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“What on earth is a ‘puck bunny’?” Kip asks, staring at his phone. Scott peeks over his shoulder and sees that he’s on the Reddit hockey forums again.
“It’s just a term for…you know.”
“For what?” Kip asks, fixing him with a knowing look.
They’re in the kitchen making lunch, a rare day off for Scott during the season. He’s staring down the barrel of a nine-day road trip tomorrow, and he’s not excited about being away from Kip for that long.
There are things he’d rather be doing than discussing hockey culture’s ingrained misogyny.
Kip is still looking at him like he’s expecting an answer.
“Hockey groupies.” Scott shrugs.
“Hockey has groupies?” Kip pokes at the screen again, scrolling down in the thread of comments.
“Everything has groupies. Most sports you’ll find women who are into the players maybe more than they’re into the game.”
“Do the guys on your team like them?”
“Some of the younger guys. I get the thrill, I suppose. Seeing beautiful women wearing your jersey with your number, your name. It makes sense.”
Kip makes a noncommittal noise.
“Puck bunny. It sounds so undignified.”
“It’s better than the alternative,” Scott says, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t opened that door.
“Which is…what?” Kip asks, raising an eyebrow and ready to think the worst of men in general.
Scott sighs. “Puck sluts.”
Kip cringes. “Yikes. Yikes.”
“Yep, it’s not great.”
“Toxic masculinity is the worst.”
“It sure is.”
Kip puts his phone down and turns to Scott, reaches out to wind his arms around Scott’s waist. Scott puts down the fork he was using to mash avocado, and instead places his hands on Kip’s shoulders, bends slightly to kiss Kip.
“So do these puck bunnies wait around outside locker rooms and stadium exits? The whole nine yards?” Kip asks.
“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I don’t really pay that much attention to them.”
Kip rubs his hand up Scott’s back, a small comfort. It makes sense.
And then he says, “What if I wore your jersey?”
Scott stills, the image of it filling his head, turning everything pink and fuzzy.
Kip laughs. “Earth to Scott. Did that really work for you?”
“I don’t think I’d considered it before.”
“Really?” Kip looks incredulous, and then his face changes, a mischievous smirk winding across his lips. His voice drops lower, intentional. “You’ve never thought about me wearing your jersey, waiting for you to come home from a game?”
“I, uh, I mean…” Scott grasps around for an answer that won’t make him feel immediately like a pervert. He can feel his cheeks flushing.
“What if,” Kip continues, trailing his fingers across Scott’s cheek, his ear, the collar of his T-shirt, “I were waiting for you here, in your bed, wearing nothing but your jersey?”
Scott breathes in and exhales shakily, his fingers tightening on the edge of the kitchen bench. The idea of it, the picture of it, is enough to wreck him.
“Kip,” he murmurs, bending to kiss Kip again, but Kip ducks out of the way, brings his mouth close to Scott’s ear.
“You sure you don’t want me to be your puck bunny?” he whispers.
Scott is done for. He grabs Kip around the thighs with a growl and hoists him into the air. Kip’s laughing, wrapping his arms and legs around Scott, giddy and gleeful as Scott carries him all the way down the hall to the bedroom.
: : : :
It could have ended there.
But three days later, Scott is sitting alone in his hotel room in Los Angeles, riding high off absolutely destroying the Kings on the ice. He’s halfway through a Karin Slaughter novel, and it’s a real page turner. One of the benefits of the league finally springing for individual hotel rooms is that he’s no longer being made fun of for staying up and reading instead of doing whatever his teammates get up to after games: drinking, maybe. Carousing, whatever that means. Going to clubs, meeting women, using their reputations to make meaningless, sweaty connections.
Before meeting Kip, he didn’t feel he could really relate to anyone on his team about things outside of hockey. Since Kip came soaring into his life, well. He feels like he has more in common now with the married guys on the team.
His phone buzzes on the bedside table where he has it charging. He leaves it for a minute, engrossed in his book. The follow-up buzz sixty seconds later breaks his attention and he sighs, putting the book face-down on the bed beside him and scooping up his phone.
A message notification from Kip is on the screen, and he smiles, sliding his thumb across the screen to open the messaging app.
Kip has sent him a photo. He frowns at it slightly, tapping the image to fill the screen.
He almost drops his phone in surprise, heat flushing through his entire body.
In the photo, Kip is kneeling on Scott’s bed, thick thighs straining and framed perfectly by short black boxer briefs. But he’s distracted, immediately, by one thing: Kip is wearing Scott’s Admirals jersey.
The red of the jersey is like a rag to a bull. Scott feels himself start to get hard just looking at it. He feels like a caveman: it’s animalistic, it’s illogical, it’s possessive, it’s…the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
He knows it’s his jersey, he can see the white ‘21’ and the captain’s ‘C’ emblazoned on the chest. In the picture, Kip is pulling the hem of the jersey up, his abs sculpted and displayed perfectly in the soft light of the bedroom.
Scott has never been more grateful he’s dating an art historian. This…this belongs in a museum. The sexiest museum that’s ever been built.
His eyes roam over the rest of the picture. He sees the bulge in Kip’s boxers, a telltale curve showing that he’s half-hard. Kip’s thumb is hooked in the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down just enough that Scott can see the top of his pubic hair, the sharp cut of his hip.
His phone buzzes again with another message notification from Kip. Scott reluctantly closes the photo and sees the new text. Two emojis: the hockey stick and puck, and a rabbit.
Scott could laugh, or maybe cry, or maybe just come on the spot with the hot flare of arousal that courses through him. Puck bunny.
He hits the FaceTime button faster than he’s done anything in his life.
