Hooking the Hockey Player Ch. 01

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Bdsm

In a fit of insomnia, this story was born. It contains only sex between consenting adults and the main characters are both male. If this is not what you were looking for, I suggest a different story. There is no sex in this chapter but there will be wild, torrid sex in subsequent chapters. Comments are welcome and encouraged: How else will I know if this is working? I have no doubt that there are some errors in grammar as I wrote this in one sleep deprived shot, forgive me.

*

In years past, the first day of school would have elicited joy from me; meeting my new teacher, getting to see all of my friends again, even just a break from the monotony of summer break would have had me ready and out the door early. Times change as you grow up. Middle school is hell on everyone, surges of hormones causing zits and random boners at the most inconvenient times. And boy were they at the most awkward times, sweaty locker rooms filled with other guys became my nightmare. I tried to conceal my reaction, play them off or quickly adjust so that it wasn’t noticeable.

For a while it seemed to work. I was quietly closeted with no one the wiser. I had girlfriends, luckily in middle school none of the girls really wanted to do more than hold hands and talk. As far as I was concerned, that was as far as I ever wanted to go. They were my beard on a face that wouldn’t be able to support one for many years.

It didn’t work. As far as I know, there was no catalyst. One day the popular group decided that I was a fag and that was all it took. Before the week was out, it was as if a banner had been posted “Jake Summers is gay”. I don’t know if it would have been worse if they were wrong. It really did piss me off that they were right, but I wasn’t about to confirm their suspicions. I took the near daily abuse, the swatted textbooks, being shoved against lockers, even the punches that came. I maintained my innocence. Definitely not gay I claimed. Of course, they didn’t take me at my word.

I became obsessed with being the least gay person, at least stereotypically. I, of course, knew that gay people look and act in various ways and that the stereotypes that the troglodytes expected were not every gay person. I didn’t take the time to explain this to them. I wore exactly what the other boys wore, evolving at a frankly painful pace from the baggy cargo shorts to still baggy jeans of high school. I played sports; my admittedly lanky body wasn’t going to get me on the hockey team but I ran cross country and swam. I went to states in both.

I shunned all effeminate pastimes. I’d like to say that my efforts derived some tangible result—nada. So on the morning of my senior year. I was filled with the dull anxiety that gnaws at your gut. Standing shirtless in front of the mirror, I scrutinized my appearance trying to discern any possible gay vibes I was giving off. Light brown hair cut into the same haircut every other kid had, my face wasn’t overtly feminine despite my high cheekbones and full lips. I kept my face shaven, mostly because the few scraggly hairs were disgusting.

My whole body was mostly hairless. Swimming had required us to shave for states, which had only added to the ridicule but even when my hair grew back it was light, nearly transparent. My body itself was lithe; running and swimming didn’t focus on bulking so my muscles were small but defined. I had started lifting over the summer, in an attempt to up my masculinity, so I looked a little bigger. I had been diminutive when the rumors had begun but puberty was kind to me; I now stood at 6-2.

Not that being 6-2 would help me when I’m up against six people. With this dreary thought, I swiped on a t-shirt. Luckily, the guys had become slightly more stylish over the years so the shirt wasn’t as ill-fitting as they once were and thank the Lord they had moved on from shopping at Hollister. I couldn’t stand the seagull embossed designs.

Spending the drive to school psyching myself up, I almost had myself convinced that this year was going to be different. I reasoned that everyone grows up, they would be focused on getting into college, or at least that there may be some new target to pick on. Not a very charitable thought, but I would take good fortune where I could get it.

Growing up in Buffalo, students tended to stay outside as much as possible during the months when it was not cold enough to freeze off your nuts. So the front lawn was filled with my fellow students milling around, a buzz in the air. They were all thrilled to be back at school to gossip about who looked better with the summer months past and who looked decidedly worse. All around me groups huddled together, not necessarily cliques but the social groups all bore out.

Dominating the main staircase were the upper echelons of the school, comprised of the richest kids and the athletes. Now sure, I was an athlete but I didn’t play the right sport to be a candidate for entry into their squad. In Buffalo, you played poker oyna football and hockey. Football was one thing, their team was big and but my opinion as long as you were over 200 pounds you could be on the team. All of their games seemed like a battle of brute force against brute force. The football players were popular, but the hockey players were gods.

