Physical therapy was always rough for the guys. But mainly because they landed there when deemed unworthy for the ice. Blake understood the hatred his department got; after all, players wanted to play hockey. Not have coaches critique their grip and nutritionists physically pluck chocolate bars from their hands, only to replace them with abhorrent fruit.
To put it simply, none of them wanted to find themselves at home in the press box during games. Still, they didn’t need to take their anger out on Blake. He wasn’t the one that had raced into a brawl looking for a fight as the man currently seated on his table had. Caleb was, no doubt, his least favorite player to have in this room. Damn his lithe physique and sparkling eyes because none of it was worth it sitting next to him while he complained. Blake had kept his mouth shut thus far, going about his work as if a black cloud weren’t plaguing his work station. He was quickly reaching his breaking point, though. Luckily for the trainer, he wasn’t above threats. Staring at his charge out the corner of his eye as he kneaded fingers into leg muscle, Blake spoke quietly, “Guess the Olympic committee will rethink inviting you next time, eh? Especially if you’re just going to be warming the bench the entire time.” The corners of his mouth turned quickly up, more of a grimace than a grin, before he reached behind him for a towel.
Caleb was the epitome of a ticking time bomb, physically incapable of stifling his emotions. And yet the masses loved it—or well, at least the paparazzi did as they shoved microphones in his face while he derided other players for offenses as small as looking at him the wrong way. He was loud, crass and opinionated—the perfect combination for dazzling headlines and fat paychecks as journalists picked up juicy content from the problematic player. It drove management crazy, and they’d tried countless times to tame him, but the facts were clear: they needed him. Caleb was damn good at what he did, having been elected as MVP for nearly every season since joining the organization as a bright-eyed eighteen-year-old. He was twenty-one now.
And so if he wanted to get in brawls because an opposing player decided to call him the f-word on the ice, he damn well would without any fear of punishment.
But even though Caleb tended to act untouchable, even he couldn’t quite escape shoulder separation and a high ankle sprain from a not quite illegal check that sent him right into the boards. Recovery efforts were looking piss poor with the Olympics right around the corner and Caleb was devastated to say the least.
Naturally, he coped with such devastation with anger, which quickly transformed him into an ultimate terror to be around. Even pretty trainers like Blake wouldn’t be able to escape his wrath. “Mm, have anything productive to bring to the conversation? At least talk dirty to me, baby. It would make this—” he winced at the pain of taut muscles being loosened “—less fuckin’ miserable.”
Productive. Yeah, Blake could be worlds more productive with a piece of duct tape firmly planted over Caleb’s mouth. An involuntary shiver danced down his spine at some less than vanilla thoughts. He banished those to the far corners of his mind before he allowed himself to speak again. “Dirty talk, huh?” His voice was contemplative, like he was actually considering it. The trainer scooted back and considered the bad mouthed player seated on the table.
Through his own foolish actions, Caleb had damaged half of his body. It was unfortunate, something that Blake wouldn’t wish on even his worst charges, the description of which the hard hitting player tended to fit. The truly sad part of it was that this was what Caleb was tasked to do. Blake had watched from the sidelines when they’d brought in a guy to play not only a damn fine game of hockey but to introduce scare tactics. Worse yet, it had worked! The trainer felt himself shake his head with wonder as he disappeared behind the player. He brought up a hand, trailed a finger down a bicep and leaned in. “So tell me something,” he whispered, using all five fingers to brush upwards, pads of his fingers meeting bandages that he needed to replace before the day was out. Blake craned forward, hand slipping momentarily to the other male’s chest, so he had a good view of Caleb’s face. His curls bounced into his eyes and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. In one quick movement, he peeled his hand back and ground into tender shoulder muscle, aiming only for bruising. Didn’t need Caleb hanging around any longer than his injury already deemed worthy. Blake’s smirk went innocent. “That hurt... baby?”
