tagGay MaleHooking the Hockey Player Ch. 07

Hooking the Hockey Player Ch. 07


We've come to the end of Jake and Owen's story; however, because I am self-indulgent there will be the first chapter as re-told by Owen so that people can get a better handle on why Owen does what he does and his general perspective. I have fudged some hockey facts to make the narrative smoother—for any hockey fans: I do apologize. Thank you for sticking through an insomniatic writing spree. More writing to come, Artie.


I used to maintain that winters in Buffalo were the worst. But after two years of winters in Boston, I was ready to change my tune. Sure, it snowed more in Buffalo but the always present wind combined with the narrow, hilly streets made commuting a nightmare in Boston. Sure the subway system should have been the panacea of transportation except that when it snowed you can't get anywhere in the God-forsaken city. The T, our much maligned subway system, got icy and didn't work because apparently, despite it snowing every fucking year, no one could predict the ice so it wasn't going to get fixed until Spring when all the ice thaws anyway.

From October until March I was bundled from tip of toe to my head an immense balaclava, that's why winters in Boston were the worst. I would be getting pictures and videos of Owen when he was wearing shorts or maybe, at most, a light jacket in the depths of those winter months. I liked when he had to come to the East Coast for a travel game and be shocked again by how cold it was.

It doesn't get cold in Arizona. Sometimes when I'm sure gangrene is about to set in due to the frigid water than got in through my boots I would joke with Owen that I was considering transferring to ASU. Over FaceTime a small sad smile would emerge as he would remind me of how much I was enjoying Emerson and far more importantly the next time we would be able to see each other. He knew me, it wasn't really the cold that depressed me about Boston; it was how far away Owen was.

We had known that we wouldn't be in the same city before he had even been drafted. Owen had encouraged me to go to a school that I actually wanted to go to and not a school that might be in the city that he might play for. At the end of the day, Owen reasoned, if he wasn't in that city I was just at a school I hated for nothing. I did make the decision to be in a city with a team, that way Owen would at least have trips already planned to see me.

I loved Emerson; the LGBTQ club was basically the entire school and Boston was always alive with people—mostly drunken college-aged people. I loved that everyone was so creative, people had majors in Comedic Arts there. There weren't math majors or engineers but intelligence wasn't just in STEM. I didn't go such an avant-garde choice of major—no preforming arts—just journalism.

College was so different from high school; I was included, even popular in my classes and dorm. Owen said I looked happier than ever, but cautiously asked about my friends... Were any of the hot? I always laughed it off asking if he wanted their numbers. He had no reason to worry. No one came close to catching my eye, not a single one of the meticulously groomed, charismatic, talented performers had anything on Owen. All my attention was on him: on TV, on the various fan pages where Owen had become the object of fantasies, and on broad headlines proclaiming him as hockey's newest star.

I couldn't fault him for being slightly jealous; I sure was. How could I not be jealous, even jealous of his friends and teammates for getting to be around him when I was so far away? Every day there would be new photos of him with fans, faces pressed together with wide smiles and arms thrown around shoulders. Puck bunnies in skimpy outfits kissing him on the cheek, while he grinned wryly. Of course I wasn't worried, not really. It was just hard to see him having affection lavished on him and not getting to lavish my own. And in my defense I wasn't awarded the Calder Trophy as well as Phoenix's sexiest athlete—both coming with a large amount of fans. Owen had been hounded by fans since his draft day.

The day of the draft, Owen was constantly in interviews all coordinated by Owen's new agent and publicist: Calen Edwards. Calen had coached Owen on everything: every scripted word and correct motion. Calen had really done a massive overhaul on Owen. Though I had thought he looked great before: now Owen wore impeccably made clothing and designer watches. Through Calen's direction, Owen gave the same charming answers and wore a suit that I was sure was more expensive than the rest of his clothing combined. He didn't even have to buy it—a gift from Armani.

Of course, there was tension in the Holt camp about who would be allowed to come with him to the draft and by that I mean: would I be allowed to come? Owen had shot down his dad and Calen's concerns; he was set on me coming with him.