Hockey was a religion in Buffalo, the cool arena was church and each goal communion. With an NHL team in the city, the school lived and died by first the Sabres and then by our own team: the Cougars. I grew up a die-hard Sabres fan but my school spirit was sorely lacking. It’s hard to cheer for the guys who had just kicked the shit out of you.

They were there holding court, girls hanging off every word. I walked faster, trying to appear smaller hoping to escape their notice. At least this time I succeeded and ran over to the cross country team. It was a good mix of guys, some like me that really did enjoy running. Our school had a policy that you either had to play a sport or have gym class. For the stoners this was an easy choice. As long as they could run into the woods where we mainly practiced, they could wander off the course and toke. Our coach recognized this and frankly didn’t care. As long as they didn’t hurt anyone, the extra members just got him more funding to assist the people who were competing.

I wasn’t necessarily close with them, but at least they hadn’t also cast me out. My only true friend on team was Matt Carter, a super stoner. True to his nature, his eyes were glazed over but it didn’t detract from the wide, happy smile plastered on his face, “Hey Jake!” He greeted me with a joy that can only come with sativa. The rest of the group grunted their greetings before returning to their conversation.

Matt sidled up to me, wafting the scent of weed past me. “You really should Febreeze yourself down before school starts,” I cautioned him.

He chuckled, “What, are they going to expel me on the first day of school?” He had a point, and the school was unlikely to expel him at all so close to getting rid of him and keeping him meant they wouldn’t have to compromise the school’s 100% graduation rate.

The first bell rang and we parted ways, him ambling off calling out hellos to various people in the crowds. He was popular, but a floater. It’s hard not to like the funny stoner kid. He was the only person who dared really befriend the social pariah. Not even having me as a friend could shake his esteemed place in the school.

I don’t know if anyone can truly understand how much effort I put into flying under the radar. Walking into my first period English class, I selected a seat in the middle on the far side from the door. The smart, driven kids would sit in the first two rows, and the jocks and other popular kids would sit in the back; the middle was designated for the floaters of the school. By siting near the window, hopefully enough bodies would shield me from any unwanted scrutiny as the popular kids filed through the door. With any luck I wouldn’t be noticed at all, I certainly wasn’t going to be one to raise his hand.

The classroom was only half full when someone sat down next to me. I tensed slightly expecting some girl hoping to make herself a gay best friend but a low dulcet voice murmured, “Hey, is this English with Campbell?”

“Yeah,” I replied, glancing to the side. I was lost. In an instant I forgot my training to never really look at a guy, only chancing quick glances. I stared, boy did I stare. He was stunning. Even sitting down I could tell he was taller than me, his white t-shirt stretched across defined pecs, his sleeves curved around large biceps. His face was a work of art. Bright azure eyes set in smooth lightly tanned skin. His lips were a dark red, like a cherry I could have died to nibble on. I only recognized how long I had been looking at him when a dark brown eyebrow matching his wavy hair raised.

Quickly I looked away, cursing myself but he stuck out a hand, “I’m Owen Holt”. I glanced up at him, seeing his slight smile. I only hesitated a moment before taking his offered hand. “Jake,” I introduced myself, “Jake Summers, are you new around here?” Mentally I slapped a hand over my face, not just because the obvious answer was yes, if he was from our school I would have noticed him before and he would know not to talk to me, but because I could have worded that a little less confrontationally.

I was heartened when a genuine smile touched his lips, and damn those pouty kissable lips, “Yeah, I just moved here from Minnesota.”

I was saved from having to respond with an inane comment by our teacher starting class. I brought a hand to my face and felt my burning cheeks. Blushing like a school girl would not win me any favors. I studiously tried to ignore Owen throughout the lesson, but every time he shifted I just became more aware of his body. His incredible body. I willed myself not to get hard and to focus on the canlı poker oyna syllabus being handed out. I did both only semi-successfully.

