The Blind Side
You can’t have a nuclear meltdown of pure, unadulterated feelings in the bottom of a fishing boat and then just go back to your normal routine.
For three days I was on edge. For three days I jerked off like a sex-starved teenager, conjuring up those images of the hot goalie naked, sitting across from me in that fishing boat. I’d find images of him online and immediately pop a boner. I’d whip out my dick and stroke it as I watched old interviews of him, my eyes focusing on those thick lips of his, and the way he kissed me.
The real problem though, was we were two men who built a life on discretion and secrets, hiding our true selves and feelings from the public eye. We knew plays, rules, dedication, discipline and being a teammate.
But this? I had no playbook for this. I’d never allowed myself to even consider anything remotely close to this.
We had exchanged private cells out of polite hopefulness, agreeing to only enter our names as “L” and “C” to be safe. I wondered who would be the first to message.
I didn’t message. I was too scared. Or nervous. Or worried.
But...he didn't message either.
And as every hour passed by, and then each day, I began to doubt my own feelings. I had jumped to a conclusion I usually prepared myself for. Don’t rock the boat anymore, I had told myself on the second day, patting myself on the back for my own stupid ironic humor.
Just as I was almost convinced it was all but a pipe dream, four days after we literally rocked the boat, my phone buzzed and my heart beat furiously once again.
L: i’m going stir-crazy…my place feels like a jailcell
It was an odd opening line. I kinda knew it would be him eventually. At least, I WANTED it to be him. But as I read his message over four times, I wondered if he was really feeling the same as I was. I was expecting a different yearning, not a complaint about his place.
Me: Mine’s starting to feel like a fishbowl.
I replied back, feeling like I was talking in code.
L: you cook?
I frowned, wondering what the hell this hot stud was trying to tell me without actually telling me. No "Hey, how's it going?" or "Whatcha doin'?" or even "I miss you."
Me: I can follow instructions on a package. Enough to survive. Why?
L: i’ll bring steaks…7pm…text me the address again so i remember…
I noticed my hands were shaking as I read this one. He wanted to come over again. FINALLY! But before I could respond another text popped up.
L: and one more thing…
This time I didn’t hesitate. I was too excited.
Me: Yeah?
L: make sure you’re alone
The message was pure Lachlan Steele I had witnessed in interviews: gruff, dominant, commanding, in control. His messages contained no capital letters. No periods. Just those ellipsis things, like he was saying things in between saying things. Exactly the man I formulated in my head by watching him on TV. But at least he used the right “you’re” which made me smile. Maybe he was smarter than I initially thought.
I rolled my eyes, letting the “make sure you’re alone” text hit me. Like we really were main characters in a spy novel. Characters without names in our phones. We hadn’t said anything else about our names, other than using “L” and “C” on our cells, but in real life? What would I moan out when he was sucking my dick again? I couldn’t very well keep calling him Steele. And Lockjaw was obviously NOT a term of endearment he seemed to like given the way he reacted when it slipped out the first time. Lachlan seemed too formal and too much to roll off my tongue. He kept calling me Sharpe, but did he know that my teammates called me Sharpe? My closest friends and relatives called me Cal. No one ever called me Caleb, but maybe coming from him I might like it. I found it hot hearing him call me Sharpe, but wondered what it would be like to hear him whispering Cal in my ear. With those lips brushing against me.
I glanced at my phone again and looked at his last message: make sure you’re alone. Duh, who would I be with?
But I could feel the unspoken question humming in the silence between the texts: Are we actually doing this?
By 6:55 PM, my rented A-frame cabin was cleaned and ready. I’d changed my shirt three times. It was absurd. I couldn’t decide on what to wear. I’ve never had that problem before. I settled on a pair of dark grey golf shorts that hugged my ass and showed off my legs all the way down to my bare feet, with a matching grey/white striped golf shirt, trying to look like I was just a guy entertaining a friend. Just two bros. Hanging out. After a game of golf and back for a meal together. Nothing else. Nothing to see here. Just act normal.
Something I wasn’t entirely used to doing.
His truck rumbled into the driveway at 7:02. Not early. Fashionably on-time pretty much. The familiar Ford F150 that I watched peel away from me angrily only a week ago, and then leave rather slowly over the gravel from this very driveway just a few days ago, carefully steered its way into the long driveway. I watched secretly from the window as he got out, a grocery bag in one hand and a six-pack of local craft beer in the other. He was wearing a simple grey hoodie and a different pair of jeans that were darker, tighter, and hugged his lower body in ALL the right places, complete with large hiking boots that could easily kick my ass. He moved like he was about to step onto the ice with a grace and ease that exuded confidence, unlike my own quivering self at the moment. I caught my breath as I took in the size of his thighs in those jeans and the width of his shoulders. He paused on the porch, took a visible breath, and knocked in a rather business-like manner before I stepped away from my secret spot at the hidden window so he couldn’t see me.
