By: Unknown Author
They tell you in those locker-room pep talks that every guy on the hockey team is an equal, each respected and expected to do his part for the honor of the college - no golden boys, no stars. I knew it was pretty much horseshit, because over the course of the season I'd seen maybe six minutes out on the ice. My ass and the pine bench got well acquainted, while better players like our hot-dog captain, six-foot-two defenseman Tom Lindy, racked up the bulk of the playing time. He also got most of the attention of the professional hockey scouts who came to watch our team destroy our opponents.
See, I love hockey, always have. It's in my blood, though I'm not that good at it. Ice hockey's just about the toughest sport around, and it's played by the ballsiest guys on any college campus. No other sport makes you sweat so much or work so hard, and all that nut-busting effort really makes a bunch of guys into a team. You guard your buddies' butts, they protect yours. To me, there's always been something sweet about that.
I'm 5 foot 11, pretty decent for college hockey, and I know how to hold my own on the ice. But in one of the last games of the season, on one of those rare occasions when I saw some actual ice time, I found myself knocked into the boards by a human freight train dressed in the other team's ugly orange and black. We slammed into the left wing boards hard. I scrambled up, pushed the fucker off me as I dug for the puck, then took an elbow to my chin from another opposing player, trapping me in a cluster fuck.
I managed to get the puck off to my line mate and out of our zone, and as I skated away, our team's enforcer, twenty-one-year-old Tom Lindy, a blur of dark blue and gold, entered my line of sight He gave me a knowing look before slamming into the dick who'd made me eat the sleeve of his Jersey A fight started, with gloves dropped and punches flying. Both benches cleared.
Hey, I'm not one for violence in college-level sports, but how can you not love it when the toughest guy on your team comes running to protect your ass?
The ref's whistle brought the fight to an end and sent Tom to the penalty box for five minutes. That didn't sit well with our coach - we were down by a goal with the clock ticking closer to a notch in the loss column.
We did lose, and Coach Hammond chewed Tom's ass off for what he considered a bad choice with the game on the line. I have to admit I felt pretty bad about it too, but for Tom, not the team. He chose protecting my butt over winning a big game and there were plenty of National League scouts up in the stands.
I like hockey jocks. There's nothing better than a locker room full of hot, sweaty guys who've just played their asses off for three solid periods. But when you lose… shit.
After the game the mood was pretty grim, heads held low, nobody talking except for Coach Hammond, who was ripping into Tom behind the door to his office. I tried not to think about what it must be like in there, though we could all hear the coach's yelling. Most of the guys stripped and hit the showers in record time, leaving their perspiration-soaked gear in nasty piles around the room in their haste to avoid getting the same treatment. The pussies. The air quickly turned ripe with the stink of stale socks and jocks, and sweaty nuts and pits.
I'm not sure why, but I couldn't do the same, couldn't drop trou, shower and bolt, leaving Tom to deal with Coach Hammond's bad mood alone. Shit, it was the least I could do, guard his back in my own small way just like he'd done for me.
So I yanked off my jersey, unhooked my shoulder pads and chest gear, and sat on the bench in front of my own locker until the furor died down and Coach Hammond came storming out of his office, probably headed for the nearest bar. I heard the scrape of skates across the rubber mats and looked up to see our team's captain cross to his bench.
Tom was red in the face, his helmet still on his head, the chin strap undone. He brushed past me, close enough for me to smell the scent of his cooling sweat. I took a deep whiff. I'd done that every chance I got since joining the team. I didn't know why, it just was. Guys were NOT my thing but the scent of that man... well, it just fucked my mind up.
"You ok, dude?" I asked, peeling off my t-shirt as he passed.
"Yeah," was all he said.
I undressed in silence, aware that Tom was doing the same thing. Fuck, everybody pops a locker-room boner sometimes, but it's still embarrassing. I felt my tool toughen as more of Tom came out of that funky hockey uniform. I stole a look at his chest once he'd removed all the gear. He was mostly smooth except for the fur in his pits, a trace of hair dusting his toned pecs and a happy trail cutting him from his belly button down the top of his hockey pants to his crotch. I was getting excited... strange I thought, but there it was.
Dropping my skates, I watched him unlace his own, baring his damp white socks. He undid the black tape holding them tight around his toned calves, then slipped out of his pants. That left him only in his socks and padded nut protector. I pushed my pants down and tried not to think how good it felt when a gust of steamy air teased my sweaty balls.