Caleb hadn’t actually anticipated the personal trainer to take his request seriously, but since they were here he decided to get comfortable. The slightest of triumphant smirks spread across his lips, irritation momentarily falling to the wayside in lieu of a much needed distraction. It was hard being a hockey player. The hardest part? Not having as much time during the season to enjoy a few drinks and take home the prettiest piece of ass in the bar, starstruck by the fact they were leaving with a top athlete. He coped with lack of action by enjoying some private time before bed, which usually involved thirty minutes of pleasuring himself in all the ways he needed. He was simple, didn’t need toys or raunchy pornos. Usually his thoughts did the trick, and Caleb could admit—at least to himself—that his trainer had starred in some of his most salacious fantasies. Even more now, while Caleb depended on a little extra dopamine for the pain.
“Mhm,” Caleb hummed softly, feeling the soft trace against his bicep. It should have been somewhat of a red flag that his otherwise stingy personal trainer had suddenly manifested into some sort of sexual deviant, but he was too interested in seeing how far this would go before he attempted to call the other male on his bluff. Hands slid across his chest and fuck, he missed touch. Until he felt hands forcibly squeeze against tender muscle. On cue, a yelp of pain escaped him. Instantly, he jerked Blake off violently, wincing as he gripped at his wounded shoulder. “Fuck yourself,” he exclaimed, teeth gritting together. He threw up a flagrant middle finger in the trainer’s direction.
A look of peace seemed to pass over Caleb’s face and, for the first time since they’d started this session, he was blessedly quiet. Blake almost hated to ruin the moment by messing with the guy. But the feeling sparking around the room was beginning to get a little too close to home. The one thing the trainer had promised himself when starting in this line of business as a man interested in his male counterparts: no mixing business and pleasure. All it would do was compromise what he’d worked so hard to build. Still, he couldn’t help that his hand lingered just a moment too long on the other’s chest before he was startling a yelp out of his athlete. “Pass. I have people to do that for me.” Lies. Blake couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten any. Though he’d made plans to go out and look for someone multiple nights over the season, he’d always arrived home and fallen in love with his bed before he could even choose a worthwhile bar to go to for the evening. It was the life of a dedicated babysitter. Even if the kids were all well into their twenties and thirties. Blake smacked Caleb’s hand away from his shoulder and started unraveling the bandages. A middle finger rose quickly into his view and he jerked back, practically going cross-eyed to look at it. “Little shit,” he murmured, planning to knock it out of the way before another idea sparked in his mind. Blake poked his tongue out of his mouth and dragged it languidly up the digit. It was just too fun to fuck with the man’s head. With a smirk, he did knock the hand away and kept at it with the bandages. “Don’t tell me where that finger has been. I don’t want to know.”
It was too damn good to be true. The pain that throbbed in his shoulder moments after the fact made that starkly apparent. Very rarely did other people capture the star forward’s attention for extended periods of time. He was evanescent in that his relationships were perpetually fleeting, both platonic and romantic. Which was why, even though his teammates appreciated him for the notoriety he’d brought to the franchise and naturally wanted to build a relationship with someone they spent exorbitant amounts of time with, they’d learned to expect very little of him when it came to hanging out outside of hockey requirements. He was an introvert and preferred being alone, only interacting with others when he felt the desire to get his cock wet.
He was disappointed by the rejection but quickly pressed down the emotion. Blake was his trainer—nothing more, nothing less. Caleb annoyed him, and Blake had merely learned to tolerate him. That was it. He just needed to get fuckin’ laid. “By people do you mean hand? Fleshlight? Inflatable blow up doll?” he arched a brow, tone still coming out bitter even though the question in-and-of-itself was lighthearted in nature. He scowled at the hand smack, had an onslaught of colorful profanities waiting on his tongue, only to be immediately eradicated at the feeling of— Wet heat. A tongue lewdly traced his middle finger, causing Caleb’s thighs to immediately clench. Words got all stuck in his throat, not coming loose until moments after the fact. What the fuck was that? And why the hell was he so turned on? Though, through stubborn determination, he ignored the goosebumps to reply to Blake’s comments on the whereabouts of his finger with a cheshire smirk: “Probably up your ass, in all the wet dreams you have about me.” Was he projecting? Yes. But Blake didn’t have to know that.