I took a breath myself before I opened the door and tried to look as casual as I could. But seeing him again up close still took my breath away. Fuck me. He is SUCH a hot guy. I cleared my throat before I spoke. "You know, for a guy bringing dinner, you look like you're here to kick my ass. Or repo my car."
He blinked a couple times, then a slow, reluctant grin spread across his face. It transformed him to something less scary, but still hot as hell. "Sorry. Habit. My default setting is 'don't fuck with me.'"
"It's convincing.”
He gave me the once over right down to my legs and let a slow smile spread across his handsome face. “And you look like a married man sneaking away from his wife with a buddy for a very long game of golf.” His grin was fuckin’ sexy as hell. “Only there’s no golfing.”
“Well good thing I’m not married or we’d have a lot of ‘splainin’ to do.” I did my best Ricky Ricardo impression that seemed to fall flat, so I cleared my throat again and tried to calm myself down. “Come on in." I hesitated calling him Steele and just held open the door to my rented place.
He stepped inside, his eyes doing a quick, professional sweep of the room, like he was looking to purchase it or figure out his fastest escape. "Nice place Sharpe. Neat. Manly. Quiet."
"That's the point. I made sure I was alone!” I winked at him, and again my awkward chuckle was met with a steely stare. “When I need a place to escape, I pick the best." I took the bag from him. It contained two thick ribeyes, potatoes, and a bag of pre-made salad. "You weren't kidding about the steaks. Gosh, my “wife” never cooks for me like this!"
He laughed. FINALLY! A real laugh that turned his harsh features into something much softer and even more attractive. I caught a glimpse of his natural smile on the boat. Now here was a first, genuine laugh that transformed him. It almost knocked me over.
"Well, no wife cooks for me either! I'm a simple man with simple needs," he said, placing the beer on the counter. He popped the tops off two bottles with a flick of his wrist fast and handed me one. "Mostly."
Our fingers brushed and the contact was electric, a tiny spark, at least to me, that immediately reminded me of everything that had happened in the boat and I couldn’t help but smile. We both made quick eye contact before we both lifted our bottles up in a silent toast and took a swift swig of our beer. Why was I so fucking nervous?
I felt like I was on a first date, despite the fact that I’d already sucked him off twice and knew the sweet smell of his cum. But this was different, something I wasn’t used to at all. I’ve never actually “gone out” with a guy. Ever. I’d do the random thing. Usually in the dark. Always discreet. Never letting anyone get to know me. Or me get to know them. I tried to act as normal as humanly possible as we cooked together and we drank beer. Or rather, I manned the tossing of the salad while he took command of the grill on the deck out back in his grey socked feet, a man perfectly at home outdoors with fire and raw meat and baking potatoes.
And it was the most nerve-wracking hour of my life. I’d never done anything like this with someone. Well, there were those very awkward dinners out with a few women, to satisfy the eyes around me. But those were usually just long conversations about nothing. I’d never let anyone in, or told anyone anything about me.
As for sex, it was always anonymous, fast, and distant. There was never a repeat with anyone. No one could recognize me. No one could get to know me. And I didn’t have to get to know anyone else either.
It was safer that way. Right?
I tried my best to focus on anything but the idea of having sex with this sports pro. We talked about the lake, about fishing, both of us avoiding talking about the Aspen bar or what we did on the boat. I made a remark about his boots and suddenly he was talking a lot about the best brand of hiking boots. The man knew way too much about boots. And shoes. And hockey sticks.
The conversation became easier. We talked as we cooked. We talked as we ate. We talked even after we were finished. We talked about anything and everything BUT the entire, unspoken secret we both had in common as we smiled at each other and avoided the topic. I tried not to stare at his handsome face, the line on his eyebrow, the bump in his nose, the shape of his feet in his socks, the size of his hands, the thickness of his neck, the way his nipples stuck out of his hoodie from his hard muscled pecs, or the curve of his ass whenever I caught a glimpse of it. I studied him like a new play. But tried to focus on conversation and not acting nervous. I took it all in silently as I tried to keep my body from shaking and my mind from creating the possibility of a real relationship.
We ate at the small wooden table outside on the deck beside the barbecue, me barefoot, him in his grey socks still and perfectly fitting jeans, the mountain twilight turning into darkness around us as we eased into a quiet calm after dinner.