Playing hockey - or any sport - has a way of making a dude horny. All that exertion gets the testosterone flowing. I swear my nuts get twice as big after every practice and game, and since I'd gotten some ice time in this one, they were feeling painfully full. I grabbed my towel, stepped into my flip-flops and headed for the showers to join my brothers in washing off the stink of a bad game.
I passed my reflection in the mirror above the sinks, saw my short, neat, sandy-blond hair, my green eyes and tight jock body. And though I knew I was never gonna be much of a hockey player, at least that day I felt like one of them.
Most of the dudes were done by the time I strutted into the showers, my semi-stiff dick tick-tacking between my legs. A lot of soap helped me hide it, though most of the guys wouldn't have cared. Woodies following a game are a given in this sport. But this was different, I was embarrassing myself.
I lathered up my toes and legs, then ran the bar over my meaty nuts, knowing I was gonna shoot what promised to be one hell of a load once I got back to my dorm room. I'd just taken hold of my decent-sized tool when Tom walked into the showers.
We punched knuckles as he passed, and he did the same with the few other players who were still cleaning up. I stole a look at his perfect naked body. The image of Tom's hairy legs and big bare feet, his hard, square ass, was just enough to make my mouth water for a taste… a taste? And his awesome fuckin' package burned in my unblinking eyes. He sported a fat, long trunk of a dick and two beefy, low hanging balls, one dangling heavy below the other. A nest of dark curls crowned his gear. Oh this was getting too fuckin' freaky for me.
I turned my back to him and lathered my chest, realizing now for whatever reason his arrival was threatening to push my bone to full stiffness, well beyond what was acceptable in the locker room. I tried to distract myself with other thoughts. In particular that I was having some kind of faggy thoughts - couldn't be! I wouldn't let it be! Luckily, my dick deflated enough that I got the shampoo in my hair without further incident.
By the time I finished cleaning up, the rest of the team had vacated the showers, leaving me alone with Tom, who stood scrubbing his hairy armpits in a classic, and suddenly heart-quickening pose.
I got caught up in staring, gawking at him as he soaped up his meaty nuts and squeezed his thick jock dick at its root. Lost in my unexplainable thoughts about how much I wanted him, I failed to realize that my eyes were locked directly on his package, and that his eyes, in turn, were trained on me.
"Hey," he said, breaking me out of the trance I'd fallen into. "What's up?"
I glanced up into his handsome face and tried to swallow, only to choke on the dryness in my mouth. "Hey," I said, tipping my chin in an attempt to seem cool. I ducked my face under the hot water, wanting to shoot at that moment.
I stepped back to let the shower douse my crotch one last time, planning to hotfoot it back to my locker, dress and leave, get back to my dorm, deal with my meat. But then I realized I'd gotten hard again, all of my just-under-seven-inches, something not lost on Tom, our team's number one tough guy.
"Was there something you wanted to say?" he asked in a low growl.
"No," I answered. I figured there was nothing to say, because in hockey, you don't thank a teammate for taking a knock. You take one back for him somewhere down the road. Instead, I settled for, "Later." Grabbing my soap and shampoo, I almost ran out of the showers.
But as I walked out, I looked back. Tom stood alone in the mist, looking hurt and pissed off and just the slightest bit let down. I set my stuff down on the sink and reached for a towel, feeling a sudden cramp in my guts. My buddy seemed so lost, so alone. Maybe, I told myself, this was the one time I should have broken the rules and thanked him, if for nothing more than to let him know the team hadn't abandoned him. I knew then that I wanted to hold him to comfort him. Swearing under my breath, I tossed my towel onto the counter top and hustled back into the showers.
Beyond the wall of steam and spray, I saw that Tom had turned his back to the shower entrance. Beads of water streamed down the sculpted perfection of his shoulders and lower back, cutting down the hard, square muscles of his amazing ass and catching in the dense shag of those legs. I could see the meaty bag of his nuts, loosened by the steam and hanging low and full.
Tom's balls jiggled and jumped, but not because he was in the process of soaping them up. Tom's right arm was hidden in front of him, but I could see his shoulder moving rhythmically. The handsome fuck was beating off in the team showers!
I watched him for a few seconds without blinking, sure that I must be hallucinating. I'm not sure what gave me away, the sound of my flip-flops on the tiled floor or the fact that I let out a disbelieving, "Fuck!" under my breath. Tom turned around quickly, his hand filled with eight thick, rock-hard inches of soapy dick.
"What the fuck?" he snapped. "Dude!"
With my jaw hanging open somewhere around my nuts, I stammered, "Uh, I just wanted to tell you something."
