into his space, shoving his massive thigh against Max’s hard-on.
Max opened his mouth to swear, but he didn’t get a sound out before Armstrong’s crashed down over his and swallowed every syllable.
Oh fuck yes.
Grady Armstrong wasn’t fucking around. He kissed with his whole body—all two hundred pounds of it. He was mean about it too, tightening his fingers on Max’s shoulders and scoring his teeth over Max’s lip.
Max knew he’d be like this. He gasped under the onslaught and scrambled to shove down Armstrong’s waistband. That was the unspoken rule of the hookup basement—don’t linger. Get down, get it up, get off, and get out.
They’d checked off the first two, judging by the firm line of pressure against Max’s hip, and they were making excellent progress on the third.
This probably wasn’t going to last long enough to warrant the condom Max had optimistically shoved into the tiny pocket of his leggings.
The lube, on the other hand—
Armstrong pulled his mouth from its bruising campaign on Max’s lips and bit at the hinge of his jaw when Max wrapped his hand around his dick. Just like Max figured: thick to match the rest of him, and cut—too much friction.
Max snagged the lube from his pocket and shoved his own leggings down while ripping the packet open with his teeth.
“Really?” Armstrong said with more than a hint of judgment. “You brought lube?”
Max emptied the contents into his palm and took them both in a rough grip. “You’re welcome, bro.”
Armstrong sucked hard on the side of Max’s neck, right where he was sensitive. “Don’t call me bro when your hand’s on my dick.”
Somehow Max got out a breathless laugh instead of a moan. “What, you need some sweet nothings?” Thank God his mouth worked on autopilot. His brain was busy thinking fuck, fuck, that’s so good as Armstrong’s cock leaked all over both of them. “Want me to call you Daddy?”
The suck became a bite that made Max’s cock jerk and his knees try to buckle. “You’re such a shithead.”
The world narrowed down to Armstrong’s hand—in Max’s hair now, pulling like he knew how much Max loved it, or maybe like he didn’t care, which might be hotter—the warm, salty scent of him, the pressure of Max’s palm, and Armstrong’s dick next to his. Max was riding the edge.
“A shithead who’s gonna make you come,” Max pointed out, light-headed. Armstrong’s cock was hot and hard against his own. He had to be close.
“You first,” Armstrong growled, and he tugged Max’s head back hard enough to make his eyes water and bit the base of his throat.
Max couldn’t argue. He was too busy coming his brains out. The pleasure coursing through his body spilled over his fingers in a hot flood. Armstrong came too, groaning softly against Max’s neck, his stubble burning perfectly against Max’s sensitive skin.
Oh my God, Max thought as he tried to catch his breath. He’d known the sex would be good, but simultaneous-orgasm good? For a quickie hand job in the arena basement?
Would they even survive if they fucked in a bed?
Max wanted to find out, like, yesterday. It left him wrong-footed.
“Holy fuck,” he said finally. His voice sounded hoarse. Had he been screaming?
Armstrong didn’t answer. He was leaning his full weight against Max, breathing heavily into the damp skin of Max’s neck. Max probably looked like a chew toy. Worth it.
But this was getting a little too… cuddly. Max was generally a fan of cuddling, but Armstrong wouldn’t be into it, at least not with him. He needed to remind them both of that before he got too comfortable.
Carefully, Max withdrew his hand from their cocks and then, less carefully, wiped it on Armstrong’s T-shirt.
That got his attention. “What the fuck!” He jolted like Max had electrocuted him.
“Don’t be such a baby. You left your mark all over me. Fair’s fair.” At least Armstrong could wash the shirt. Max raised his clean hand to his neck and touched the side of it. He was going to hear all about that at dinner.
Still worth it.
“I’m supposed to walk out of the arena like this?” His face was scarlet. His lips were swollen. He looked halfway between fucked out and ready to go another round. If Max didn’t have dinner plans, he’d be tempted.
Hell, he was tempted anyway.
Max needed to get a grip on himself. “I still have a spare shirt in my stall.” It was a Team Canada shirt with Max’s number on it. He was pretty sure Armstrong would prefer to wear jizz. “I guess I can part with it for a good cause.”
“You’re all heart.”
Despite himself, Max laughed. “You’re so salty.” Max made an effort to be cheerful. That was what people expected from him. Grady Armstrong obviously didn’t give a fuck about expectations. Max respected that.
He tucked himself back into his leggings. “I can’t believe you made a Grindr profile with your NHL profile picture. The hell were you thinking, bud?”
“It’s Grady,” Armstrong—Grady—said grumpily. “I’m not your bud.”
“You could be,” Max said impulsively. Off the ice, anyway. Max wasn’t gonna stop chirping, checking, or getting in his face, but he was willing to add sucking, fucking, and coming on his face. Or vice versa. He wasn’t picky. “Anyway, the Grindr profile? You didn’t wanna be a little more subtle?”
Grady sighed. “My sister set me up with an online dating… thing.”