"This was good," he said, pushing his empty plate towards the center of the table. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me, you brought it and cooked it. Like a fucking caveman.” I gave a nervous laugh when he didn’t, and took a sip of beer. For a moment I was wondering if he meant the food, or us being here together. "So. Six shutouts last season."
He froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully without taking a sip. "You looked me up and did a little research?" There was a hint of a grin as he stared at me.
"Well, I kind of knew some stuff about you already. But after the bar, I needed some more confirmation about what I did know about you. It was very educational. You have a very specific set of skills Lachlan Steele, more than just the scary stares I see on television."
He lifted his bottle back up to his thick, full lips and took a long sig of beer, his eyes never leaving mine before that grin spread a bit wider and he cleared his throat. "Call me Lock. Everyone does, but they're not the ones that matter right now," he said, his voice low.
Lock. Figures. Just made him even more sexy knowing he had such a solid manly shortform of a name.
He folded his hands and put his big forearms on the table and looked directly at me. "Almost 1400 receiving yards and 9 touchdowns for you, Caleb Sharpe, Mister Wide Receiver."
Now it was my turn to be stunned. "You looked me up, too? Stalker.” I grinned at him and I saw him blush a bit before he looked down at the empty plate. “And call me Cal. Everyone does." I added with a wink.
"Well, a guy likes to know who he's..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his beer bottle, "...sharing a fishing boat…or going golfing with…Cal."
“Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays, sharing a fishing boat? Going golfing?” I chuckled, making him laugh again at my wit. And my heart thumped wildly in my chest as I took in the sight of his face, free from frowns and stress, and witnessed the sheer joy on this handsome professional athlete sitting with me post dinner.
The dam finally broke. We started talking. REALLY talking, not about stats or games, but about the secret life of all. The locker room culture and its toxic masculinity and all the casual homophobia you had to laugh along with lest you be found out. The secret glances towards fellow teammates we tried to control. The fear of a touch lasting a second too long, or a glance being misinterpreted. The endless, exhausting performance of being "one of the guys" and bragging about conquests with women. And it felt GOOD to be finally TALKING about this all with someone who got it. I could see the literal change in his shoulders and the way he sat back, like he too was finally relaxing just as much as I was.
But then we went deeper.
He told me about his first game in the NHL. He talked about the deep stress of being a goalie. He admitted how he’d thrown up in the locker room after his first professional game and I saw the vulnerable side of him briefly.
Me? I went right into a story I had never shared with anyone, about the brutal concussion in my second year playing professionally, and how I had to sit in silence in a dark room where my mind began the terrifying thought that this was all I was and what would I do when it was over. I told him for some reason. Even admitted how much that moment made me almost end it all.
There was an awkward silence after my story. I stood up abruptly announcing it was getting cold outside, thinking I had overshared, fearing that this would be exactly the time he’d announce it was getting late, and had a long drive ahead.
But he stood with me, grabbing the empty plates and asked if I had something stronger to drink.
I produced a bottle of whiskey I had in the cupboard, and the empty plates were forgotten in the sink as we sat on the couch by the fireplace. The six-pack was gone, and so was the fear of him wanting to leave. Mind you the whiskey was helping with that too. Like it was urging me to talk more. A little lubricant for the tongue. A truth serum that I had finally taken in order for me to spill my guts to someone who understood. Spy novel indeed.
"I said in my text that I feel like I’m living in a fishbowl. I mean it. It's like I live in a glass box," I admitted, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, feeling the freest and safest I’d ever felt with anyone. "Everyone can see you, but no one can actually touch you. And you don’t let anyone touch you. Or let anyone in. After a while, you forget what it feels like. You get used to being on display. Everyone watches. They tap the glass. But no one can get to you. You know what I mean?"
Lock was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire I'd lit in the stone fireplace. "I know. Jail cell for me. Like I’m locked in my own room. I never feel like I can escape. The guys I've been with...” his voice was quiet and his head was back, like he was trying to find the right words. “I mean…it was always discreet. Always. Get a need met. No names. No faces if possible. Quick. Fast. It was safe. But, the longer it went on, and the more popular I became, it got harder to find someone who couldn’t out you, or recognize you. And then I turned to just porn and keeping to myself and it felt...restricted. Empty, you know?" He looked over at me, his eyes sort of glassy as they reflected the flames. "This isn't feeling empty. I feel like I’ve escaped my own cell."