I would have to fly directly to Boston afterward to move into my freshman dorm: worlds apart; there was no chance Owen would be a Bruin. So in a far less expensive suit, I got to sit with Owen's dad as we watched Owen get drafted into the NHL. Owen's father and I were nervous wrecks, both wringing our hands and speaking tersely to each other as the lights began to dim and the speeches began.

Owen sat next to us cool, unshakable; I saw cameras turn to him every few moments as the first announcement was called. Calen was smiling and schmoozing with the other agents. He was also making grand overtures toward the other men getting drafted, paying much closer attention to those who were still without representation. I didn't care if Calen had more clients as long as he took care of Owen well.

My breath caught as the lights refocused on the stage. I saw everyone tense a little it was time for the draft to begin. We were surrounded by a sea of other players and families. I saw mothers clutch hands and the muscles of many a draftee tense. With a great flourish and with the On the Clock timer barely begun, the call came in from the Coyotes table, who had won the draft lottery and by rights: first pick.

Time stood still as it was announced, "The Arizona Coyotes are proud to announce their first pick: Owen Holt."

I think I died: just briefly but I really do think so. Our section, smaller than most of the others but still full of so much love, all stood as Owen beamed at the cameras. He shook hands with Calen before giving him a firm manly clap on the back. He turned and hugged his father. I heard his father choke back a sob as he whispered how proud he was. Then Owen turned to me and wrapped his arms around me. I clutched at his back as I tried to put all of the hope and pride I felt into a perfunctory hug. He was mic'ed so he couldn't say anything. He didn't have to; I could see his effervescent joy.

The crowd roared as he ascended the stairs to the stage. Every camera attuned to his face, bloggers' fingers flying across keys to deliver the news. Owen had overtaken all competitors. It was an upset to be sure. Owen had been neck and neck with the man who would go second but most polls put him slightly behind only because of lack of experience. The other player had been playing in the OHL for a year. Owen proved all the doubters wrong.

I had never seen Owen smile so widely, as he shrugged off his ridiculously expensive suit jacket and donned the crimson and cream Coyotes jersey. Though I'm sure he would deny it, Owen's dad cried: manly tears but definitely tears. I didn't cry. No. My cheeks burned from my uncontrollable grin. I'm sure I lost my voice with all of my cheering. I didn't consider until I saw him get a call from Doan, the captain of the Coyotes, just how far away he would be. In that moment, I didn't care. This was it: he did it. He signed his rookie contract, the maximum money offered and he was officially a part of it all.

He signed autographs for screaming tow-headed kids and for equally excited full-grown adults. He was roped into pictures and in his immediate post-draft interview he was asked, "Owen, how are you feeling right now after being picked first?"

Owen, wearing a Coyotes hat which pushed his wavy hair out, answered with gruff emotion in his voice, "I'm so grateful to the Coyotes organization for picking me. This is the most surreal moment of my life, the best moment of my life and I'm so thankful to be sharing this day with the people I love the most. I can't even say how much this day means to me."

I wasn't alone in having my heart melt. I heard one of the player's little sister whisper, none too quietly, to her mother that Owen was "a total hottie." I couldn't agree more.

Owen was whisked away to do more interviews as I was plied with appetizers and, from Calen, a little bit of champagne. He sailed through interviews right and left, getting the opportunity to speak with the GM of the Coyotes as well as the head coach. All the while, players were finding out their fates, each time they would come down the tunnel and be met by the guys already drafted. For now, there were no hard feelings, all celebratory handshakes and smiles. In a few months, they would begin to take the ice against each other and the time for camaraderie would be gone.

Owen was in the highest demand, constantly being corralled into interviews. He had done the rotation on media day and just before the draft, but now he was being hounded into speaking with anyone and everyone. When at last it seemed like he would be free to relax, out of the melee Megan Pally appeared. Though he kept up his bright face, I could sense his mood drop. I doubt anything could have put a serious blight on the day, but Megan was always a challenge.

Megan was over the moon. Her tight blue dress barely contained her areolas as she, purely in a congratulatory fashion I'm sure, hugged Owen tightly. I glanced around the other assembled draft members, they had glazed looks on their faces; seems like Ms. Pally had already made the rounds.

Owen smiled and answered all of her questions with an easy grace that while somewhat genuine had been honed by Calen over the past several months. At the conclusion of their interview I heard her comment, "I knew you were going to be big here; I just didn't know how big." I almost gagged.

