The problem with being in the closet is the silence. You move through your own life, passing through rooms, touching things, smiling, making no waves, leaving no mark. Hiding from the world the deep dark secret you’ve been keeping. Not that you want to. I know who I am. But I also know I can’t be who I am and still be “who I am” currently.
For ten years, I’d been living in that closet amongst the most hyper masculine professional sports men around. I am the mighty but silent Caleb Sharpe, NFL Wide Receiver for the San Francisco Pioneers. Everybody’s tough guy. The explosive flanker. The witty teammate. The super good-looking single straight friend, who happens to be gay, if you just asked. But no one asks. They all just assume. Because in the world of professional sports, especially football, we all have to assume and pretend. And I hate it.
Off season was ending soon. My escape to Lake Tahoe from the San Francisco area was more than welcome to recoup and rejuvenate. Now my twenties were at an end. My 30th birthday was going to be just me, alone in my rented sanctuary, feeling miserable. I told my family I wanted to be alone, to prepare for the return to training camp next month. I had no partner, no real friends, and no one who knew my secret.
But tonight, I just needed to feel, for one goddamn second, like me again. The me no one knows about. The me that is getting tired of hiding my true self.
That’s what had me driving an hour and a half from my rented Lake Tahoe cabin, to celebrate my 30th birthday as a present to myself, towards a non-descript building in a Nevada town that smelled like pine needles and depression where I could be the me I know I am. "The Aspen Grove." The name was as discreet as the place itself. I read about it, followed up on it, and knew it would be perfect. Out of the way, shady, with the same kind of discreet guys wandering around. No names. No commitments. Just need.
I pulled in slowly, seeing the building surrounded by what I assumed were indeed Aspen trees, noting the types of vehicles parked discreetly near the back. Trucks: lots of them. Some minivans. Little sporty cars. Typical for the clientele that I hoped would be navigating in the dark.
There was no sign, just a small, polished aspen leaf next to a heavy, unmarked door.
My own disguise was a work of art. Not a disguise, really, just the opposite of my public self. Instead of a tailored suit or team polo, I wore a soft, grey henley with light faded jeans and a dark, broken-in jean jacket. No logos. I’d even left my ridiculously expensive watch in the car, swapping it for a simple, black-faced timepiece. And the ultimate in hiding your appearance: the baseball hat, pulled down low over my forehead. I was trying to look like a guy who built decks for a living, not a guy who had a lifetime endorsement deal with a tool company he’d never actually used. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Inside, the bar was exactly what I’d hoped for: dark, quiet, and populated by lots of other guys also trying to hide. My research was flawless. This was exactly what I needed. Out of the spotlight. Out of sight. Out of mind. And filled with guys that were just my type, that I could have a bit of fun with without the worry of being found out. Happy Birthday to me.
The bar hummed with low conversation and the clink of ice in glasses. It was a place for secrets, and I fit right in. I pulled my baseball cap down even lower over my shaved cropped brown hair on my thick head, ordered a bourbon, neat, and took a seat at the very end of the bar, my back to a wall so I could face the crowd and the door, a habit so ingrained it was naturally automatic.
I was halfway through my drink, cataloging the room with the same hyper-awareness I use to read a defense, scoping out potentials, trying to find the right kind of guy, when he walked in.
And Jesus, did he walk in.
He didn’t slink or shuffle in, shy and scared like I did. He completely filled the doorway, a solid block of contained power that made the air in my lungs catch. He had to be bigger than me by maybe an inch or two, and had about 20 pounds or more by the way he filled that doorway, and I was by no means, a slouch. He was definitely thicker beef compared to my leaned out sculpted muscle. He looked to be about my age, and was wearing a simple black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the outline of his shoulders and chest beneath his open slim fitting black jacket. He had the kind of build that spoke of power and strength, not just gym-showmanship. Now HE looked like he could build decks for a living. A light dusting of blond stubble on his jaw, hair that looked like he’d just run a hand through it after a fight, and eyes that scanned the room with a predator’s calm.