When the period ended, I was simultaneously filled with relief and regret. Relief that I wouldn’t be subjected to the temptation of Owen’s presence and the regret that I wouldn’t get to be near him. He packed his books and said jovially, “I’ll see you later Jake.” I flashed him a genuine smile, pleased that he had remembered my name but as he turned away, my heart sank knowing that soon enough he wouldn’t be so casual speaking to me.

Maybe in other schools, a new student wouldn’t be a big deal but we weren’t a large school and he wasn’t a normal student. He was devastatingly handsome, every girl said so and I assume I wasn’t the only guy who thought it too. In the next three periods, all I could hear about was his hair, his height, and his muscles.

“He has to be at least 6-5.”

“He’s got to be a model or something like for underwear or something. And if not I would be happy to help him build a portfolio.”

“I would climb him like a tree.”

I tried to hide my smirks as I heard my fellow classmates describe what they would like to do with Owen. Their own suggestions weren’t far off from my fantasies.

Walking into the cafeteria, I noticed a new buzz in the air, a palpable energetic excitement. Even approaching the cross country team I noticed an animated conversation occurring, “I heard he’s being recruited by Boston College,” one freckle faced boy said.

“Please, he has league scouts at practice,” another broke in. With an internal sigh, I wondered which of my tormentors from the hockey team was gaining acclaim. Was it Kyle Johnson, the big defensemen who once dislocated my shoulder shoving me into a wall, or maybe Liam Subban a reedy forward who was responsible for ruining my textbooks after throwing my backpack in the pool? It could have been any of them, they were all talented if not assholes.

Despite having been sitting there longer than me, Matt was clearly lost so he asked, “What are we talking about?”

With an exasperated sigh one of the guys answered, “Jesus Matt, come up for air sometime. We’re talking about the new kid, the hockey prodigy.” The sinking feeling in my gut returned, whipping my head around to look over at the popular table. Sure enough surrounded by the guys that had made my life hell for the past five years was Owen. He looked happy, comfortable laughing with the team. He and Liam were talking, great.

I turned away, I couldn’t handle seeing the only person who had been even kind of nice to me in years joking with my tormentors. I had known that he and I wouldn’t talk as much after he knew the rumors about me, but seeing him becoming friends with my bullies was too much. How pathetic was it that I had craved that boring conversation. We hadn’t even talked, I was too lonely too pathetic.

Wallowing, I pushed away from the table and crossed the cafeteria to throw away my half-eaten meal before pushing through the entry way. Little did I know my flight had been less inconspicuous than I would have wanted.

I was halfway down the hall when I heard the footsteps. Now sure, I was in a school with several hundred other kids but when you’ve been prey as often as I have you know when you’re in danger. I took a deep breath, running wouldn’t do anything. I was sure I was faster than they were but I refused to be a pussy. I was going to man up, man up but not fight. Lord knows I would be a dead man if I actually tried to fight back. What the jocks didn’t have in cultural sensitivity they made up for in fighting skills.

The key to not getting seriously injured by bullies is to put yourself in the right environment, you don’t want to be in a bathroom. Bathrooms have a bunch of hard and sharp edges to get a traumatic brain injury on when you are shoved into them also the whole possibility of fecal matter covering everything makes it not a place you want to have a confrontation. In my experience, the best place to be encountered is in a moderately populated area. Not too many people that they could all hive mentality believe that if no one was doing something to stop it, they didn’t have to either. It’s good to have some girls around though especially if they are hot, guys don’t typically want to look like enormous tools in front of girls they want to hook up with.

Unfortunately for me, I didn’t get very far and the sparsely populated hallway provided little cover. A meaty hand grabbed my shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle as it turned me around. Three members of the hockey team stood before me, the offending hand belonging to Paul Killhorn, the team’s goalie. Unsurprisingly Kyle Johnson flanked him, a sadistic grin coating his smug face; the other was Gregory Lewis, a third line center. While Kyle liked violence for the sake of violence, Gregory was an angry kid that really liked lashing out. I was a frequent target of his internet casino anger over his various life problems: being frankly hideous, not getting very much playing time, having the IQ of a boot, etc.

“Have a good summer?” I quipped.

