Chapter 6: Barroom Blowout
The sticky warmth between Jason’s thighs was a private trophy, a reminder that hummed through him with every step. Coach’s threat—my bitch, my tool—wasn’t a chain; it was a key. It unlocked a reckless, dangerous electricity in his blood.
He needed to share it. To test its power.
The O’Keefe’s Tavern crowd was a familiar sea of flannel, denim, and simmering aggression. His own team filled three scarred tables, a rumble of voices punctuated by the crack of pool balls and a Skynyrd guitar solo bleeding from the jukebox. Conor sat, a mountain of muscle spilling over a barstool, already three pints deep, his beefy arm around Davy, who looked like he was trying to disappear into his lager.
And at the bar, three tables over, were the Condors. Their arch-rivals. Tonight’s opponents, a brutal, ugly win they’d scraped by on sheer grit. Their black and yellow jerseys were like angry hornets in the dim light. Their captain, Devin Cole, was holding court—a broad-shouldered fucker with a broken nose that had never set right and a permanent scowl. His eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned the room and locked onto Jason’s.
The challenge was silent, immediate. A predator recognizing another predator.
Jason felt Conor’s gaze on him, a heavy, questioning weight. He stood up. “Gonna get a round,” he announced, his voice cutting through the team’s chatter. He walked not to the bar, but past it, towards the grimy hallway that led to the bathrooms.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere like a drop in pressure before a storm. He pushed into the single, reeking men’s room—urinal cake, bleach, piss. The mirror was a silvered, distorted mess. He stood at the sink, waiting.
The door swung open less than a minute later. Devin Cole filled the frame. He kicked the door shut with his boot heel. The cheap lock clicked.No words. Just a heavy, loaded silence broken by the drip of a faucet. Devin’s eyes, a hard blue, raked over him. There was no camaraderie here, no twisted friendship like with Conor, no corrupt authority like with Coach. This was pure, distilled rivalry. Hatred with a sheen of sweat on it.
“You played like shit tonight, Brandt,” Devin said, his voice a low rasp. “Lucky.”
“Your left defenseman skates like he’s got a corncob up his ass,” Jason replied, leaning back against the damp wall. “Had to slow down so he didn’t fall over.”
A muscle in Devin’s jaw twitched. He took a step closer. The space in the bathroom compressed to nothing. Jason could smell him—stale beer, expensive cologne trying and failing to mask hard sweat, the primal, metallic scent of aggression. “You think you’re cute.”
“I know I’m a problem for you.”
Devin moved fast. He crowded Jason against the wall, one calloused hand slapping onto the tiles beside his head, the other gripping the front of his shirt. “You’re a loudmouth with a pretty face. That’s all.”
Jason let himself be pinned. He tilted his head back, exposing his throat.A dare. “Your face says you wanna shut me up. So do it.”
Devin’s eyes darkened. His gaze dropped to Jason’s mouth. The dynamic shifted, molten and immediate. Rivalry curdling into something more primal. The hand on Jason’s shirt fisted tighter, then released, sliding down. It cupped him roughly through his jeans, finding the hard outline of his cock. Devin grunted, a sound of surprised, angry lust.
“Fucking knew it,” Devin breathed, his sneer twisting into something guttural. “You’ve got that look. The kind that needs to be put in its place.”
His hand worked at Jason’s fly, popping the button, yanking the zipper down. Jason helped him, shoving his own jeans and boxers down to his knees. His erection sprang up between them, already leaking. Devin looked at it, then back at Jason’s face, his own contempt mingling with hunger.
“On your knees, Captain.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order from an equal enemy. The degradation was exquisite. Jason sank down, the dirty linoleum biting into his kneecaps. He was level with Devin’s crotch. The rival captain unbuckled his own belt, tore his fly open, and shoved his pants down. His cock was thick, uncut like Coach’s, but longer, the head a ruddy purple. It slapped against Jason’s cheek, leaving a wet smear.
“Open your fucking mouth.”
Jason obeyed. He let his jaw go slack, his tongue lying flat. He looked up, meeting Devin’s hardened gaze. This was conquest.
Devin gripped the back of Jason’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. He guided his cock to Jason’s lips, then pushed past them without ceremony. There was no gentle testing. He fed his length into Jason’s mouth in one relentless, slow thrust, stifling Jason’s gag reflex with sheer, invasive pressure. The head bumped the back of his throat. Jason’s eyes watered.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Devin groaned, his hips giving a shallow jerk. “Take it. You wanted to choke on something? Choke on this.”
He began to fuck Jason’s face. It was a brutal, rhythmic punishment. He set a pace that allowed no recovery, his cock pistoning over Jason’s tongue, stretching his lips, hitting his throat with each forward drive. Spit dripped down Jason’s chin, onto his chest. The sounds were obscene—wet, gulping, choked breaths through his nose.
“You swallow every drop my boys shoot on the ice,” Devin grunted, his own breath coming faster. He pulled almost all the way out, letting Jason gasp, then slammed back in deep, making Jason’s throat convulse around him. “You swallow this, too. You’re a fucking drain.”
Jason’s own neglected cock twitched, painfully hard. The raw filth of it, the public anonymity of this grimy bathroom while their teams drank yards away, the sheer violation by a man he was supposed to hate—it detonated inside him. He reached down and started jerking himself, his fist a blur, matching the rhythm of Devin’s thrusts.
Devin saw it. “You’re a shameless fucking slut,” he spat, his movements growing frantic. His balls tightened, slapping against Jason’s chin. “Gonna fill that pretty mouth. Gonna make you taste it all night.”
With a final, deep grind, Devin buried himself to the root and came. The first hot jet hit the back of Jason’s throat, bitter and salty. He gagged, but Devin held him fast, pumping his release directly down his throat. Jason swallowed convulsively, some spilling out the sides of his mouth, dripping in thick strings. The sensation, the taste, the complete surrender, tipped him over his own edge. His orgasm ripped through him silently, his come splattering the grimy floor between his knees as he milked the last drops from Devin’s pulsing cock.
Devin pulled out slowly. Jason stayed on his knees, breathing hard, come and spit slick on his face and chin. Devin tucked himself away, zipped up. He looked down, his expression unreadable—disgust, satisfaction, a strange, empty triumph.
He didn’t offer a hand up. He just turned to the sink, ran some water, splashed his face.
“See you next Tuesday, Brandt,” he said, not looking in the distorted mirror.
Then he left, the door swinging shut, leaving Jason alone in the stink of sex and ammonia.
Jason wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He got to his feet, his legs unsteady. He cleaned himself up as best he could, tucking his own softening cock away. His reflection in the ruined mirror was a mess—flushed, bruised-looking lips, wild eyes.
When he walked back into the bar, the noise washed over him. Conor was watching him from across the room. Their eyes met. Conor’s gaze dropped to Jason’s fly, then back up. He raised his pint glass in a tiny, almost imperceptible toast. He knew. Of course he knew.
Devin was back at his table, laughing loudly at something a teammate said. He didn’t look at Jason. The secret was a landmine buried between them.
Jason slid back into his seat. Davy pushed a fresh beer towards him. “You okay, Cap? You look… winded.”
Jason took a long swallow. The beer tasted different. It tasted like victory, and shame, and a raw, open wound of need.
“Never better,” he said, the lie smooth and easy. He felt the phantom ache in his jaw, the ghost of Devin’s release in his throat. The web was spinning wider, catching flies from other colonies. He was no longer just the center of his own team’s corruption. He was becoming a disease, and he was patient zero.