My brain, the one that can process a 22-man coverage scheme in under two seconds, short-circuited for a full three, but then it rebooted with a jolt just before he donned a winter’s hat, grey, pulling it down over his blonde eyebrows as if he almost forgot to put it on. Those piercing green eyes quickly scanned the room and saw me staring.
Our eyes locked and he suddenly looked very familiar. Well, not like I knew him personally, but more like I was sure I recognized that face before he tried to hide it under the winter hat. Like he too was trying to hide from a life of popularity. My brain searched its records, and my mind suddenly screamed out who I thought he looked like.
He looked like Lachlan Steele, the Goalie for the Vegas Vipers, one of the NHL’s most notorious ones, and the subject of a few of my jerk off fantasies.
Okay, many jerk off fantasies.
I stared at his face for a moment, convincing myself it was him. It sure fucking looked like him. Lachlan Fuckin’ Steele. Lockjaw as he was called, thanks to the broken jaw he once delivered to a Center who kept crowding his crease early on in his career. A man who had, according to a quick Google search I’d done last season after I saw his handsome face in an interview, accumulated a .915 save percentage and a 6-game shutout record at the age of 31. I’d seen the highlight reels. The man was immense, with his 6’4” frame taking up the entire net and had demonstrated that he could throw a punch that would stagger a bull. A man who had caught my eye a while ago in that interview with those green eyes and hardened grin. A man who I fantasized about now and then as one of the hottest sports guys I’d seen on TV. A man who had the look that could simply kill a man, and the build to actually do it. The type of man you should be afraid of. But when I saw those green eyes and that one shirtless pic of him in the locker room, I pictured him as someone I would want to fuck me relentlessly, while staring at me intently with those fucking eyes.
And he was right here, in person, standing at the door, staring right back at me. It had to be him. It sure as fuck LOOKED like him. In my one safe place I didn’t expect to recognize anyone here was my secret hockey crush. My bourbon turned to acid in my stomach. What the fuck was HE doing here?
What the fuck was I doing here?!?! I suddenly panicked, and turned slightly, hoping he didn’t recognize me. Why would he? I mean, sure I play for the NFL, but I’m not a famous quarterback, or even one of the popular linebackers. I’m just a fast wide receiver, a relatively well known one, but I’m just a guy in a helmet to most fans. I mean, true fans know me, but I wasn’t THAT popular yet. I can usually put a hat on, and without the gear, I’m as unrecognizable as Superman dressed as Clark Kent. He plays hockey after all, so I doubt he’s a fan of mine. Not everyone likes football, right?
Then again, maybe it wasn’t him. Hockey players are just as unrecognizable without their helmets and face guard unless you really knew him. Especially goalies, with their masks that make them look like serial killers on ice. But I knew him, kind of. I’ve studied the images online. I’ve memorized that scowl, and that jawline. I know those green eyes. I’ve seen those locker room shots of his shirtless, muscled upper body. I’ve studied the size of his arms during interviews. I’ve seen him in golf attire and the way his beefy ass looks in tight pants.
Figures the one night I finally decide to act on something, and in walks a guy equally vulnerable. The universe, it seemed, had a truly wicked sense of humor.
I should bolt, I thought. I took a swig to calm my nerves and then considered that maybe, just maybe he wasn’t here for what I was. I needed to get the fuck out of here before he recognized me, or I did something really stupid.
I downed my drink and went to stand up when my stool scraped backwards on the floor making a rather sudden and embarrassing louder than normal noise and I turned again to him at the door as if I was caught holding a loaded gun.
He had taken only a few steps in, hands in his pockets now, and now, thanks to the noise I made, he was looking at me again. Our eyes locked as I stood frozen in my spot, a deer caught in a pair of hypnotic green eyes. His were a startling, clear green, even in the dim light, and I was convinced I was staring at the NHL’s Lachlan Steele, the scariest goalie in the NHL, in the flesh.
