All characters engaged in sexual activity are 18 or older.
I should have seen their defensemen coming for me. There were only two minutes left in the last period with the score tied, but of course I was distracted by him—dear old dad—holding court in the audience as people kept approaching him all game to ask for selfies. So it’s not surprising that I ended up with a six-foot-something, two-hundred pound hockey player slamming me into the boards just as I was about to pass the puck to Kyle so he could score the winning goal.
All I remember after that is experiencing the worst pain I’ve ever felt before blacking out, and I’ve taken plenty of hits over the years. Sprains, dislocated shoulder, broken leg, you name it, but this one takes the cake.
I’ve been in and out of consciousness for a while now, I think. Hushed voices swirl around me, and a steady beeping sound hits my ear from somewhere to my right. When I finally open my eyes, I’m blinded by bright fluorescent lights overhead, and my throat feels dry like the Sahara.
“What’s going on?” I croak out.
“Honey, he’s awake! Go call the doctor,” a familiar, feminine voice says. It only takes a second for my mom to pop up in front of me, face scrunched with worry, dark circles under her eyes. “Hi, sweetie. How are you feeling?”
“Really thirsty, can I have some water?”
Mom nods and holds a paper cup with a straw to my lips. I drink until the cup is drained, the water nice and cool going down my throat. It’s only when I’m done that I look around and realize that I’m in a hospital room. My right arm is wrapped in a cast and held up against my chest with a sling.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You were hurt playing hockey, Mr. Monroe,” a pretty, blonde doctor says, stepping into the room. She’s wearing the traditional white coat with a stethoscope around her neck, her hair tied back in a ponytail.
Dad is standing right behind her, his face expressionless as he looks at me.
“Um, right. I remember that part now.” I look down at my arm, frustration building as I try to move it and find that I can only wiggle my fingers.
Fuck! It was the first game of the season, and now I probably can’t even play.
“You’re going to have to be patient with your recovery, Mr. Monroe—”
“Please call me Toby. No one really calls me Mr. Monroe,” I interject.
She nods, smiling kindly. “Unfortunately, you fractured your radius bone. I was able to go in and fix it surgically, but it’s going to take some time to heal completely.”
“How long will it take for him to get back out there?” Dad asks, not even bothering to look at me.
The doctor hesitates for a second before saying, “If he heals like I expect him to and his physical therapy goes well, Toby should be ready to play by January.”
My heart drops to my stomach when I hear the word January, and before I can even say anything, dad shoots me a glare, shutting me up. He turns back to the doctor and plasters on that smile he only uses when he’s trying to act like someone he’s not. “Isn’t there anything you could do to speed up his recovery? It’s his senior year and the last chance he’ll get to play before the NHL draft. Playing in January means he’ll miss half the season.”
The doctor gives us a sympathetic smile and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s no rushing his recovery. If his bone doesn’t heal properly, it could ruin his mobility, and any chance of playing professionally would be gone.”
Dad huffs and runs his hand through his dark blond hair. “Okay then. Thank you for your help.”
“Of course.” The doctor turns back to me and says, “I’ll start the paperwork to get you discharged, Toby. But you’re going to need to take it easy, especially in the beginning. You’ll also need someone to help you with basic tasks to prevent your injuries from getting worse. Will you be staying with your parents while you recover?”
I shake my head quickly, avoiding the pleading look my mom is giving me. “Uh, no… I’ll be going back to my apartment. But one of my teammates is also my roommate—I’m sure he’ll help me with whatever I need.”
With a satisfied nod, the doctor leaves us alone.
I look back and forth between my parents, Mom looking worried as ever while Dad just glares at me like it’s my fault that I got hurt.
“Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t want to come back with us? I can drive you to campus if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I shake my head again, my throat closing up like it doesn’t trust me not to say what I’m thinking. There’s no way I’m going back there. Not if I have to listen to Dad complain all day about how much of a screwup I am or how much better of a player he was at my age, already playing in the NHL. I finally mange to get out, “I’m good, thank you, Mom.”
She cups my cheek and places a kiss on my forehead. “Okay, sweetheart. But please let me know if you need anything. Your father and I will be there for you if you need us.”
I give her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Mom. I know you will.”
But when I look over her shoulder, I see Dad scrolling on his phone. So much for having both of them there for me.