“Still using a fleshlight, huh?” Blake clicked his tongue, “The guys should really get you a stripper or something. At the very least.” The man shrugged, enjoying the game. While there was nothing stopping him from talking back to his players, he usually made the attempt at professionalism. For multiple offenses, Blake was less merciful. Caleb fit the bill.
“Actually, you bottom.” The smirk sat plainly on his face as he stared back at Caleb. They were straying a little too close to the truth for comfort. Blake had imagined their trysts a time or two, falling into hotel beds and making out in empty equipment rooms. And he fancied the idea of a power bottom. Watching Caleb take it with all the power and hardness he carried on the ice. The trainer scooted away from his patient as his breathing quickened, the thought too much to handle after a lack of touch for so long. He stood at the counter sorting through charts until he’d calmed down. When he finally turned around, he was frowning. For all the fun they’d had, they had a serious matter to discuss. “I can’t promise you the Olympics, you know that right?” Earlier jokes forgotten, Blake inched closer and settled onto his stool. He rubbed a thumb gently along Caleb’s shoulder. This was a common injury among players. But rarely did they need to recover on such a quick deadline. “If you rush back into it, you risk compromising your career here. I can’t condone that... but I can’t stop you either.” Knowing the forward, he was likely to take the route that would allow him to do it all. It would be rough on his body, destructive even. As he prepared to wrap the shoulder back up, Blake was already developing a game plan for how he’d talk the man out of destroying his body and, in conjunction, his career.
“I won’t be happy with anything other than you in a gold thong,” Caleb replied swiftly, fully participating in the game that had stirred between them. It was a distraction at least, something to get his mind off of the annoying throb in his shoulder, his body doing the crappy thing of failing him right before the Olympics. The biggest game of his career. The thought almost got to him, until the trainer’s next statement caused him to lift his head once more, brow perking upwards in amusement.
Even though Blake wasn’t far off, his sexual preferences weren’t something many people knew without signing an NDA first. He had no desire to feed into the gay rumors that had been stirring about him since the start of his career, no matter how right they were. His preference was usually typecast as being submissive in nature, but Caleb was the total alpha male. One, that ironically, enjoyed a dick up his ass. It was an anomaly. “Only in your fantasies,” Caleb quipped back with a soft snort, leaving it at that. Even though he was, admittedly, fantasizing about riding Blake’s cock like his life depended on it—right on that examination table. He would never admit it though. Not currently, anyways, with the Olympics once again hovering over his head. He was stubborn as hell, enamored with the idea of getting back on the ice even if his body didn’t fully agree with him. It was a huge risk, accelerating the healing process, but Caleb was seldom the type to shy down from obstacles, no matter how reckless. He let out a quiet exhale, lids momentarily shutting, relaxing at the feeling of thumb against his shoulder. While it had been a painful action moments ago, there was something undoubtedly more comfortable, gentle, about the gesture now. “I know what I can handle,” he replied, though it didn’t necessarily hold any true venom. “I know,” he licked his lips, “that it’s risky as fuck, but whether I’m at a hundred percent or not in a few weeks, I’m still goin’ out on that ice. And you can either get me as close to that point as possible or I’ll figure something else out for myself.”