I stared at him, the room suddenly very quiet except for the cackle of the fire and my own heart beating in my chest. Or was I tipsy? His words hung there, more intimate than anything physical we'd done thus far, even more so than the way he kissed me.
"No," I finally said quietly. "It's definitely not feeling empty."
“Good.” He stood up, took my glass from my hand, and set it on the mantelpiece. Then he held out his hand.
I looked at his outstretched palm, at the calluses and the lines in his palm, and the sheer size of his mitt. And with my heart pounding loudly, I placed my hand in his.
He closed his hand around mine and looked me directly in the eyes. “I’m glad you let me in the cabin this time. We’re two big guys who need more room than a little fishing boat.” He cleared his throat and started toward what he assumed was the bedroom with a quiet certainty. “And thank God we didn’t have to go golfing.”
I let out a laugh, nodding like a giddy teenager before I pointed to the door straight ahead as he slowly walked towards it, looking back at me with a very serious look suddenly. A look that I couldn’t differentiate between wanting to beat me up or wanting to fuck me – one I had pictured many a time lately as I jerked myself off. This time, there was no desperation in a bathroom stall, or no fear of being seen or heard at the bottom of a boat.
It was just us in my quiet, safe cabin where no one could possibly see us. Safe from the outside world. I could feel my body starting to shake once again.
He opened the door to the primary bedroom and came to a stop at the foot of the bed, pulling me in closer and releasing my hand. In one motion, he reached down and took the hem of his hoodie and pulled it up and over his head, showing off that muscular beefy body to me once again in his full height. My hands automatically went to his torso, tracing the scars and bruises on his skin – a noticeable mark that looked like a paw on his ribs, a thin white line of a scar on his shoulder that I had mesmerized on the boat. He took a step even closer to me and lifted my own shirt up, causing me to lift my own arms and have him peel it up over my head for me. His hands too went right for my pecs and began to feel the smoothness of my leaner body as he breathed in deeply.
And then his hands went to my shorts, and mine in turn to his jeans in that same frantic way we first did in the bathroom stall. We shucked our bottom wear first, standing there in our underwear, him still in his grey socks, before he reached down to pull each one off, and then, with a sudden shyness, we pushed our underwear down.
We ignored our bobbing erections, having seen them up close enough already. Instead, I focused on more of his body, studying it, feeling it, glancing down at his legs and seeing another white scar line that was probably from that skate blade on his thigh after that horrific hit a few years back. He, in turn, seemed fascinated by my own body which made me both excited and shy at the same time.
This was even slower than the boat, and definitely more erotic. Everything I always imagined with another guy but never having the time or safety to do it. This was already much deeper than anyone I’d been with. We didn’t speak, just gazed and explored, standing there letting the other roam over each other’s bodies. The only conversation going on was a series of sighs and whispered expletives and names as our mouths and hands explored skin, felt muscles, kissed and licked areas, traced over scars and blemishes, admiring our physiques carefully and slowly.
I loved hearing him moan out “Holy fuck Cal.”
I in turn kept repeating “Look at you Lock.”
When our hands weren’t roaming over our bodies they were clasped tightly together. And then our eyes met finally, satisfied with the naked exploration and our lips connected again in a slower, tentative make out session, swaying a bit, either from the booze or from the pleasure as our cocks battled against each other. I was already memorizing the sounds he was making, and the way he shivered when my fingers grazed over certain body parts, knowing I’d want to hear them again in the future.
I wasn’t sure how far I could go, or how far he wanted to go. So far it had been quick blow jobs, and frantic kisses and bodies naked and exploding before we could discuss boundaries and wants and hidden desires. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to fuck him or if he wanted to fuck me. I suddenly wondered if he was all top. He fit the bill. But maybe he was a bottom, with the way he stretched on the ice. Or more versatile like me, swinging with whatever the other had to offer. And what he was swinging I wanted, just as much as that beefy ass of his begged me to sink into.
He moaned over me as we collapsed onto the bed and we were horizontal at last. He explored my body again with increasing intensity. And I let him, watching his face as he went down on my cock at last, enjoying the smell and taste of me, moving his mouth around my meat slower as if this was not the final act he was going to perform on me tonight. My GOD could he suck a dick like a pro. In just a few minutes I had to grab his messy hair and pull him off before this ended too fast.
I returned the favor, flipping him onto his back to I could do the same to him, marveling at the size of his legs and calves now that I could, the roughness of his hockey player’s feet, and the bubble of his gloriously smooth ass that I couldn’t wait to claim. When I tentatively began to massage it, he didn’t stop me. When I began to caress my fingers deeper into the tissue he didn’t bat an eye. When I let my fingers swirl around and in between those muscular beefy glutes, he turned over his shoulder and grinned at me. He was lying flat on his stomach, his legs out like a frog, like I’d seen so many goalies do while warming up.