###
Thankfully, my best friend Dean picks me up from the hospital so I don’t have to deal with my parents driving me back to the apartment. “Yo! Toby, that was a really nasty hit yesterday,” he says as soon as he jumps out the car, running around to the other side to open my door for me.
“Yeah, it fucking sucks, man.” I grimace once I’m settled in the front seat.
“How long are you going to be out?” he asks looking at me with a mix of concern and pity.
I let out a sigh and give him a rundown of everything that happened since I woke up. Between not being able to play for half the season, to the way Dad was acting, I’m basically word vomiting my emotions to him.
“Damn.” He looks over at me while we’re stopped at a light and reaches out to pat my knee, which is basically the only part of me that doesn’t hurt now that the meds are wearing off. “I’m really sorry about that, Toby. I wish there was something I could do.”
I snort and lean my head back against the headrest, feeling the warmth of his hand through my sweats. Dean and I have been best friends since we joined the team freshman year. We’ve been through so much together, and out of everyone on the team, he’s the only one who really knows what I go through with my dad. The expectations, the disappointment, the constant pressure. He even offered to beat up my dad for me once. I had been in such a funk, but when he said that, I couldn’t stop laughing.
“I’m just glad I have you to help me out, bro.” I smile at him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
His eyes go soft, and he looks away quickly, focusing back on the road. “Of course, Toby, I’d do anything for you.”
By the time we get back to our apartment, I’m in a much better mood. Hanging out with Dean always does that to me, though.
“Dude, no offense, but you really need to shower.” Dean wrinkles his nose at me the moment our front door closes.
I lift my arm and sniff. “It’s not that bad. And the nurse said they gave me a sponge bath when I was knocked out.”
“Yeah, well, a sponge bath isn’t cutting it. You haven’t showered since the day before yesterday and you played a full game,” he shoots back.
My stomach twists into knots when I think back to the game. “Who won, by the way?”
Dean gives me a sheepish look and mumbles, “Lockwood won. After you were taken away, I could barely focus… Their captain got one past me. I’m sorry.” He hangs his head like it’s his fault we lost.
I pat him on the back. “Don’t worry, dude, it was just the first game. You’re an incredible goalie. Shit happens.”
He gives me a weak smile and then says, “Okay, I really need you to take that shower now.”
I laugh and flip him off before making my way to my room. I grab clean clothes and my towel and then head to our shared bathroom down the hall. But the moment I’m inside, I realize that I’m in trouble. With my arm in a sling, I completely forgot that I need help to wrap my cast so it doesn’t get wet. Not to mention that my other arm hurts like hell right now.
I open the bathroom door and call out, “Hey, Dean… Could you come help me?”
He appears a moment later holding the bag I got from the hospital to temporarily cover the cast so I could shower today. “Looking for this?” He grins at me.
“This is why you’re the best.” I beam at him.
Dean gingerly takes the sling off me and wraps the cast in plastic. When he’s done securing it, he turns to leave.
“Wait—I uh, um… I need your help to take my clothes off too.”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “If you wanted me to see you naked, all you had to do was ask.”
“Shut up.” I laugh.
He reaches for the hem of my shirt, his fingers brushing against my bare skin as he lifts the side that’s not broken. It’s awkward, but he gets the shirt off my head and down the cast, leaving me shirtless. But the movement has me gasping in pain.
“Shit! Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asks, worry etched on his face as he looks at the bruises on my upper arm. Thankfully nothing broke there, but it still hurts like hell. “Fuck, Toby, that’s really bad...” Then his eyes widen when he turns to look at the other side and sees bruises there too. “What the fuck? How hard did that guy hit you? This isn’t even the side that hit the boards.”
I wince as I look at myself in the mirror. “I don’t know. I’m just glad nothing on the left side broke, though it hurts to move even just a little. I’ll just have to take it slow in the shower.”
“Dude, why don’t I help you?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Seriously? You want to help me shower? Isn’t that a little…”
Dean gives me a mortified look, and he stammers, “Uh—I mean, only if you want to. Not trying to be weird about it… It’s just that you’re hurt and shit.” He looks down at the floor, his cheeks turning red.
“Okay.” The word slips out before I can think it through, my mouth on autopilot from the pain.
Dean looks back up, stunned. “Really?”
I shrug, forgetting that it hurts to. “Fuck—sure, why not? It’s not like we haven’t seen each other naked before. It’s just one best friend helping in the other’s time of need.” I grit through the pain lancing across my body.