Blake tapped his chin with a single digit, considering. “The gold ones are all at the dry cleaners. Would you settle for silver?” He smirked at the man on the table, cursing him silently for playing along with such a ridiculous mental picture. No matter what he felt for Caleb, mainly lust, there would be no thongs in their future. If that were in the forward’s tastes, well, he was welcome to try the fashion on himself. “All of my fantasies include strangling you before you’re traded somewhere else where I no longer have to deal with you.” The man sat back, sighing with contentment. “Ultimate dream right there. A season without you ending up on my table.” Complete and utter lies. Blake had dreamed about taking him on this exact table before. He’d gotten himself worked up thinking about Caleb boxing him in like he did his rivals on the ice, pressing him hard against walls and into beds. The trainer dug his nails into his knees, driving away the thoughts best saved for the bedroom. Where he would end up alone, without Caleb, because there was no sense of professionalism sleeping with the guys he was tasked to take care of. If they were even interested in the first place! For Caleb, this was all some big joke. Not exactly the kind of person he wanted to get attached to. Especially when it came to this attitude he was trying to cop with his injury. Caleb’s skull was excessively thick and yet particularly fragile. Blake had to be careful how he went about this excavation. If he prodded at the wrong ideas, stimulated the incorrect path, everything was going to crumble for the hockey player before him. And while he always felt more than a little triumphant watching the forward get a taste of his own medicine out there on the ice, no part of him actually wanted to see the man get hurt. In fact, there was a large, strange part that wanted to give Caleb everything despite his brazen attitude. The Olympics, the NHL, and so much more. He was attempting to tap into that part of himself now, though the center made it difficult with his boneheaded comments. It took everything in Blake not to grind his teeth as he spat out his retaliation. “Actually, they pay me to know what you can handle. They pay you to put a piece of rubber in a net. So don’t start that bull shit with me. Second-” He swivelled to ensure that he was right in the other’s view, leaning close and laying a hand on his chest in favor of jabbing a finger into his abs. “-There will be more Olympic games. Ones you won’t play in if you fuck up your shoulder and can’t even shoot a fucking puck.” The man rolled his shoulders and stared Caleb in the eye, daring him to overstep his boundaries. Blake had chosen the cold, domineering approach. It was part emotion and part honestly believing that this was his best chance at getting through to him. “I didn’t say that it was a cold, hard fact that you wouldn’t play. Do not underestimate me and do not-” He leaned in so close their noses almost brushed. His eyes were cold and his voice quiet. “-threaten me.” Figure something else out? Like find another trainer? Doctors that would write him off for the sake of glory rather than in the name of health and well-being? Fat chance of that happening. Blake was his best hope. And they both knew it. “I’m going to help you however I can. If it means coming in here at dawn, so be it. Don’t act like I haven’t dedicated every part of me to seeing you shitheads do exactly what you want to do. We will progress as we can.” But Blake still could make no promises. “And if at the end of the day I say you’re risking your contract here. Your team. Your health. You listen and stay put. Don’t think I won’t tell every coach, trainer, and GM out there about what kind of second rate pro your injury will make you. Your career is at my mercy. I would be pretty fucking wary of that little tidbit.” It wasn’t often that Blake got to play hardball. He could feel his temperature rising at the pure pleasure of putting these guys in their place, reminding them that being an athlete didn’t make them invincible. It was a rush, however pathetic that sounded. “So... your call.”
“Not my favorite color on you, but acceptable,” Caleb replied with a click of his tongue, fighting back the smirk that teased at his lips. It was empty banter, and yet Caleb willingly clung to it as a decent distraction from wanting to punch a goddamn wall. There were very few feelings the forward resented more than helplessness. He’d felt it every birthday spent without so much as a card from his father, who’d left him and his mother living in abject poverty in the Bronx. And he felt it now. Nonetheless, he forced another snicker from his lips, brow arching in curiosity. “Kinky.” In every fantasy of Caleb’s, the trainer had been a fucking deviant, and he was willing to bet good money such...eccentric sexual behavior extended to real life as well. It was always the poised types that turned out being absolute freaks, in Caleb’s experience. And yet, just as Caleb had managed to somewhat calm himself down, a surge of contempt darted down his spine. Blake was millimeters from him now, words bathed in venom as he shot down his threats. Caleb’s fingers curled against the table, certain that if he wasn’t holding it so tightly he would’ve decked Blake in the face.
It was an inherent part of Caleb’s personality to react harshly, even if the emotion wasn’t always warranted. Because a level-headed individual would’ve understood where Blake was coming from. He was taking a risk. Compromising his longterm health. It was pure insanity at best, and yet Caleb wasn’t always a rational person.