Oh my God. Max bit his lip hard and took a deep breath to rein in the laughter. He doubted Grady would appreciate it, and it might keep him from agreeing to a round two in the future. “She downloaded and filled out the app for you, didn’t she.”
This time the sigh was longer and deeper. “How’d you know?”
Max cleared his throat. “Well. For one thing, Grindr’s a hookup-and-sexting app.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. She got you, bud.” It slipped out. Max didn’t bother to correct himself.
Grady let it slide. “She probably didn’t realize it was the wrong app. But that does explain a lot.”
It sure did. Max pushed open the door to the locker room and waved him in. It was empty. “Yeah, if you’re looking for more than a half hour of romance, you’re better off looking elsewhere.”
With an expression of distaste, Grady pulled off his shirt. Max didn’t hurry to find him a replacement. “Grindr’s never heard of foreplay, I guess.” He tossed the shirt in the trash.
The shoulders on this guy. The waist-to-hip ratio. There was just so much of him, all round with muscle and… biteable.
Max didn’t need to know Grady was into a lot of foreplay. Not if he wasn’t going to give a hands-on demonstration, at least. He tore his eyes away and dug in his duffel for that T-shirt. “Grindr is foreplay.”
“If you say so.”
“Here.” Max thrust a bundle of red-and-black cotton at him. “No more wardrobe malfunction.”
Grady took the shirt and unfolded it. The expression of distaste returned. “I can’t wear this. It has your number on it.”
Max gave him a smile full of teeth. “My number or my DNA. Your call.”
Grady glowered. “What am I going to tell people if they see me wearing this?”
Max spent a few seconds imagining it. God, it would be glorious. “I don’t know, not my problem. Tell them you lost a bet.”
“You’re the one who lost the bet.”
“Did I, though?” Max asked. “Doesn’t feel like I lost. Feels like I got exactly what I wanted.”
A muscle at the corner of Grady’s jaw twitched. Nora was totally right about the tooth grinding. “Just… take your shirt off.”
The sudden change in tactic had Max blinking. “Round two already? I have dinner plans, but I could be convinced—”
“The shirt you’re wearing doesn’t have a number on it, at least.”
Max could’ve argued, but the thought of Grady Armstrong putting on clothing still warm with Max’s body heat tickled something primal in the back of his brain. He took the shirt off and traded it.
“I can’t believe this,” Grady muttered.
“What? That you’re wearing my shirt, or that you ravished me in the hookup basement?”
The scowl deepened. “I didn’t ravish—”
Max cleared his throat as he caught his own reflection in the locker room mirror. Yep, Grady did a number on him, all right. He gestured to his neck. “You were saying?”
Grady smoothed his hands down the front of his—Max’s—shirt. “You didn’t exactly complain about it at the time.”
“I’m not complaining about it now.”
That earned him a twitch. Max couldn’t tell if it was an irritated twitch or if he was trying not to smile.
God, this was fun.
Perhaps sensing he couldn’t win, Grady changed the subject. “That one wasn’t me.” He pointed to a livid purple bruise running from Max’s hip to shoulder. “That from the game?”
“Wow, are you studying for the detective’s exam?” Max pulled his shirt on. He didn’t need Grady knowing where to land a hit to make it hurt. “Yes, it’s from the game.”
“Who did that?” He sounded impressed.
So maybe his interest was academic. Max could relax a little. Grady wasn’t a dirty player—at least not without a little effort on Max’s part. He offered a wry smile. “Eric Chen, if you can believe it.”
Grady’s eyes went wide. “Chen? That kid weighs, like, a buck fifty!”
“Tell that to my ribs.” Max grabbed his bag from the stall and slung it over his shoulder. “Either he hit a growth spurt this summer or he discovered the joys of anabolic steroids.”
Grady snorted. “Thanks for the warning, I guess.” The US was playing Team North America next.
“No charge.”
They left the locker room, and Max realized it was time to part ways. They’d have to travel through public areas, and while he didn’t care about being seen fraternizing with the enemy, Grady would.
Especially when wearing the enemy’s shirt.
Max didn’t want to examine the twinge of sadness he felt at that, so he said sunnily, “Okay, well, this is where you leave me. I recommend you call an Uber for the ride back to the hotel. If you jog through the lobby, maybe no one will notice your shirt.”
“I hate you,” Grady told him, voice flat.
Max only grinned wider. “I know.”
GRADY HAD taken a hit to the head in practice.
That was the only explanation he could come up with for why he’d agreed to meet a stranger for sex in the depths of another team’s arena.
It was definitely the only explanation for why he’d gone through with it after learning the stranger was Max Lockhart.
And then, of course, reality reasserted itself, Max returned to being a shithead, ruining Grady’s shirt, which he had to wear in public, and Grady had regrets—regrets he couldn’t put words to, not that he wanted Max to know about them. It made Grady feel like a pod person, reverting to small talk with a guy he’d always gone out of his way to avoid, but Max was… distracting.