There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes towards me, just a slow, appraising look that traveled from my face down to my hands wrapped around my empty glass still in my hand, and back up. It was a look that stripped away the jean jacket and the pretense of why I was there. His look saw me, the size of my 6’2” athletic build and the entire shape of me. In that look he figured out the real reason I was sitting alone at the end of the bar, in this particular establishment. He stared right back at me, but he didn’t look afraid at all.
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the back of the bar, where a sign indicated the restrooms. Then he turned and walked away, towards it, looking back over his shoulder to make sure I understood the nod.
Holy. Fuck.
He WAS here for the same reason.
This was insanity. This was professional suicide. But my body was telling me different. My own loins were screaming FOLLOW HIM as my brain was telling me to leave! I waited a thirty-count, my heart hammering a drum solo against my ribs, before I moved, allowing either my loins or my brain to tell me what to do.
Turns out my dick won as I headed straight to the back of the bar eyeing the sign to the restrooms.
The men’s room was a single-occupancy, thank God. He was already inside, the door left open a bit, his figure pacing like a hungry tiger, waiting for me, watching the opening he’d left. I hesitated for a moment, until he saw me and grinned a bit and nodded again for me to come in. Without any lingering doubt, I slipped in, locked the door behind me, and everything suddenly went quiet as we faced each other.
I paused for a moment, looking at him: the size of him made ME feel small; that slightly crooked nose that I always found so incredibly sexy whenever they interviewed him; that small scar through his eyebrow that made him look so tough. Fuck me, I was sure it was him.
Then I had a gripping fear that he was going to now recognize me.
But he was looking at my chest, down my own muscled body, soaking me in. I was a solid and ripped 6’2 but he was taller than me by a couple inches. I was a streamlined 210 pounds of muscle with only 9% bodyfat, where he seemed to be packing on muscle on top of muscle, making his figure slightly wider, slightly thicker, more brutish than me.
I was sure, standing this close to him, and how many nights I’d fantasized about him, that he was indeed Lachlan Steele, standing in front of me in a locked men’s bathroom, with a bulge that matched mine.
We didn’t speak. What was there to say? Words were always necessary in our other lives, but here there was no need. I was afraid to make the first move. Maybe he was too. Would we just stand there, hearts pounding, dicks hard, afraid to do anything?
And then his hands moved to my chest to feel the solid pecs I trained so hard for and a jolt ran through me. I flexed them instinctively and he let out a small groan from his throat, which made me let out a small gasp of my own.
It seemed to flick the switch in both of us and suddenly it was all frantic, desperate hands and the harsh sound of breathing. My back was against the cold tile wall, his forearm braced beside my head as his face moved dangerously close to mine, breathing just as hard as I was.
His hands went first, grasping at my button to my jeans, then the zipper as I fumbled my big fingers around his jeans, doing the same as my mind kept telling me Lockjaw was going for my cock. We unfurled our flies at the same time, seeing his bulge already hard, with a dark wet spot at the tip of his practically protruding pink dick. I glanced down at my own thick piece, also straining to get out. I had a big piece, I knew it. But seeing the bulge in his red Puma’s impressed me.
He grabbed mine first, another low growl at the feel of my big dick as I shuddered reflexively at his touch. I had a nice solid 8 inches of cut man meat. But his was just as impressive as I stared at the cut head of his cock stretching to get out the top of the band of his underwear.
I grabbed his piece rather roughly, peeling the red cotton back to see it fall out in all its glory above a nice round set of trimmed balls, a fucking twin dick to my own. Same cut, same shape, same size.
“Jesus.” I moaned, not just at the girth of his cock, but that it was fucking LACHLAN STEELE’S DICK I WAS HOLDING.
