Bessette isn't happy about the way his predatory teammate, Láska, looks at the new goalie. Bessette's not sure why -- but he wants to be the prey.
"Elizabeth Jewell gives us realistic men on ice. I enjoyed myself as voyeuristically as Bessette did. I will have to catch up with Bessette and Laska and come back for more."
-- 4 Kisses from Sheila, Two Lips Reviews
Razor's Edge: Outta My Crease
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2012 Elizabeth Jewell
This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
From a player's perspective, Philippe Bessette knew that his team was fucked when they traded midseason for a new goalie. Not that he couldn't tell by the standings that the team was fucked, but the goalie trade put a fork in it.
On a personal level, the signs were rather different. He knew he was personally fucked by his reaction to the reception the new goalie got from Jaroslav Láska.
If anyone in the twenty-first century could be said to have a nemesis, Láska was Bessette's. Their relationship, if it could be called that, had consisted of mutual dislike, then mutual hatred, then mutually abusive sex followed by a grudging truce when trades over the summer had put the men not only into the same uniform but on the same offensive line -- Bessette at left wing, Láska at right.
Late at night, when he was awake staring at the ceiling hoping the latest throbbing injury wasn't the one that would end his season, Bessette sometimes told himself the truth. And the truth was that he missed the sex.
It was the most fucked-up truth he'd ever faced about himself. It had even outdistanced the uncomfortable truth that he was good at hockey because he got off on the pain.
That night, a post-game night, he lay awake poking at a bruise on his hip and thinking about how Láska had been staring at the new goalie. A trade from one of the Sun Belt teams, he was tall, gangly, and Russian, although he looked like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man when he had his gear on. All goalies did. In the locker room after the game -- a loss, but one where the new goalie had stood on his head to make 25 of 27 saves, thus rescuing the team from complete humiliation -- Láska had been eyeing the new team member.
Bessette recognized that look. It was the same predatory look Láska had given Bessette before he cornered Bessette in the locker room and fisted him mercilessly.
Bessette shifted uncomfortably in the bed, his fingers pressing harder on the bruise. God, how many times had he jacked off to the memories of Láska pinning him to the locker, hand up his ass, mocking Bessette in that slithery Slovak accent? More than he could count. More times, even, than he'd jacked off to the memory of Láska helpless beneath him, Bessette cutting off his air until finally Láska gave up his safe word.
That had been an interesting night.
But what upset Bessette now was that he was certain Láska had decided to target Chernyaev. For the good of the team, Láska needed to be diverted from his goal. If he started stalking Chernyaev, the goalie's performance would drop off, and the team would lose whatever edge the trade had supplied them.
That was what Bessette told himself. In truth, he felt strongly that if Láska was going to subject anyone to humiliating, abusive sex, it should be Bessette.
Something had to be done.