I guess I was fucking him.
And fuck me was I ever ready to conquer this giant hockey player on my bed.
“I’ve got condoms…”I started to say as I moved around him to the side table, my dick aching to just slide right in and feel the warmth of him. He moved his body backwards and shook his head.
“Okay….” He whispered as our mouths met.
I put one on as fast as I could and used lube as he bent over the bed, balling his fists on the duvet, moving into a rather submissive position for me for a guy his size. I was unsure how often the big guy got nailed, and guided myself into him so slowly and carefully I nearly creamed his ass at just the tentative and very tight entry. But his hand clasped my wrists as I kissed his shoulders, and he took me like a fucking champ: not something guys usually do if I do say so myself. Once I settled around him, my slightly smaller and leaner body covering his beefier, bigger one, I fucked him slowly, bringing out the soft moans of this normally tough looking goaltender that I never imagined he had in him. I let out a long slow breath at the sheer warmth of him, and how amazing he felt.
With the condom on it took me a while, and I was beginning to fear he’d had enough. But when he turned to look at me over his shoulder, and started to tell me to “FUCK ME HARDER CAL!” I came in his ass in a shuddering, rather loud manner suddenly. I had barely stopped shuddering when Lock pushed himself up with me still impaled inside him and grabbed his own big dick. But as I went to remove myself and help him out, he grabbed my hand with his left hand.
“Stay inside me.” He whispered as I held myself deep within him until he pushed his ass back against me even harder and exploded his thick white load all over my duvet. His load blasted straight out in front of him, making a big wet mess that I would clean up much, much later. I carefully removed my shrunken cock and discarded the rather full condom, disappointed in the opportunity to taste his load again, and wondered how glorious that tight beefy ass would feel without the latex.
We climbed back onto the bed, carefully removing the cum drenched duvet. Naked, we both lay on our backs at first and then Lock rolled sideways and curled up around me in a sudden, rather romantic move that surprised me. His head was on my chest, which I found odd given his size. My fingers idly combed through his blonde messy hair as I simply smiled in the darkness, forgetting the world outside and potential dangers and expectations. It was just us: Sharpe and Steele.
We really did sound like a knife company. But then again, Lock and Cal sounded like we sold safes or something.
I didn’t care what we called each other. At this moment, we were becoming more than just the two strangers that happened upon each other in a washroom stall. We were more than just two professional athletes with one very similar secret. This felt really cool.
"I have to go back to Vegas in three weeks," he murmured into the silence, his voice rough with spent energy.
There it was: the real-world seeping into us already. Or is this his way of escaping after all, my old brain hissed at me in the darkness.
"Oh? Already?” I tried to make my voice not sound hurt.
He nodded a yes against me. “I have some promo shit to do first. Then I start early training at the end of July before I join the team in August. It was all in place before…” He hesitated for a moment, before he added, “…before we met. So I just wanted you to know. So we can spend as much time as we can together.”
I sighed, loud and long, unable to hide my relief. “Well, practice starts for me in a few weeks too," I said, my hand stilling in his hair. “I’m not sure where you’re staying, but if you want, you can stay over. And like, spend as much time as you want here. With me. Before we have to…you know…” I was rambling again, trying to hide my fears while trying to be honest.
I didn’t want him to run away.
“You mean tonight?” He lifted his head, his eyes serious in the dim light. "Or….?”
I nodded without thinking it through, meeting his gaze with a confidence I wasn’t sure about. “Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you want.” I admitted. “For as long as you want. As often as you want. We could hang out together, just buddies. If you want. Or we could, I don’t know….do more.” Fuck me I sounded stupid, and dumb, and scared.
He kept staring at me for a bit, holding my look, his eyes shifting between staring at my right eye and then my left before he let his eyes close for a moment. My heart thumped under his jaw as he rested it on my chest. “What are we doing, Cal?"
I looked at him laying naked around me—the huge NHL goalie, this large brute, looking up at me with big puppy dog green eyes, asking the same question I was just pondering. I was suddenly scared, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't have an answer either. There was no play for this. There was no system. I never saw any of this coming.
"I have no idea," I said honestly. "But I'm not ready to stop."
He grinned then, letting a slow exhale out of his nose. “Me neither.”
My honesty paid off. My fears drifted away. I felt blindsided. And for the first time in my life, I saw a different future, full of different possibilities I never imagined I deserved.
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