“I know.” He moaned back, that voice even in a whisper a reminder of a past interview I caught. I wondered if he recognized me at all, and then suddenly, I felt a little hurt that he didn’t! “That’s a nice cock buddy.”
My eyes flicked up to his face as I gripped his tool, feeling his slightly cold hand move further down to take the base of my cock.
He gave a little snort. “Sorry my hands are cold.” He whispered. “I’m a bit nervous.” His eyes flicked up to mine momentarily with his lips hanging open begging to be kissed. He was looking at me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he even remotely knew me, then I got even more pissed that he didn’t. I mean, come on I was a pretty popular wide receiver. I stood out didn’t I? Every girl wanted to date me. I mean I constantly fought them off. But his eyes just kept looking at my lips just as much as I was looking at his. I tried to breathe out slowly as we worked our cocks in our hands, and just as I summoned the courage to attack those pouty lips with mine, to kiss the man that I had been fantasizing over for a while, he knelt down in front of me and took my throbbing cock into his mouth.
Like a fucking pro!
This was not the first time this professional hockey player sucked a dick, especially one as big and thick as mine. I braced myself against the cold tiles and let go of him, sucking in air as he expertly started to suck my meat all the way down, burying his nose into my equally trimmed pubes against my lower abs. I tried not to moan, and squinted my eyes shut at the overwhelming feeling of his warm wet mouth expertly sucking my dick. I’d seen him in interviews, I’d seen him slam guys out of his way when the refs weren’t looking, I’d seen him grimace at guys during close ups through his mask that would scare the shit out of me. But here he was, the big goalie, on his knees in a bathroom taking my cock down his throat like a goddamn porn star.
Holy fucking Christ.
I grabbed his winter hat with one hand, holding his head as he began to bob up and down, trying to be as quiet as he could, until he came off me in a satisfying gasp of air.
And then without words we switched. He grabbed his dick in his hands and I went down to a crouch position I knew so well but did so rarely. Both my hands went to his legs as he fed me his cock. And what fucking legs! Thighs that were like trees, solid and muscled and firm hockey player legs that were wider than mine! I opened my mouth and let his cock head hit the back of my throat. I didn’t gag, just closed my lips around him and took it.
“Holy fuck.” He moaned above me, twisting my hat around backwards so I could bury my face into him and he could see me working on it.
He lifted his black shirt up, showing off his solid trunk of a torso, wide and thick, flat and hard with a thin line of blonde hair trailing down from his sunken belly button to his own trimmed bush of blonde hair surrounding that thick base of meat. My one hand moved up to touch him, hardly believing this was real. I guess we both liked taking care of our bodies and manscaped to no end.
He moaned a bit louder as I worked my magic and I knew I had him. His cock was perfection and he tasted like a man. Fully erect and hard as a rock, this man had no problems with an erection. I wanted to suck the cum right out him. I wanted to let this man blow his load into my throat so I could stand up and say: Don’t you recognize me?! I’m Caleb FUCKING Sharpe!
His fingers dug into my short head of hair and I kept up my pace. I knew I had him when I saw his abs tighten and his breath panted out above me. He shot his hockey load right down my throat, silently, gripping my hat covered head, making me take it all. And just as I swallowed him down, my own cock being worked in long strokes by my own hand, he yanked me up to switch places again and he went down on me in a fury.
I was already close by my own hand after the sweet taste of his semen was warming my guts but when Mr. Lachlan “Lockjaw” Steele’s mouth – the NHL’s meanest Goaltender from the Vegas Vipers – wrapped around the base of my dick, all hell broke loose.
I pulled his hat off his head with one hand and grabbed his messy blonde hair with the other, holding him still and I grunted and squeezed my own abs which now had his hand plastered on it, up inside my shirt and braced myself to cum. I made a fist with my hand holding his hat as I felt my body jerking violently, erupting right into that fucking hockey player’s throat. He drank me up like a baby with a bottle, gulping down my frustrated three-day load in a hum of moans and satisfaction. I thought about apologizing for the amount, but he only gagged once, loudly swallowing it all down, sucking my cock clean, making sure he didn’t spill a drop.
