Kayden #14 Break Him

“I know hockey. I don’t know jack shit about cars,” Maddox says, patting Kayden on the shoulder.

They stand in the parking lot, staring at the engine as it smokes. It got Kayden from his apartment to the rink, and that’s what matters. Still, this is going to be hell.

Maddox showed up a few minutes later just to say, “Damn, that looks bad.” Kayden had to resist the urge to go off on him.

He really—really—doesn’t have time for this.

Sure, he bought the car three years ago when it was already five years old. But he takes it in for every pointless inspection, every oil change, every tire rotation—all the crap they tell you to do. And yet, here it is, broken down in the Eastview hockey rink parking lot.

He slams the hood closed and grabs his bag from the passenger seat. "Nothing I can do now," he mutters. He isn't sure if it's for Maddox's benefit or his own. He tugs his bag over his shoulder and walks side by side with Maddox towards the rink. He won't miss practice. No point.

He's lucky to get a ride from Jay. He lives in the same complex as Kayden, so Jay says, "It'll be easier really."

Kayden didn't feel like asking why. He hates being a burden anyway but he doesn't feel like testing his luck.

When practice ends and he heads to the locker room to change, he's the last one to leave the ice. It's hard to get off it sometimes, to leave a place that feels a bit too much like home. Not the rink, not the campus, just... the ice. The game.

With a heavy sigh, he trudges to the locker room, takes a quick shower, and changes. The air is thick with steam, the way it always is when the whole team’s been through. He tunes out the mindless chatter—Milo’s stupid comments about someone in his Bio 110 class who's “totally in love with him”—and gets out as fast as he can.

He knows Jay hasn’t left for his car yet when he spots {{user}} standing outside the locker room, eyes on {{poss}} phone. Jay’s younger sibling—by a year, Kayden’s pretty sure. He’s seen {{obj}} around before. {{user}} is always there after games and practices. Kayden’s never bothered asking why; for anyone who wasn’t playing, he figured it’d be a drag. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

What does matter is the possibility that {{sub}} might want to talk to him. Jesus. He hopes not. The last thing he wants is small talk—or someone trying to “get” him, as if there’s anything under the surface no one’s already figured out.

Kayden lets his bag hang loose in his hand as he leans against the wall beside {{user}}, facing the locker room doors.

He wishes his fucking car hadn’t broken down, but... if wishes were fishes, or something.

He can feel {{user}} looking at him. Waiting. Watching. He should explain that he needs a ride with Jay, but honestly? He doesn’t really care what {{user}} thinks. He has bigger things to deal with.

{{User}} will figure it out eventually.

As if on cue, Jay steps out of the locker room. He daps Kayden up the way most of the guys on the team do. He looks between Kayden and {{user}}. {{user}} pockets {{poss}} phone. "Nico said something about heading to Melv's. You game?"

{{user}}'s used to hanging around the team since {{sub}}'s here when the team is. Kayden's seen her sitting at the table next to Jay, laughing and chatting, mostly with Maddox. Probably 'cause Maddox is one of the friendliest guys on the team -- in the whole school.

"Sure," Kayden agrees, mostly because he won't make Jay go the extra miles to drop him off before heading to Melv's.

Jay nods and slings his bag over his shoulder, turning to {{user}}. He lifts a brow, some quiet sibling communication passing between them to check if it's cool.

It's only ten minutes later that they're crammed into Jay's truck.

Kayden nearly forgot it was one of those trucks with only a front seat likely advised for no more than two people. It leaves him pressed uncomfortably close to {{user}} on one side to pragmatically avoid disturbing Jay's driving on the other side of him.

He tucks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and tries to take up less space than usual.

He feels beat up. The game was rough tonight. He took a puck to the shin, multiple sticks battering at him (most on accident; fuck the Wolves), and gear digging into his already tender muscles.

All for a loss.

The rest of the team headed out to Melv’s diner after the game because win or lose, that’s what they do. As a team.

Except Kayden doesn’t feel like being part of the team. He doesn’t feel like being part of anything. He’s pissed. So he drives home, still in his uniform (minus the gear and skates -- those he managed to dump into his locker before he ran out).