“Right, it’s just me giving you a helping hand.” Dean takes a step back and pulls off his own shirt and then pushes down his shorts, leaving him in tight gray boxer-briefs.
He grins at me when he sees my surprised face.“What? I’m not gonna get my clothes soaked cause of you.”
I give him a slight nod, and we just stare at each other for what feels like several minutes, even though I’m sure it’s only been seconds. When I move to push my sweats down, another burst of pain shoots through me, causing me to inhale sharply.
“Here, I got it.” Dean has me stand up straight, and he tugs my sweats down until they’re at my ankles, before hooking his fingers into the waistband of my boxers. He looks up as if asking for permission, and all I can do is nod again.
Dean pulls down my boxers, my cock flopping out into view. I’m not huge or anything, but I’m definitely more of a shower than a grower, and his eyes widen as he looks at my dick up close.
He stands quickly, his face turning a deeper shade of red as he helps me step out of my clothes, leaving me completely naked.
Wordlessly, he steps into the shower and turns on the water, waiting for it to get warm. I watch him as he fiddles with the shampoo bottle. He’s got a good two inches on me in height, and his shoulders are broader. His body more muscular overall, whereas I’m more on the lean but still muscular side from playing center my entire life.
When steam fills the stall, he steps aside to let me under the showerhead, the spray nice and warm against my skin. It’s a tight fit with both of us in here, but he makes it work—starting first with massaging shampoo into my hair. His fingers work up a lather, nails scratching soothingly against my scalp. “Lean your head back so I can rinse you off,” he murmurs.
I do as he says and can’t help the little sigh that slips out of my mouth as his fingers comb through my hair. I open my eyes to see him smirking at me.
“Sorry,” I say, heat creeping up my neck.
“Don’t be. I’m glad you’re… enjoying it.”
The heat in here feels oppressive, and I’m not so sure it’s just from the steam. When he’s done with my hair, Dean pumps out a good amount of body wash into his palms and rubs them together to create a thick lather before scrubbing the rest of my body. His hands are big and callused, but they feel nice on my skin, running over my chest, fingers brushing against my nipples. His hands trace over my pecs and lower down to my abs before stepping closer to reach around and do my back.
My body is covered in suds, but Dean keeps working, his palms gliding over the firm muscles of my ass and then down my legs. He takes care of my feet too, asking me to lift my legs so he can wash the bottom and in between my toes.
As awkward as this is, it feels incredible to be taken care of like this. My last girlfriend hated showering with me and would complain about it whenever we did. When he’s done with my feet, he rinses his hands and looks at me awkwardly. “Umm, I need to—uh, fuck—” He gestures vaguely at my crotch, and my face goes beet red when I realize what he’s referring to.
“Uh, you don’t have to,” I stammer.
But rather than looking relieved, his eyes flash with—disappointment? That can’t be right…
So instead of insisting that I can do it myself, I blurt out, “But you can if you want to.”
A shy smile appears on his face as he pumps more body wash into his palms. He cups my dick with both hands, and I immediately start to get hard. But he doesn’t stop. He just keeps going, lathering my shaft and then my balls, cupping them softly before reaching further back to clean my taint and in between my cheeks.
I’m fully hard by the time he’s done soaping up my privates, both our faces red, eyes downcast so we don’t have to look at each other. I shouldn’t be getting hard from this. It’s just a shower. And Dean’s a guy. So why is my dick acting up like this?
Unfortunately, things only get worse as he rinses me off, his hands rubbing all over me until he gets back down to my cock. It’s still hard as a rock, precum beading at the tip. A low groan forces its way out of me as he takes me in his hand again and strokes it, up and down until the soap is gone and my erection looks even bigger without the soap covering it.
When he’s done, Dean leans in and my breath hitches.
What the fuck? Is he about to kiss me?
Instead, he reaches behind me and twists the knob to turn off the water. “Okay, let’s get you dry,” he says, stepping out of the stall.
I’m speechless. I just let my best friend touch my dick and balls, all because I’m in so much fucking pain. And worst of all, I’m still hard from his hands on my cock.
But as I step out of the stall, I notice one thing. I’m not the only one who’s hard. Dean’s boxer-briefs are tented, and I can clearly see the outline of his dick.
Why is Dean hard? Did that happen from touching my dick?
My stomach does a backflip, and I wonder if something just changed between us forever.
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