Tom continued to pump his cock despite my intrusion, holding it with the same death grip he applied to his hockey stick. "So, tell me," he said.
"Just… uh... thanks, man," I said, my eyes locked on his swollen tool, hypnotized by how his big, strong fingers stroked it, milking gobs of pre-cum from its winking pee-hole. "I wanted to say thanks for what you did out there tonight. I appreciate it."
Tom laughed under his breath, then said the last thing I ever expected. "You want to thank me? Show me how grateful you are? What I could use for a real thanks is if you come over here and go down on this!" he said still stroking his hard cock.
His words hit me harder than that brutal check into the boards, stealing my breath and leaving me light-headed. "What?"
Tom narrowed his eyes and flashed that 'don't-fuck-with-me' game face I'd seen out on the ice. "I know you've been watching me, in a way that says you want this bone in your mouth," he said matter-of-factly, releasing his grip on his meat. It bounced hard under the water spigots, its straining head aimed in my direction. "Thank me! Get over here and suck me off!"
I thought about telling him to fuck off - for about two seconds. Before I could talk myself out of it, I walked a few steps in his direction, dropped to my knees and nervously took hold of his fat cock.
The hot-dicked captain of our hockey team reached out and gently cupped the back of my head. He leaned into my hand, fucking my grip. Through the heat and water I felt hot sticky pre-cum ooze between my thumb and forefinger.
"Suck it, dude! Thank me, like I NEED to be thanked," he said in an urgent voice. "Hum on my skin flute!"
I'd never had another guy's dick in my mouth before, though I'd once let a dude blow me after hockey practice and remembered every detail. Did I really want to do this? Be a queer? Be a fag? Opening wide, I flicked my tongue over the head of Tom's fat rod, getting a taste of clean, wet skin and salty jam. I'd eaten my own jizz enough times to know what to expect with Tom's, so I wasn't disgusted by its muskiness. In fact it made me want more. I licked up and down Tom's hard tool, from its straining, helmet shaped head down to its hairy root. Lower yet, I tongued his hairy, loose sac and balls. His nuts still tasted and smelled gamy - the way a true Jock's bag should - despite the fact that he'd soaped them off.
"Yeah," he grunted in relief. "Suck those bull balls, bro!"
Bro - he wasn't calling me faggot or cocksucker, but Bro… hmm.
I did just that, sucking one hot nut into my mouth, then spitting it out to work on the other.
"Hum on me, dude," he begged. "I really need to bust a nut!"
After the fucked-up game and how it had ended, I knew his request was sincere, and I wasn't going to deny him. Not Tom. Not a fellow teammate. Realizing I'd subconsciously had a hard-on for him since I joined the team, at this point I could have cared less about being queer. Lust had fuckin' taken over.
I chugged Tom's bone back between my lips, this time taking most of the shaft down my throat. I started humming as I took a bit more of him in my mouth.
Tom growled, "Yeah, swallow my dick!"
I pulled on the bulk of his cock and sucked down the head and a couple of inches of shaft. Wrapping one hand around the base of his tool, I scooped some suds off his toes with the other and began to strum on my own stiff cock, which was up and dripping goo against his leg. Each time I slurped down, Tom pushed up, forcing more of his meat deeper into me. We settled into this rhythm, with me beating my meat between his big, spread feet and him slapping my chin with his nuts each time his cock plunged into my throat.
I'm not sure how long we kept at it in this position, two horned-up hockey jocks getting it on right there in our own team showers. I glanced up to see the look on Tom's face, his eyes half-closed in total happiness. Knowing I'd given him that and tasting the heavy, manly taste of his stick in my mouth made me shoot.
I growled loudly and unloaded across Tom's feet and on his leg. My excitement pushed him over the edge. I felt the hard-ridged vein lining the underside of his cock pump against my tongue, then a shot of salty jizz sprayed my tonsils, and I eagerly gulped all of Tom's seed down.
Both of us spent, and red in the face for what had just happened between two men - it had been savage lust and we both knew it, and that was ALL it was - we showered off, then toweled dry, neither of us talking about it. Both of us avoiding each other's eyes.
We never did talk about it, no matter how many times we ended up hooking up for repeat performances.
There are a lot of things in hockey that are understood, things you never have to talk about. For Tom and me, taking care of his big, beautiful cock is one of them. I never wanted nor have I ever done anything with any other man besides Tom. It wasn't anything queer, we never kissed or corn-holed.
But with Tom, there was that need for his meat, his need, and my need. It was a primal need.
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