His jaw went taut, beats of silence passing between them as they engaged in a severe stare-off. And then he chuckled. It was a weird gesture, hand flying to cover his mouth as he scrubbed it down the lower half of his face. Nonetheless, his gaze didn’t falter. “That was—” he nodded his head in approval. “Kinda hot.” Yeah, he was insane. Here he was, receiving news that didn’t swing in his favor all the while being brutally put in his place in the process, and his brain had decided to short-circuit somewhere, stuck in a weird limbo between numbness and delusion. In his head, he was still playing regardless. In reality, he knew that wasn’t a given. Somewhere deep down, he was stifling hurt.
Gripping Blake’s wrist, he shoved the trainer backwards and forced distance between them. He got up from the table and slid his t-shirt back over his torso. “But you really need to get laid. Since we’re, y’know, helping each other out as best as we can—” he mocked “I’m telling you this as a concerned friend. It’s impacting your life. Matter of fact, you’re risking your sanity here. I can’t imagine you becoming some…second rate fuck because you’re not keeping your skills sharp, y’know.” Grabbing his hat, he placed it on his head backwards. “So, I mean It’s your call and all, but please. Seek help.”
Was it a ridiculous notion that Blake was kinky behind the scenes? He’d done his experimenting back in college before getting picked up to start off as a trainer in the minor leagues when settling down had seemed the only reasonable option for future progression. Blake had imagined playing in his youth, not sitting on the sidelines. Coming to the realization that he would never be good enough to play professionally had been sobering. His rise to the top had been just as respectable as the star forwards with far more education in the mix. His kinky days were long behind him. And his thong days were non-existent. But there was no helping the fantasies that cropped up while towering over Caleb, the player at his mercy with his injury keeping him down. If that didn’t violate one of the contracts he’d signed, they might want to work on the fine print. In the span of five minutes, Blake had now been referred to as both kinky and hot. While inside his work office. It was a first to say the least. With a mouth catching flies, the trainer stared Caleb down. This was the usual progression of their conversations but they didn’t often last long enough to get this far. Caleb’s true colors were exactly as he believed them to be. Perhaps brighter. He tipped his head, forehead almost brushing the forward’s chiseled chest, and laughed. “Hot? That’s what you got out of that? Hockey and sex. The two parts of your brain. The only two.” Forced back as Caleb pried himself from the table, Blake watched as he made a grab for his clothes. “Where do you think you’re going?” The trainer still had the bandages fisted in his anger, the man’s shoulder only partially wrapped. An eyebrow arched into his hairline. He found himself silently mouthing the phrase concerned friend. He would have laughed if Caleb weren’t playing with fire. It took a moment for Blake to recall how to use words. This was Caleb trying to shuck off the severity of his injury. Making jokes so that he didn’t have to face the painful truth staring him in the face. “Hold on a minute.” That dumb fucking hat. No one actually liked wearing their hat backwards! Before Caleb could get to the door, Blake had bounded forward. He dug his fingers into the forward’s uninjured shoulder and yanked him back. It was no harder than the hits he took on the ice. The shove into his cabinets may have been a little rough but at least there was a nice open space between cabinet and counter so his shoulder met no resistance. Couldn’t say the same for his head. Blake boxed him in, hands pressed to either side on the linoleum surface. There was no chance in hell that Caleb was walking out of this office without the two of them having worked out some sort of game plan. Scared that he’d tried to take off before they could make real progress, Blake surged forward, body meeting body. Caleb would have to fight him to get out. Blake sans injury had the upper hand. “Your advice is shit. Stop trying to skirt the issue.” He brought up a hand, pushing up the sleeve of the player’s shirt to ghost along the injury. With a slight stutter in his breathing, he let his hand fall. “This isn’t a joke. Don’t treat it like one.” His gaze jumped down to where their chests brushed and the suggestion of ‘get laid’ suddenly seemed a good one. Focus. Blake’s eyes were back up. “Why would you risk this? Do you even exist without hockey?” It was harsh but last resorts had to be.
