Shiver

Chapter 1

Rakesh

Not for the first time today, my focus wavers. While I should be grading papers, I’m staring absently outside. The fall weather looks the same as any other time of year. At least, in the last six years, that’s what it feels like to me.

Rubbing my eyes, I look back down at the stack of papers. Grading undergraduate physics I students was the least exciting thing. I could likely grade every third one with a B, throw in a random A, fail 20%, and give the rest an average C and I’d be accurate in my assessment. This class was like every other year. Every other course.

Being a teacher’s assistant while I finish my last year of graduate studies is, well, dull as fuck. Sure, it’s this or research but I thought that I’d give myself a boost and go with something mindless so I can spend the rest of my time focusing my attention on my studies.

Except that I’m not focusing on shit.

“Rake.”

Glancing up, I watch through shrewd eyes as Felicia Fowler-Fausett walks into the office we share. While her graduate studies are different from mine, we both took up TA positions as opposed to research. She likely came to the same conclusion I had.

“Felicia,” I return.

She drops her messenger bag next to her desk and sits in the chair. Not for the first time I try to determine if she’s considered objectively attractive. Her hair is long, brown, straight, and she does nothing with it. She wears glasses but they aren’t big and gaudy like I see many science majors wearing.

She’s not overly thin or thick, about average height. Her eyes look a little lifeless and dull to me.

Turning back to my papers, I determine that I definitely can’t determine whether a woman is attractive since they’re simply not to me. I don’t even have the ability to appreciate anything about their bodies. I simply lack the facility to see them as attractive.

Maybe I’m broken.

Raising a brow, I find that I’m not actually looking at the papers, but staring outside. Again.

Frustrated, I close my eyes. When I open them, I see my uncle heading toward the arena. At first, I thought it might be weird attending school on the same campus where my uncle works but as it turns out, it’s rather nice. We occasionally have lunch together. I get free tickets to his games, and in turn, he has a precious three of my cards left for when one of his favorite athletes is failing beyond help and needs a miracle.

He disappears behind a big tree and out of sight as my attention wanders again. Sighing in frustration, I gather the papers that I need to grade and stuff them into my bag.

Felicia’s watching me as I shut my laptop with a snap. “You okay?” she asks.

I was pretty sure the girl had been flirting with me until she realized that I didn’t swing that way. The first time she offered to help me relieve my frustration and stress, I must have given her a horrified look. Thankfully, she burst out laughing. “Ah, never mind,” she’d told me.

I haven’t had the misfortune to deal with that again. However, she still asks me if there’s anything she can do to help my stress. I’m inclined to believe she does so more because she feels compelled to. Whether because we are officemates or it has something to do with her psychology degree, I’m not sure.

“Yes,” I answer as I slip my laptop into my bag. I’m not looking at her as I continue to pack up but knowing she’s watching me makes me meet her eyes as I get to my feet. “I’m bored. Can’t concentrate.”

Her lips tick up and once more, I wonder if she’s attractive. Is that supposed to be a flirty smile? Suggestive? Or maybe just sympathetic?

What if I was seeing it on a man?

It would be far easier to determine what’s behind it if it was on a man.

“See you later, then,” she says.

I give her a nod, sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, and breeze out of the office. As I head down the stairs from the third floor, I realize that I’d told her the truth, and that’s likely why I wasn’t able to concentrate.

I’m bored.

Not just with grading papers, but in general. I’m so damn bored!

When I step outside, a man crosses my path. He meets my eyes and gives me a smile. The way he blinks, all slow and flirty, lets me know that he’s found me appealing. Even as he walks by. That little look tells me there’s an invitation there should I happen upon him again.

My dick twitches and I raise a brow. The little twink is not at all my type; not what I’m usually interested in. But as I attempt to determine the last time I hooked up, I realize that even a twink was looking appealing right now. This boredom, this lack of getting my dick wet, is why I’ve been trying to determine if Felicia is attractive. When I’m horny, I try to dissect what makes women attractive.

Alright then. Time to find a fuck.

I head down the sidewalk, watching the men as I pass. No less than a dozen guys meet my eyes. Even straight men. They can’t help themselves; I know. I’ve been told I have a ‘quality’ that draws attention from anyone.

Because of this, sex is always easy to come by. Always has been. Since I was sixteen and ready to explore my cock with another person, it’s been easy. A suggestion. An invitation. I can’t remember the last time I had to lower myself to flirt.

I learned pretty quickly that sex that held no challenge was really damn boring. One might argue that an orgasm is an orgasm, but it wasn’t until I really gave myself something to work for that I found sex could be amazing. I finally found the high that everyone spoke about. Discovered how a touch can feel like fire.

But that’s just it. I can’t get that from someone willing to jump into my bed. I need to work for that shit.

And thus, my favorite pastime since the summer before college is messing with straight men. Those who are determined that they are straight and will never be interested in dick.