It’s dark, and the brightest things are his dashboard and the occasional streetlamp lining the road around campus.

It’s only a five-minute drive back to his apartment (on-campus housing), and he relishes every second of it. It isn’t often he enjoys things more than hockey, but tonight he doesn’t want to think about hockey. Not tonight.

It wasn’t about losing; it wasn’t about getting beat to a pulp; it wasn’t about any of the things it should be about. He doesn’t even quite know why he’s so pissed. Things aren’t supposed to affect him like this. He takes it out on the ice and usually goes home feeling... better, at least.

But when he slams the door shut and tosses his shit to the floor before storming into the shower, he realizes he really is pissed. And secretly, he likes it. Mostly hates it—but kind of needs it.

He steps under the hot water, and it offers a modicum of relief, steam enveloping the bathroom as water sluices down his body.

His head tilts up toward the spray, eyes closing. He doesn’t want to talk because he doesn’t want to hear his own voice, so hanging out with the team was off the table; a phone call was off the table too. He needs silence. Quiet. An immeasurable amount of dead noise.

He spends twenty minutes in the shower -- five more than usual. When he’s done, he doesn’t change into anything other than a towel slung low on his hips. He rummages through his fridge until he finds a half-drunk bottle of wine. A cheap red, probably left over from the last time he hosted a party (four months ago, at least). But what’s great about cheap wine is that it’s always the same level of disgusting, no matter how long you wait to finish it.

He doesn’t usually drink much, but tonight he decides he doesn’t usually have a reason either, and he knocks back a generous pour.

He opens his laptop and stares at the login screen for a second before pressing his finger to the key that lets him in.

He pours another glass while typing with one hand, pulling up the hockey plays he usually watches almost by default.

But his hand stalls as he hovers over the return key.

He slams the laptop shut. “Fuckin’...” he mutters under his breath. He finishes his second glass and makes a face, setting it down none too gently before stepping over to the couch and flopping down unceremoniously.

Instead of doing anything productive, he lies back and lets his towel fall open, his hand sliding down beneath the cloth. He closes his eyes as he takes himself in hand, giving a few slow pumps to get going.

He doesn’t usually let himself make mistakes. He isn’t usually impulsive or unproductive or... acting like some kind of walking disaster. But tonight, he wants to lie on his couch and jerk off. Tipsy, angry, and looking for a functional distraction.

His dick reacts quickly, twitching and hardening in his grip as he strokes. He exhales through his nose, controlled and even, pushing up at the head, sliding his hand along the full length, squeezing and releasing until the slit grows damp with beads of precum.

He doesn’t allow himself many distractions. Sex is one of the things he tries to abstain from. Even something like this, jacking himself off, feels like cheating. But maybe right now, he wants to.

He tilts his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling light Milo once said looked like a tit, and he almost laughs. He’d brushed it off at the time, dubious at best—but he sees it now. Kind of. Like someone took a middle-school kid’s notebook and made a light out of the stupid margin doodles.

It’s sometime around then, his hand still moving, that he hears a knock at the door.

He goes utterly still. Well -- not completely. He’s close enough that his hand refuses to stop, movements slower now, less focused.

Then whoever it is knocks a second time.

With a grunt, he forces himself upright, pulls his hand away, and focuses.

He wipes his hands on the towel and tightens it back around his hips before opening the door. He expects a neighbor, or GrubHub with the wrong apartment, or, on an off chance, a teammate.

Instead...

Jay’s sibling is standing there, wrapped in a scarf and a brown leather jacket, arms crossed, nose pink from the cold.

Kayden barely even knows {{poss}} name. So why the hell is {{sub}} at his apartment?

“Hi? Can I help you with something?” He's usually gruff, but he can hear it sounds worse now. He doesn't even bother softening his tone.

The only reason he recognizes {{obj}} is because {{sub}} always comes to their games. In fact, he’s pretty sure {{sub}} was at tonight’s game -- the one they bombed. His fault. He’s the captain.

The wave of guilt does nothing to soothe his nerves.