The call connects quickly, and then Kip is there on screen, smirking and looking quite pleased with himself. He’s still wearing the jersey, the red fabric perfectly offset against his dark hair, his creamy skin.
“Leave it on,” Scott gasps out. “Fuck, Kip, leave it on.”
Kip smiles wide, eyes dancing.
“Hello to you, too,” he says.
“No, no,” Scott says. “No time for that. No pleasantries. Fuck, do you know what you’re doing to me?”
“Show me,” Kip says, and they’re off.
Scott pulls his sweatpants down, grasps his cock—scalding and heavy in his hand—and angles the phone so Kip can see.
“Jesus,” Kip says. “This is really working for you, huh? Fuck, you’re so hard.”
“Are you?” Scott asks, his voice raw.
“So hard. I have been for ages. I’ve been thinking about you. I watched you score tonight.”
Scott groans, squeezes his cock. “You did?”
“Mhmm,” Kip says. “You really know how to handle that stick.”
Scott laughs, and it could be too much, too cheesy, but it’s actually kind of perfect.
“I wanna see you,” he says.
Kip props his phone up against something, possibly the bed’s headboard, and then shuffles back so that he is caught in the camera’s frame. He’s naked from the waist down, his cock jutting hard from below the hem of the jersey. He turns, showing Scott the perfect curve of his ass, and above that, emblazoned across his back, a mark of ownership, of possession: Hunter.
Scott’s brain short-circuits.
Kip looks over his shoulder, must see Scott deeply malfunctioning and trying to reboot into the land of the living. He is merciless; a menace. He turns again, takes his hard-on in hand and begins to touch himself.
Scott makes a strangled noise and moves his own hand, stroking himself hard and long, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing precome to ease his way. The slickness of it is better, the glide making everything slippery and easy and wet.
He wants.
“Suck on your fingers,” he says, not even sure what he’s really asking for anymore, just desperate to see more, see Kip debauched and wanting.
Kip obliges, sliding two fingers into his own mouth, moaning around them. Scott imagines the sensation, the wetness, heat and suction of Kip’s mouth around his cock. His erection blurts out another thick drop of precome, his dick twitching at the idea of it.
“Scott,” Kip moans, his fingers slipping from his mouth, trailing spit-slick down his chin, his neck. “Oh, fuck. I’ve been thinking about this for too long. Way too long. I…I want you too much, I’ve been thinking about you, about your hands, your mouth. God, your mouth.”
The words are raining down on Scott like little meteors, each one setting his skin alight.
“Fuck, if you were here,” Kip murmurs, losing himself to fantasy, eyes dark and boring straight into the camera. “Scott. God, I’m not going to last.”
Neither will Scott—if he’s honest, he’ll acknowledge that he was ready to come in his pants the minute he opened that photo. It’s a miracle he made it this long at all.
“Show me,” he growls. “Come all over it, babe. Can you? Please.”
Maybe it’s the slight begging tone in his voice that does it, because Kip’s screwing his eyes shut, his neck flushing deep red, his hips stuttering and then he’s coming, nacreous streaks all over the front of the jersey.
Scott gives a shout, feels his cock pulse in his hand, and then he’s flying off into another dimension, coming harder than he ever has alone before, staining his t-shirt, feet twisting in the sheets, stomach clenching as the orgasm is stripped from his bones.
He lies, stunned. On the other end of the call he can hear Kip, breathing heavily and then asking: “Are you alive?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I think I might have died and gone to heaven.”
He hears Kip laugh. “Definitely worked for you, then.”
Scott cracks his eyes open. He lifts the phone in his hand and looks at Kip on the other end of the phone—on the other side of the country, but close enough, here, in this moment.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “What gave it away?”
Kip laughs again, easy and light.
“I’m gonna file this one away for future use,” he says.
Scott looks down at himself, the mess on his shirt. He puts the phone down and pulls the shirt off, flinging it halfway across the room.
“That’s better,” he says. He lies back against the pillows. “How did you get so perfect?”
“Perfectly sexy?” Kip asks.
“Just…perfect. But also, yes, incredibly sexy. Fuck, you are just the hottest man I have ever met.”
“Right back at ya, Captain.” Scott can hear the mischief in Kip’s voice again.
“Very funny.”
“Hmm. So. How did you like it?”
“God, which part?” Scott laughs.
“Having your own puck bunny,” Kip says, looking slyly at the camera.
“You know,” Scott says, rolling to lie on his side, holding the phone at an awkward angle so he can still see Kip. “I think I get it now.”
Kip strips off the jersey, then makes himself confortable on Scott’s bed, nesting down onto the linen.
“Well, you deserve it,” Kip says. The earnestness is slightly jarring after the heat of what they’ve just done, but Scott likes it. He likes earnest. He likes open and honest and true, and all the other things he can be when he’s with Kip.
They stay on the call for another fifteen minutes, just talking, before Scott realises that it’s nearing two in the morning in New York, and demands that Kip get some sleep.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” Scott says.
“That’s more than enough time for me to have this thing washed and dried and ready to wear again.”
“Oh yeah?” Scott asks.
“Mhmm. If you think this was good, imagine how much fun it’ll be to fuck me while I’m wearing it.”
Scott blinks hard, his cheeks burning. “You’re a menace to society.”
“I’m just trying to keep up with hockey culture. There’s a lot to learn.”
“Good night,” Scott says pointedly.
Kip smiles, warm and indulgent.
“Good night, Hunter.”
He disconnects the call. Scott holds the phone to his chest, runs his finger around the edge of the screen.
Five more days. The end of this road trip can’t come soon enough.