What a fucking pro indeed. And happy fucking birthday to me!
Then it was over. The spell broke. He was already turning away, adjusting his clothes, tucking himself back in, zipping up his fly, wiping his mouth, his face a mask of practiced detachment I knew all too well. Suck. Fuck. Get the hell out of there. The professional hockey player, back in his armor, just like I usually do. The moment was slipping away, about to become just another secret in a life full of them.
I couldn’t let it.
My voice, when it came, was rough, barely a whisper, but it sounded like a gunshot in the small, quiet room.
"Uh…Lockjaw?"
He froze. His entire body went rigid. I saw the muscles in his back tense through the black cotton of his shirt. It was the stillness of a predator who’d just heard a twig snap behind him.
I hesitated to say more, thinking that it was the stupidest thing to say suddenly. Lockjaw? Stupid, Cal!! In a place of anonymity, ask him if he really is who he is. Like that was his name too, Lockjaw. I could be referring to the amount of cum I exploded in his mouth and was worried I had given him a medical condition.
Slowly, so slowly, he turned around. Those green eyes, which had been appraising before, were now wide with pure, undiluted panic. The color drained from his face. He was looking at me now, really looking, and I watched to see if the pieces would click into place in his mind. The height, the build, the face he’d maybe seen on a SportsCenter ticker? I couldn’t help but give him a stupid smile.
"The fuck did you say…," he breathed, the words hollow with disbelief.
My smile vanished and I felt like I was about to be cross-checked into the wall. I held up my hand in protest, unable to speak suddenly and took my hat off. And then, FINALLY, I saw his eyes widen in recognition. “Holy shit…you're…” he took a step back and ran his hand through his already messy hair, suddenly realizing he was missing his hat.
“Finally! Caleb Sharpe, Wide Receiver.” I said, feeling like he didn’t actually recognize me or know me at all. I gave him a rather weak, lopsided smile this time. "And you…are a long way from the ice."
“Holy shit.” He said again, this time with a bit more volume. The bathroom, which moments before had been filled with stifled grunts and slurping sounds of pure lust and desire, was now silent. The "holy shit" hung between us like a bomb about to explode.
"Okay, so secret is totally safe." I said, holding up both my hands, the universal sign for I am not a threat, which was ridiculous given the circumstances, especially since I noticed that I was still holding his grey hat. I was usually the one to diffuse tension. "Let's just... not panic."
"Not panic?" Lachlan’s voice was now a low, dangerous growl as he grabbed his hat from me. He took a step back, putting as much distance as the tiny room allowed, which was about two feet. "What the fuck are you doin’ here?”
I couldn’t help but let my eyes roam around the bathroom. “Uh, same thing as you are, obviously.”
He gave me a look and pressed his lips together so tight I took a step back into the wall. “What a fuckin’ nightmare!” He half screamed, half whispered. “You know who I am. I know who you are. This isn't a panic situation, Sharpe, this is a fucking goddamn nightmare."
"See, that's the panic talking," I said, trying to inject a calm I absolutely did not feel. My quarterback brain was frantically scanning for a way to call off this disaster of a play. "Mutually assured destruction is a powerful deterrent.”
He froze for a minute, and then looked at me with furrowed brows. “What?!”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “We both have everything to lose. So…I’m not going to say anything!"
He shoved his winter hat on his head over his already-disheveled hair, leaving a few blonde pieces sticking out the front which couldn’t have made him even MORE sexy as fuck. "I can't believe this. I come to the one place... and I find you." He said "you" like he stepped in dog shit.