Owen was better at hiding his emotions, "I feel so lucky."

"It's the fans who feel lucky, you should be reading what they are writing on Twitter—"

"I hope to make them proud—"

Megan cut him off, "Especially the women—the women of Arizona are dying to get you out there. I bet they will be ready to welcome you when you arrive."

Owen chuckled, steel starting to form in his eyes, "I'm grateful to the fans but I'm really going to be focusing on hockey for a while. I have to prove that the choice to take me first was a good one." With that Owen turned and walked toward me; we couldn't touch here—not in any romantic way at least. But I could feel his body heat as he leaned against the wall next to me.

For a moment we just watched the melee of enthusiastic supporters, reporters and athletes converging. "I'm so happy for you Owen," I murmured, not looking at him my voice deepening with unexpressed emotion.

"Would it be selfish for me to ask you to not fly out tomorrow?" Owen asked lowly.

I turned to him, to see his eyes slightly watery. This idiot, I thought, here he was being sad when he had just signed one of the biggest rookie contracts in NHL history after being drafted first. Only I was the bigger idiot, "Only as selfish as I am being by wanting to stay with you."

Owen nodded jerkily as if trying to decide not to try to get me to move to Arizona with him—it wouldn't have been very hard. Trying to distract him, "Don't you think it's strange the Sabres didn't pick Barrant? I mean it's good for the Oilers but just unexpected you know. I would say Barrant has better hands than Campbell, maybe not as fast but those handling skills—"

"Jake." He sighed cutting off my rambling, "Today has been the best day of my life, but I'm ready to go now. Tomorrow might be the worst day of my life but I want tonight to be everything."

My mouth floundered open, "You can't leave; Calen will kill you. I'm sure there are about a million more people you're supposed to talk to and then parties and that kinda stuff."

"I'll deal with that stuff tomorrow when you aren't here. Can we please go?" Owen looked so sincere, I nodded my assent. He tried to whisk me through the stadium but it was slow going. He shook hands and signed autographs and eventually he found Calen's assistant, a small mousy brunette who looked at best frazzled amongst all the excitement. Owen pushed his jersey and hat into her unwillingly receptive hands and called over his shoulder to her, "Tell Calen I'll call him tomorrow."

As I tried to keep pace with Owen's rapid steps I heard her melodic voice filter through, "Wait. You can't—", her voice was drowned out by the cacophony in the stadium.

Oh no little secretary, he could.

Calen had arranged for a limo to be on stand by for most the night. I'm sure that Calen hadn't anticipated Owen ducking out and not using the limo to be ferried to the various after events. Owen got the driver to meet us at the side door to minimize the chance of us being followed. Our sense of decorum ended there. Owen didn't care if we were caught; what could they really do now?

I'd like to say we were civilized and didn't make out in the back of the limo as soon as the door closed—but I can't. We didn't even roll up the partition, the driver had to do it. I could only hope that Calen had paid him well for his discretion—though I'm sure Calen hadn't thought this was going to be a possibility.

The driver dropped us at the back of the hotel which was good because Owen had lost his shirt to the abyss of the limo floor and my pants were lewdly unzipped. Of course, we could have been found out right then but we were young and desperately in love: so it just didn't matter.

We were a blur of movement, my hands roaming over his chest and down his stomach: flexing as I found his nipples with my fingers. His head fell back against the elevator as I ravished his neck—though I was careful to not mark his neck or jaw. Calen would have hired professional make-up artists if need be but he would have been pissed that his star was marked with visible hickeys. The rest of his body didn't remain so unadorned.

He was mine and I intended to make that known at least to me and him. As my hands caressed his cock through his slacks my lips found the skin just above his nipple. I sucked until color bloomed over his heart, leaving my indelible mark on him.

As the elevator doors opened onto our floor Owen claimed my lips in fierce, fiery kiss. We battled for the top as our need to prove our love overcame us. We were almost violent. Owen pushed me up against the door still in the hallway. Never breaking our heated kiss Owen ripped my shirt off, buttons ricocheting.