Maybe the only two parts of his brain were hockey and sex. Because anything beyond that was utterly incomprehensible to the twenty-one year old athlete. Caleb had a perpetual knack for suppressing legitimate issues, masking it with aggression on the ice and sexual release in any form he could get it. It wasn’t a healthy substitute for actually talking to someone about his demons, but Caleb was far too irresponsible and far too in denial to do anything about it. So he continued to live his reckless life, doing whatever the hell he wanted regardless of the people that got burned in the process. Which was why it brought nothing but unsullied frustration that the trainer seemed to possess some weird ability to make him uncomfortable in ways he couldn’t even begin to explain. “Don’t see anything wrong with it,” Caleb replied flippantly, as if the mere suggestion of his lifestyle being unhealthy was ridiculous.
As Caleb started towards the door, he hadn’t expected to be stopped, much less shoved up against a counter, head hitting the back of the cabinet with force. His heartbeat quickened, eyes immediately widening as his fight reflex kicked in. And yet, he remained frozen, breathing heavy as his irises remained trained on the other in irritation. They both knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, that any sort of retaliation would burn his bridges entirely to a chance at the Olympics. Blake was the best trainer in the game, the only qualified individual to pull off such a miraculous feat. And Caleb fucking hated it. The helplessness felt parasitic, the uncomfortableness throbbing at this point as the trainer forced Caleb to recognize the painful truth. His lips tightened as he watched Blake’s eyes wander, the intensity between them piquing. He was angry as hell but so goddamn turned on that he doubted he had the energy to put any real effort into hiding it. Getting laid seemed like a godsend right now, a relief stronger than any painkiller on the market. He licked his lips, eyes smoldering as he looked at the other. “If you’re gonna fuckin—” he got closer, until their lips were millimeters apart, chests pressing together now “square up on me like this you might as well fuck me.” Again, he was skirting the issue, running away from it, but at least he’d mildly acknowledged it, to an extent. “C’mon,” he whispered, “you haven’t kept your hands off of me for a solid minute. You want me, you think I’m oblivious?” his jaw went taut, punctuating every word. “Just admit it.”
“There’s a lot wrong with you.” It was a claim that Blake had plenty of evidence to back up. From Caleb treating his body like a wrecking ball on the ice, to the full team’s talks about STDs that he had been the leading cause for, the guy was a wreck in all regards that didn’t involve a stick and a large paycheck. The rest of the world couldn’t see it because they were too busy inflating his already oversized head. Blake stood on the sidelines and watched him destroy his body, put himself in harm’s way so that his name would stay in the press. There wasn’t enough time in the day to handle everything wrong with the forward. Even while Blake was trying to get a handle on how they would be properly dealing with Caleb’s injury, the forward was accusing him of wanting to fuck him! So much wrong there. Even if that was the case, it wasn’t the one he was trying to make now. The only thing on the table was the issue at hand. He wouldn’t be disgracing his medical bench by taking Caleb upon it. Of course, his next words rang from the comfort of the curve of the man’s neck. Blake’s face had found it accidentally with their close proximity. “Don’t kid yourself. Why would I ever be interested in a child like you?” He was seven years Caleb’s junior. His lips had traveled upwards, perching on the other man’s lobe as he pressed into him further. Though his words were firm, every action betrayed him. How could he not want? To touch, to bite, to take. “You know what I think it is?” Blake’s voice was low and sultry. But his words were poison. He trailed a hand over Caleb’s thigh, sticking to the outside. “You’re scared. Scared that the second you can’t play, they’ll forget about you. People won’t be screaming your name. They’ll all write you off.” That same hand pressed under the hem of a shirt, finally getting to feel the sharp ridges that he’d only seen when dressing with bandages, fantasies notwithstanding. He nipped at the dark, exposed skin just beyond the athlete’s jaw. “You’d fade into obscurity. And then what? Can you stand being nothing?” This was the most fucked up thing Blake had ever done. Inside his office or not. But resistance was futile. Caleb had been his kryptonite from the very beginning. Fuck him.