Every barrier of theirs I break down, from the first time they flirt as a joke or direct an innuendo in my direction, all the way to when they let me break their ass. It’s all a damn thrill. Every orgasm from those moments is phenomenal. Worth the effort.

Since my dick is already excited at the possibility, I change my trajectory and make my way to the campus quad. There are chairs spread over the grass between the buildings. And because five buildings point into this one area, it’s a prime place for watching and choosing my target.

Or my prey. Whichever.

Eastern State University is one of those places where there’s a decent balance between educational focuses. The graduate programs lean heavily toward their science programs. While the undergraduate studies are heavy on liberal studies and humanities. However, our sports teams are really the school’s pride and joy.

The hockey team that my uncle coaches has made it to the Frozen Four for the past three years, winning the championship two years ago. The school also has pretty decent soccer and swim teams.

Messing with athletes is always one of my favorite activities. So set in their masculinity that they barely even acknowledge when they’re turned on until their boner is basically poking their eyes out. Their freakouts after our hookups are worth recording.

Not that I do that. I have some decorum.

Since we’re nearing the break in the afternoon classes before the evening ones begin, I’m in the perfect spot to watch said athletes as they trek to their various practices. The swimmers, with their long, lean, tight bodies, will walk right in front of me to get to the building where the swimming pool is.

For a minute, I think about watching from the bleachers for a while. All the sexy men with their dicks on display in their tight little bathing suits. As long as I’m not watching their faces with the alien goggles or creepy caps on, I can enjoy the view of them all dripping wet.

Strangely enough, I find swimmers are rather easy to sway into a little dickish fun, whether they’re ‘into men’ or not. Maybe it’s the tiny brief that they have to wear in the water. Squeezes their balls a little too tightly.

Nope. I think I’ll stick with soccer. I’m amused when I realize that my decision is already half made for me by choosing an athlete. Because my uncle coaches hockey, I tend to leave them alone. You know, not wanting to fuck with the heads of my uncle’s pretties.

And, plus, I respect him. He’s a damn good coach and a great man. I don’t want to mess with his game.

Which is really too bad. Some of his players are big and muscular. Their asses are delightfully full and tight. They have thick legs and big arms. I find when the body is big and strong, their dicks follow proportionately.

Again, my dick likes where this train of thought is going and perks up to half mast. Sighing, even as I watch one of the enormous mountains of a hockey player drift toward the arena, I shift in my chair.

Down boy, I internally scold. That’s just not going to happen. We respect family.

I don’t have the best vantage point to watch for the soccer team. Only maybe a third of the team will pass me where I sit since I’m nowhere near the field. Just those who attend classes in the buildings surrounding me will walk by.

When the bulk of the students have moved between destinations and only the odd few roam the quad, I sigh and pull to my feet. I find I’m heading toward the hockey arena instead of my rented apartment just off campus.

As soon as I pull the doors open, I hear my uncle yelling drills at his players. I shiver in the cool air and take a deep breath; letting the deep chill settle in my lungs. While my family is from Colorado, we have a chalet in the mountains. Though I’ve never been into playing sports myself, I’ve always loved hockey. That might have something to do with my uncle, though.

Visiting the ice when I was a kid to watch my uncle in action was always one of my favorite pastimes. A good memory from childhood. I remember watching with wide-eyed wonder, then when I got older and discovered the wonderful world of physics, seeing the angles and calculating mass and velocity for the puck entertained me for hours.

The time I spent on the benches might explain my attraction to hockey players. But when I have that particular craving, I visit Eastern State’s rival hockey team for my target—the Arizona State Phoenixes. Yes, original, I know. And they’re based out of Phoenix.

I take a seat in the stands where I won’t be a distraction. Hockey players are big on superstition and I know for a fact that several on the team think it’s bad luck to be watched during practice. So if they see me here, it might affect their next game.

Superstitions are hard for me to believe in. I’ve seen exactly zero evidence.

The coach - my Uncle Adak - blows his whistle and hollers for a scrimmage. First line versus second line. Ryan Jipson, the center forward, should be the star of the show. But the true player to watch is Egon Wolf. When he showed up two years ago on scholarship, my uncle couldn’t stop talking about him for the next dozen times we had lunch.

“Such natural talent... Incredibly fast... A brick house at stopping... Thankfully he’s not set himself up to be an enforcer. He’s got the bulk to crush his opponents but the crazy speed on this boy is incredible…”

I made it a point to check out a few of Wolf’s first games, just to see what my uncle was talking about. He wasn’t wrong and Egon Wolf wasn’t a disappointment to watch.

In fact, as I stare at the ice, he intercepts a pass and is already gone as he shoots toward the other end. While he might have had a shot, he passes instead. Getting himself an assist when his forward finally catches up and makes himself open.

“What would it look like if there was someone who just clicked with him on the ice?” I murmur, already seeing the magic in phantom shadows if that were to happen.

“Nice assist, Wolf,” Coach Nemaczekk calls. “Move faster, Jipson.”

I smirk, watching as Jipson tips his head back and stares into the bright lights overhead with a frustrated sigh.