I wedged my hand into his fitted pants, fingers curling around his cock while my other hand reached into his back pocket to find the hotel key so that we didn't fuck in the middle of the hallway. If I hadn't unlocked the door right then, we probably would have consequences be damned.

Jabbing the key at the lock several times, eventually I got the door open and I backed into the room leading Owen by my hold on his cock, still obscured by his pants. I was through with them being in the way, unbuttoning them and shoving them down along with his boxer-briefs. I hadn't thought it was possible to think Owen was sexier but knowing that he was now the poster child for the NHL had me dispense with preliminaries and suck him down my throat in one long sweeping motion. I heard a hoarse, "fuck" from above me and turned my eyes up at him.

He tried to gaze at me tenderly as I laved the base of his cock with my tongue and hummed around his length but the fierce hungry expression dominated.

"How is it that you can look innocent with your lips around my dick?" I might have been giving him doe eyes but I was anything but innocent. Proving this, I sucked hard on the tip and brought my fingers up to his balls stroking the pouch and that sensitive line. Owen bucked into my mouth slightly groaning his pleasure. I had just found the perfect rhythm with pressure and wet heat when Owen pulled me off his cock eyes flashing.

"I'm not cumming in your mouth tonight." His fingers gripped my biceps as he pulled me to my feet and laid claim on my mouth. I pressed my body against his, my shirt still hanging from my shoulders. His cock jutted into my stomach and like a moth to a flame my hand came up to encircle it.

Owen abruptly pushed me away. "Get naked Jake." Fuck me, I thought and then immediately complied, tossing the mangled shirt away and shucking my shoes. Owen stroked himself as he watched me undress. I was shaking with anticipation as he looked on with lidded eyes as my underwear hit the floor.

Feeling the weight of his arousal and wanting to egg him on, I turned and crawled slowly onto the bed, pushing my ass up and out. I rested my head on my hands and wriggled my ass at Owen, tempted to look behind me. Owen didn't resist the bait very long; I felt a slippery digit press against me. His breath was hot against my neck as he settled over me, his hard hairy body finding a way to sit against me perfectly as he lined his cock up with my ass.

"I waited all fucking night for this," he whispered tenderly, which was so at odds with the forceful breaching of my hole. He shoved in all the way possessing me fully. I moaned as his thick throbbing cock stretched me, my back arching and throwing my head back in ecstasy.

Owen pulled himself up to his knees and grabbed my hips pistoning in and out of my ass. I bore down on him, letting my muscles caress him. He slammed my ass back so that it met his pelvis over and over. Owen and I didn't really do rough. I fucking loved it, my cock was pulsating in time with him. I needed him. I needed this. With every pump Owen found my spot and my cock throbbed with need. My breath came is short spurts as pleasure washed over me.

I was about to come when suddenly Owen pulled out. Whipping my head around, I saw Owen was barely restrained, his cock red and angry with the need to come.

His muscles flexed and he looked like he was walking a tightrope of sensation.

"I need you in me," Owen gritted out. Owen hadn't bottomed since the first time, the night before I walked out on him. We had talked about it months ago, he was anxious about it happening again. He connected me topping with me leaving him: something that he would do anything to avoid, he told me. I had tried once but he looked panicked then: so sure that it meant I was leaving him. The irony was not lost on me: that's what would happen again. I was leaving tomorrow. How could he ask this of me?

I was stricken, my need to come suddenly curtailed by emotion. I searched his eyes, he looked wary but also aroused, his cock still stood hard. "Please," he whispered, a sob in his plea.

I tugged his face to mine, kissing his perfect mouth. The fire was gone but replaced with the tenderness of me showing him that we were solid. I don't know if he thought that I needed to fuck him but I was going to show him how much I appreciated his gift.

I ran my hand down his back before encouraging him to lay down. I knelt between his outstretched legs kissing him deeply as I ran my hands down his chest, finding the hardness of his muscles out to his pebbly hard nipples. I thumbed them as I made love to his mouth.

I felt something nudge my shoulder, Owen was trying to hand me lube, "Little impatient?"

Owen laughed and kissed me hard but when he broke away his face was contorted into a weak smile; "We don't have that much time."

For a brief moment pain lanced through my body at the thought but then determination coursed; I didn't want him to think about that inevitability anymore.

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