“Join my support club,” Caleb retorted sarcastically, though his cocky grin hardly faltered. living life quietly, following all the rules, being safe, was an existence the forward wasn’t even remotely interested in. Getting close to the flames, extending his fingers out until he nearly burned them, though? Gave him a metaphorical hardon. Needless to say, the pleasure was far too intense for him to heed logical advice and take it easy. He’d take it easy in his damn grave. But for now he’d continue living life as dangerously as he pleased, regardless of well-intended advice from his disturbingly attractive trainer. Who had diminished whatever space existed between them, admittedly taking Caleb by surprise. At his outburst, he had expected Blake to scoff in disgust and place as much distance between them as possible. Not because Caleb was unattractive or anything (he was a fucking catch), but rather to maintain an image of professionalism. Screw that. Caleb could practically taste the tension, could feel the heat and unsullied want that emanated between them. He was horny as hell, still had that goddamn pain in his shoulder, and a release, albeit temporary, seemed like a godsend right now. “You wouldn’t be practically pressing your dick against my thigh if you weren’t,” Caleb retorted, followed by a shaky breath. Goosebumps tickled the back of his neck in spite of himself, felt the whispered words against the shell of his ear in ways that undid him slightly. Caleb was stubborn though, refused to let it immediately show how turned on he was by the gesture. With a tongue planted against cheek, he snickered at his trainer’s words sardonically, even though it had undoubtedly hit a nerve. it was one of his most deep seated fears, fading away. Not leaving an impact. Caleb had fought so hard to make a name for himself, to not just be some poor kid from the Bronx who lived and died in poverty. And even though he acted spoiled, egotistical, he knew just how expendable his career was—knew that it could be over, in the flick of a switch. Nonetheless, his features remained unruffled. “You must spend a lot of time,” he gripped onto Blake’s shirt suddenly, their bodies flush together, “thinking about me, huh?” It was his turn to whisper into the trainer’s ear, words saccharine, “Nice attempt at psychoanalyzation. But unless you’re my therapist, or this is some spicy form of foreplay, I couldn’t care less.” Caleb probably cared a little more than he let on, but that information would never reach Blake’s ears.
“I think I’ll pass. It’s not working.” The smirk on his face was more of a sneer, Blake quickly growing tired of the cockiness on Caleb’s face. Who had blessed him with good luck and the life and wealth of an athlete? This man needed no bigger head as he was already more than accomplished at tooting his own horn. He took the moment to imagine Caleb doing literally anything else with his life. No surprise, prostitution sat as the forefront of his brain. It was the epitome of recklessness and sex appeal. What charm he’d have in that industry. And his persuasive ability was unrivaled. Blake had seen him talk his way back onto the ice after injuries multiple times over. A career change perhaps? He disguised a laugh behind a cough.