"Hey. The feeling is mutual, believe me." I shot back defensively and adjusted my own shirt, the casual gesture feeling absurd as my dick shrunk in my jeans. "Look. We walk out of here like nothing ever happened. We never speak of this. We pretend it was a weird, shared hallucination brought on by bad bourbon or a roofie or something."
He stared at me, his green eyes narrowed. "This stays in this room." His hockey persona was back, gruffer than ever. I could see the legendary Goalie taking over. And I could see why guys were scared of this man.
"Of course it does!" I agreed rather angrily, trying to quell my fear.
We adjusted ourselves quickly, silently, angrily and left the bathroom separately, a classic spy-movie move that felt both necessary and utterly pathetic. I paid my tab with cash. I don’t even think the bartender realized I had disappeared for a few minutes. I played it as cool as I could, my hands steady only through sheer force of will as I watched him slink out the front door. By the time I was done at the bar and exited, I saw him already leaning against a hulking, black Ford F-150 that was so him it was almost a cliché, waiting for me.
He pushed off the truck as I approached my own far more discreet SUV, both of us checking to see if anyone was around. He was probably looking to see if the coast was clear. I was looking for witnesses in case he decided to enforce his fury. "This is a mistake," he said with a strong bite, when he noticed we were all alone outside.
"The mistake was already made. Now we're just in damage control," I replied, hitting the fob of my SUV. The chirp-chirp of the locks sounded obscenely loud.
"You're a goddamn football player Sharpe," he said, as if I needed reminding. "You're not built for this."
The comment stung, mostly because it tapped directly into my own deepest insecurity, but at least he knew I was a goddamn quarterback. "And you're a fucking NHL Goaltender. You're built for stopping shots! Not giving ‘em! Who’d have thought you knew how to suck my dick so fuckin’ good!”
He grimaced, and looked like he was going to punch me. “Yeah? Didn’t know you’d be so good at it either Mr. NFL!” He let out a short, harsh breath that fogged in the air. “Guess you do more than just catch passes!”
“Is that another shot, LOCKJAW?” I half hissed back.
He took a very threatening couple of steps towards me and I retreated quickly, trying to make it look super casual. “Don’t fuckin’ call me that.” He said through gritted teeth.
“Sorry.” I said, feeling suddenly ashamed at the stupid attack. “I…well, I guess I'd say we're both in over our heads."
He stopped, unsure of what to do. I carefully looked up at him, wondering if he was going to punch me. Then he took a big breath, and adjusted his hat over his head, as if he could cover up his identity once more. "Just stay away from me Sharpe. Stay away from this bar. And don’t say a fuckin’ word about this!"
"Gladly, Steele," I snapped back, trying to imitate the way he kept saying my last name and I moved to my car and yanked my door open. "Have a nice life."
"Go to hell," he shot back, climbing into his truck.
“Fuck you.” I mumbled as I got into my SUV.
We peeled out of the parking lot in opposite directions, two macho men full of rage and fear hurtling away from each other. I was petrified of being found out, as I guess Lachlan Steele was too. Two professional athletes scared of losing it all, pulling out, shaking with rage or whatever.
It wasn’t until a half hour into my drive home that I finally stopped shaking.
And it was an hour into my drive back to the cabin when I felt my body relax, no longer tense and gripping the wheel as I continued to drive in silence.
Thirty more minutes and I pulled up to my rented Lake Tahoe retreat and parked, cutting the engine and stared at the lake. Then I put my forehead down on the steering wheel and took a few long, deep breaths before I looked into the rearview.
Despite the way it all ended, I hadn’t stopped thinking about Lachlan Steele and the encounter in the bathroom the entire drive back. I still felt the fantastic relief of his blow job. And better still, the taste of Lachlan was still in my throat and it was a taste I didn’t want to forget.
I gripped the steering wheel and stared into the mirror and heard my own voice yell out a loud “FUCKIN’ COWARD!” as I sat there.
But I just wasn’t sure who I was saying it to, Lachlan Steele, or my own stupid face looking back at me.
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