“Yeah, didn’t have to see you, faggot,” Kyle spoke, his deep ponderous voice resonating. He could do voice overs for the Westboro Baptist Church.

“I saw you looking at us during lunch. It’s gross: you queers checking us out,” Gregory added.

The idea was so ludicrous, there was no way I would be checking out his pock-marked face, that I reacted without thinking, “Why were you looking at me? See something you like?” Instantly, I wish I had the words back.

Paul, still holding my shoulder when slack for a moment. Then simultaneously all three tensed, the hand on my shoulder tightened. “Let’s show this fag where he belongs.” And suddenly I was airborne, hoisted up and held over their heads. Half amused and half panicked, I laughed that in a different context this would look like a celebration.

They marched me through the halls, I looked around for a teacher to save me but all were taking their lunch breaks. The students who saw turned away, unwilling to help. I knew where we were going, my place as they had shown me many times before was in the dumpsters. Originality couldn’t be counted among their strong suits.

I’m sure this was meant to be humiliating, but I had been so conditioned to this treatment that this was relatively tame. No one was going to see this, it was the first day of school so the dumpster would be relatively empty; this was nothing. While the dumpster being empty saved me from landing in steaming garbage, the fall to the bottom was enough to jar my shoulder. I held my shoulder as I listened to the jerks laughing, it would surely bruise.

There’s no point in immediately climbing out, I would have just been tossed back in. Listening for the sound of their retreating footsteps, I sighed when I heard a distant voice call out. Kyle responded gleefully, “Sup, Subban.” Great. The forward was exactly what I needed added to this situation.

Much closer this time, “Hey guys, just showing Holt around.” I froze in horror. He couldn’t find me like this. My one semi-human interaction in years, with someone not high, can’t end with him finding me in a dumpster. Let alone thrown in there by his new friends.

“Yeah, we were on our way to see the rink when we saw you guys.” His voice was heaven in hell.

“Cool man, we’ll come too.” Listening hard, I could hear their conversation get further and further away. Finally when I couldn’t hear them anymore, I stood up and brushed myself off. Other than the already darkening bruises from the impact and from Paul’s grip, I was fine. I clambered awkwardly out of the dumpster and dropped to the ground. Rolling my arm, I felt the soreness deep in the muscle. I gritted my teeth knowing that I would eventually have to explain (lie about) the injury to my parents.

Rounding the corner, I stopped dead when I saw what would become the fodder of my wet dreams. He was leaning against the brick wall arms folded across his chest, pushing his biceps out and bringing attention to his defined pecs. His legs were crossed at the ankles, how had I missed out on his legs before? Steel cut muscular legs encased in dark blue denim; as marvelous as he looked, I wish he wasn’t wearing them.

Jesus, I groaned internally, I had my first real crush. He was dreamier than any of my former celebrity crushes, and had a better physique than any guy I had jerked off to from some Men’s Health Magazine shoot. Shit—how pathetic: some guy has a casual conversation with me and I am half in love with him. I dropped my head in shame, this was exactly what the assholes feared.

He pushed away from the wall and I caught the hard glint in his eye. My prepared excuses for why I had been behind the building died on my tongue. He was mad, Subban and the rest of the team had probably told him what I was and he now wanted his own pound of flesh.

I flinched hoping to evade a fist that was not thrown. “Did they hurt you?” He grated out, his face dangerously calm.

“No,” I responded glancing down at my shoes. He was standing so close to me, inches between our chests. I wanted to close that gap with every fiber of my being. I wanted to feel him muscles, his warmth radiating across the small distance.

“Look at me,” he said softly but firmly. “Have they hurt you in the past?” He paused, I tried to keep my face neutral but he took my silence as a yes. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing and narrowing. The glare was more than I could take and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“How did you know what happened?”

“They weren’t exactly subtle,” he bit out his answer, “I saw you cross the cafeteria and then immediately they stood up. And then they stood there making casual conversation with me, fucking bastards.”

None of this was news to me, I could have guessed how the predators operated. “So what, why do you care?”

“What did you think I was going to do? Nothing?” He asked genuinely bemused but still holding his undercurrent of anger.

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