Regrettably, Caleb spoke every bit of truth. Blake was hard in his respectable khakis and grinding against his charge without abandon. Every last piece of him was screaming to step back. This was his patient. This was his office. This was his career. This was how people got fired. But Blake couldn’t recall the last time he had wanted like he did now. With Caleb against him and his too low voice in his ear and that stupid smirk on his face. Blake imagined kissing it right off of him, biting at his lip and marking him for all the world to know that he had had him. The heat shot straight through him, all passion directed straight to the bulge in the front of his pants. It took every ounce of will power to step back from the forward, disentangling the man’s hands from his shirt in the process. Though his system was screaming to simply take what was being handed out on a silver platter, his mind was grabbing hold of the situation and urging him away. The image he left behind was jerk off material at its finest. He was silly to believe that this little tryst might actually happen. Despite how bad he wanted a piece of ass (and, in particular, Caleb’s ass), this wasn’t how he had foreseen the situation progressing. What had he been expecting? Caleb to drop to his knees, claim that he’d seen the error of his ways, and then suck his dick until Blake needed some R&R of his own? It was foolish. Caleb took stubbornness well beyond its bounds, right into the realm of stupidity. He knew this! Even with want physically throbbing through his body, he couldn’t let Caleb win, allow him to brave territory when it might very well cost him far more than he was willing to give up. “Sorry,” Blake managed, taking a short moment before to get a hold of himself, otherwise he might have had to pant out the words. His voice was still breathy and crawling with lust, though the apology was all sarcasm. “I draw the line at guys who don’t know what’s good for them.” With hard-on still pressing uncomfortably against the back of his zipper, Blake managed to cross to his desk. He grabbed for a random clipboard and carefully jotted some notes down for himself. It was a way to get a handle on himself. Caleb’s official chart sat halfway across the room. “No contact until further notice. Pick up a jersey from the equipment guys. You are permitted no games with it on.” His legs were still quivering beneath him. Blake hoped the red in his cheeks was dissipating and that his breaths were coming out steady enough. He tapped the pen against the clipboard as a rightful distraction if he weren’t getting away with it quite so easily. “You can get out of my office now.” It killed him to watch him go. But this was for the best. Not for Blake’s dick. But in the grand scheme of things, it came last. “One more thing though.” The sentence exhibited his best condescending tone, often the one he used to call guys out for their poor judgement that had landed them in his training room in the first place. At least it was accompanied by a smile. “Call me from the minors, eh? Sure you’ll love it there.” One last stab at his career. Something would stick eventually. And then he’d see Caleb right back here, desperate. Not in the same situation unfortunately but as Blake was coming down it was easier to remind himself of his title. Trainer. He trained. Mixing business and pleasure would never be a good idea.
It was a shame, a tragedy, that this heated game of cat-and-mouse between them hadn’t ended with the trainer furiously fucking him against a counter. Caleb had definitely collected a lifetime supply of lewd fantasies centered around that very idea in the span of two minutes, all the while expertly masking the disappointment he felt. He pushed himself off of the counter, lazily circling over to one of the chairs that pressed up against the window where his backpack sat. He wondered just how long it had been for Blake, when the last time he had pounded someone real good, had been. The guy was a crazy workaholic, loved his job nearly as much as Caleb loved going out on the ice each and every single day...and so he doubted the other was regular. Neither of them were. Not during the high tide of the season, which had, justifiably, reduced them to the equivalence of horny teenagers, dry humping each other in a corner. Caleb was on the precipice of going insane, would probably have to force himself to go out on the town tonight, stave the itch that was crawling underneath his skin. Maybe after that point, he could actually walk into Blake’s office without being obnoxiously horny. Christ, he wished. Every fiber in his body wanted to hate the guy, wanted to deck that stupid god complex off of him, but he was torn between his dick and the hyper realization that his options, in terms of recovery, were very much limited. He forced a snicker from his throat, it almost coming off as bitter. “Yeah?” he drawled lazily, throwing his backpack over his shoulders and tightening the straps. He was aggravated, but managed to miraculously keep his emotions under lock-and-key. He should’ve left right then and there, should’ve taken the snarky commentary with an air of indifference before going on his way. But instead, he froze at the door, turning towards the trainer. “Y’know, you’re really fucking moody when sexually deprived.” He arched a brow curiously, before taking another few steps closer, until he was practically in front of Blake. Then, reaching downwards, he did the most obscene thing he could think of at the moment, devilish smirk growing wider: hand cupped, literally, over the other’s hard, cloth-clad cock, he gave it a good, firm squeeze. “Fuck, man. you’re packing too? You must really hate me.” He let out a low whistle. “That’s a shame. Coulda rocked your—” he leaned forward, until his lips brushed against the shell of Blake’s ear “goddamn world.” Then, he pulled away, shrugging in response. “Sucks.” With that, he strolled over towards the door, opening it. “See you on thursday,” he practically sang in departure, looking over his shoulder with a shit eating grin. He shut the door behind him as if nothing had happened at all, whistling down the hallway.