“Underachiever. Stick your hand in that drawer. Should be a few in there.”
I open the nightstand drawer, which—well, lookee here—contains more than just rubbers. My hand emerges with a seven-inch silicone vibrator in a comical shade of pink.
“Aw, who’s this little fella?” I wave the dildo up and down, and it’s flexible enough that it flops around like a real dick.
Allie snatches it from my hand. “Little? You better take that back or else you’ll give Winston a complex.”
“Winston? Are you kidding me?”
“Oh come on, you’re telling me he doesn’t look like a Winston?”
I study the pink sex toy. For something that’s shaped like a cock, it’s actually ridiculously girly. And Winston is a girly name if I’ve ever heard one. “Huh. I guess he does.”
She nods earnestly. “I have a talent for picking suitable dick names.”
I promptly scowl at her. “Don’t get any ideas about naming mine, you hear me?”
“Why? Are you scared I’ll come up with something better than what you’ve already got?” Her tone is pure sweetness.
“Who says I named my dick?”
Allie slants her head in challenge. “Are you saying you didn’t?”
I shrug in response.
“Ha! I knew it! What’s his name?”
My scowl deepens.
“Come on, tell me,” she begs. “I promise I won’t make fun of you.”
After a five-second internal debate, I capitulate. “It’s Little Dean.”
That makes her howl in laughter. “Oh my God. Of course it is. You are such a dork.”
I pinch her thigh in retaliation, but she only laughs harder, so I shut her up by rolling her over and slamming my mouth down on hers. She immediately parts her lips to grant my tongue access, and soon we’re making out and rubbing up against each other like cats in heat.
I ease my mouth away and rasp, “Feel like tying me up again?”
“Nope. I’ve got something else in mind.”
“Damn, but I was really excited about it.”
“Stop complaining, sweetie. Trust me, you’re going to like this.”
It’s her turn to roll me over, and I groan as she starts kissing her way down my body. A moment later, her warm mouth engulfs my cock, and…yeah…Little Dean sure ain’t complaining.
15
Dean
Saturday night’s game against Yale starts off promising.
After Garrett scores an early goal, we successfully manage to keep Yale out of our zone for most of the first period. Well, except for when Brodowski foolishly gets out of position and hands Yale’s center and right wing a breakaway.
Thanks to that bonehead move, I’m faced with an odd man rush and it’s pure blind luck that Yale doesn’t get a goal out of it—the shot smacks off the pipe. I dive toward the puck and snap off a quick pass to Hunter. Our forwards blessedly fly past the center line into Yale territory, while I do my damnedest not to strangle Brodowski as we whiz toward the bench for a line change.
I squirt water through my face guard and spit it at my feet. Sweat pours down my face from the exertion it took to singlehandedly defend our zone.
Beside me, Brodowski is properly shamefaced. “I messed up the coverage,” he mutters to me.
I grit my teeth and say, “Happens to the best of us.” Because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you’re part of a team. We don’t play the blame game here at Briar.
But if anyone is to blame for that breakaway? It’s Brodowski, sure as shit.
“What happened to your lip?” he asks, studying the thin red cut splitting my bottom lip.
“Sex,” I grunt in response.
On my other side, Tucker snickers. He’d asked me the same thing this morning, and I’d given him the same non-answer.
On the other side of Tucker, one of our freshman wingers looks highly impressed. “You’re my idol, dude,” he calls out.
The first line’s shift lasts for the rest of the period, and we hit the locker room with a lead of 1-0. For the first time in weeks, morale is high.
The second period starts off exactly like the first. Another early goal, this time courtesy of Fitzy. We’re leading 2-0 now, and Yale is feeling the pressure. As a result, they come at us hard, playing aggressively and taking shot after shot at goal. Patrick Corsen, our goaltender, is nowhere near as talented as our old goalie Simms, who graduated last year. He also has a bad habit of skating too far from the crease, so when the opposing winger connects with a centering pass from his D-man, Corsen isn’t in position to stop the puck.
But it’s all right. We’re still in the lead. For…oh, about another thirty seconds. I’m hopping out for my shift when the same winger who’d just scored does an impressive wraparound and flicks another shot past Corsen. The fucker scores again. Two goals in less than a minute, and just like that, our lead becomes a tie.
The rest of the second is scoreless.
In the third, everything falls apart for us. I can’t even count all the things that go wrong—it’s one bullshit error after the other.
Logan takes a two-minute penalty for slashing. Yale scores on the power play.