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Shea wasn’t expecting this when he woke up this morning. This is Sutes kneeling in front of him and deep-throating his cock.

But hey, let’s back up a bit. How’d he get here in the first place?

The day started out normally enough, or as normal as it gets once you’ve been bounced out of the running for the Stanley Cup. He remembers breakfast, walking Dug, and heading out to the rink to clean out his locker and do the media thing.

He usually tries not to remember too much about the last day of the season, since it just means that their run ended way too soon. But he thinks he’d remember if Sutes gave him a sign for a booty call. And Shea knows he’s been listening to too much of the younger guys’ crap that they pass off as music if he’s thinking of this as a “booty call”.

Still, he’s not quite sure how he got from answering the same questions over and over to one of the more isolated men’s rooms at the rink with Sutes kneeling down in front of him and deep-throating his cock, like it hasn’t been years since they last did this. Years since the last time Sutes held him by his hips to force him to keep still. Years since Sutes touched him like this.

Sutes hums and, damn, that feels wonderful. Shea should stop thinking about the past and focus on what Sutes is doing with his tongue and his lips and his throat and…


“So, that was good.” And Shea feels like smacking himself. Sutes is grinning up at him, though. To make up for that, he hauls Sutes up for a kiss and starts to unbuckle his belt. Sutes stills his hands, though.

“I’m good.” Sutes wipes his thumb across his lips. “I’ll see you later,” he says as he smirks and leaves the restroom.
Shea stares at the open door with his jeans and boxers still around his knees. Well, the season sucked, but the off-season is starting to look up.