40 Is the New 30 – Part 3 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

-------------Grayson’s POV------------

The Arena smells the same way it always does in January: cold rubber, Zamboni exhaust, and the faint sweet rot of old hockey tape. The lights are harsh overhead, the crowd thin for a midweek non-conference game against some D-III school nobody’s heard of. Jake and I are in street clothes in the stands—jeans, hoodies, team jackets unzipped—because we’re not playing tonight. We’re just here to watch the freshmen get some extra reps after the whistle.

Jake’s knee is bouncing against mine, restless energy even though he’s off the ice. He’s scrolling through his phone, half-watching the game, half-looking for memes to send me later. I’m scanning the Wolverines’ bench out of habit, clocking the new guys.

Then I see him.

Number 17, right wing, dark-blond hair plastered under his helmet, skating low and fast on a change. He’s big for a freshman—6'3", shoulders that fill the jersey like he’s already grown into the program. He takes a pass in stride, dekes the D-man with a quick head fake, and roofs it top shelf on the goalie before the guy even sets. The small crowd makes polite noise. Jake lets out a low whistle.

“Kid’s got hands,” he says.

“Yeah.” I narrow my eyes. Something about the way he skates—long stride, explosive first step, that little shoulder dip before the shot—feels familiar. Like watching old game tape of someone I know.

The period ends. The teams file off. I pull out my phone, open Instagram, and search “Rowan” + “Michigan hockey.” It doesn’t take long. The first profile that pops up is private, but the bio says: Rowan K. | #17 | R/R | Michigan Hockey ‘29 | Lincoln Park → Ann Arbor

Lincoln Park.

My stomach does a slow flip.

I nudge Jake. “Look at this.”

He leans over, reads the bio, then scrolls to the public stories highlight. That’s Nate’s kid.

“Holy shit, Chris’s Nate?”

“Yeah,” I respond as I stare at the screen. “Rowan. Nate’s son. The one Chris mentioned at breakfast. The one who walked in on him in the shower.”

Jake starts laughing, quiet and disbelieving. “The universe is trolling us so hard right now.”

Down on the ice, the Zamboni’s making its pass. Rowan’s off the bench now, helmet off, hair damp and messy, laughing with a couple of other freshmen. He looks exactly like the twenty-years-younger version of Nate that Chris described—same build, same easy grin, same way of carrying himself like the ice belongs to him.

Jake bumps my shoulder. “We have to say something. Right?”

“Defo.”

The game ends 5-1. The freshmen stick around for optional skate. Jake and I head down to the tunnel entrance, flash our team IDs to security, and wait by the Zamboni doors.

Rowan comes off last, helmet tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed from the cold. He spots us—two guys in Michigan gear he doesn’t recognize—and slows.

“Hey,” I say, lifting a hand. “Great goal tonight. Top shelf was filthy.”

He stops, smiles a little warily. “Thanks. You guys on the team?”

“Grayson,” I say. “Forward. This is Jake, D-man.”

Rowan’s eyes flick between us, recognition dawning slow. “Wait. Grayson… like Chris’s Nephew Grayson?”

The nephew nickname hits like a slapshot. Jake chokes on a laugh.

“Yeah,” I say. “That Grayson. And you’re Rowan. Nate’s kid.”

Rowan’s face goes through about five emotions in three seconds—surprise, embarrassment, then a sheepish grin. “Fuck. Small world.”

“Tiny,” Jake agrees, grinning wide. “Chris told us about the bathroom incident. Legendary timing.”

Rowan groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can we pretend that never happened? Like, ever?”

“Nope,” I say. “It’s already lore.”

He laughs despite himself, the sound easy and warm. “Fair.”

We stand there for a second, the three of us in the tunnel, the ice still humming behind us.

Jake tilts his head. “You got plans tomorrow night? Late optional. We usually stay after hours—extra work on shots, edges, whatever. No coaches. Just us and the lights.”

Rowan looks between us, considering. “Yeah. I could use the reps. What time?”

“Ten,” I say. “Yost should be empty by then. Meet us at the players’ entrance.”

He nods, slinging his stick over his shoulder. “Deal. And… thanks for not making this weirder than it already is.”

Jake smirks. “No promises.”

Rowan laughs again, then heads toward the locker room, skates clacking on the rubber mats.

Jake turns to me once he’s gone. “We’re gonna destroy this kid on the ice tomorrow, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” I say, watching Rowan disappear around the corner. “But first we’re gonna see how much of his dad he’s got in him.”

The arena lights dim overhead.

Tomorrow night, the ice is going to be very interesting.

◆◆◆

The next night, The arena is dead quiet by ten. The janitors have clocked out, the lights are dimmed to half, and the ice gleams under the fluorescents like it's waiting for trouble. Jake and I show up early, bags slung over our shoulders, each with a spare stick and a couple of pucks. We lace up in the empty locker room, the air thick with that familiar chill and rubber smell.

Rowan arrives right on time, pushing through the players' entrance in a black hoodie and joggers, hair still wet from a shower, duffel in hand. He looks a little nervous at first, but his grin breaks through when he sees us already on the ice, skating lazy circles.

"Ready to get schooled?" Jake calls, flipping a puck onto his blade and juggling it mid-stride.

Rowan laughs, dropping his bag on the bench. "By you two? Please. I watched your tape from last season. That turnover against Ohio State was brutal."

Jake clutches his chest like he's wounded. "Low blow, freshman."

We start easy—passing drills, edge work, quick shots on the empty net. Rowan's fast, faster than I expected, with hands that snap the puck like it's on a string. He dekes around me once, leaves me flat-footed, and roofs one that whistles off the crossbar. Jake whoops from the blue line.

But after twenty minutes, the energy shifts, Rowan’s a cool guy and the chemistry is noticable. We're sweating under our jerseys, breaths fogging the air, and the empty arena feels like our own private rink. Like reading my mind, Jake suggests it first, that cheeky glint in his eye.

"Strip hockey?" he says, casual as if he's asking for a water break. "Miss, you strip. Hit the goalie, they strip. First to naked loses… or wins, depending on how you look at it."

Rowan pauses, stick balanced on his knees, cheeks flushing a little under the lights. "You serious?"

I shrug, grinning. "It's tradition. Builds character. Or something."

He looks between us, then nods slow, that same easy smile creeping back. "Fuck it. You're on."

We set up: one goalie at a time, rotating. Miss a shot, lose a layer. Hit the goalie (glove, blocker, pad—doesn't matter), they lose one. Gloves, socks, jerseys, pants, until we're down to skin.

Jake goes first as goalie. I take the shot—slapshot from the hash marks, rings the post. Miss. I peel off my gloves, toss them to the boards with a dramatic sigh. "Rusty."

Rowan skates up next, eyes focused. He winds up, snaps a wrister low glove side. Jake snags it clean. Miss. Rowan laughs, shakes his head, and drops his gloves too.

Jake's turn to shoot on me. He fakes high, goes five-hole. I kick it away with my pad. Hit. Jake strips his jersey slow, revealing a chest carved from endless lifts—broad pecs, defined abs, a faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his pants. He flexes once, just to be an ass. "Your loss, boys."

The game heats up fast. Misses pile up: socks gone, jerseys off. Rowan's body comes into view piece by piece—lean but powerful, shoulders wide from years on the ice, arms corded with muscle that flexes every time he grips his stick, similar to me and Jake. His chest is smooth, nipples pebbled from the cold, abs cut sharp enough to grate cheese on. When he loses his pants after a whiffed backhand (my blocker save), his thighs are thick, quads bulging, calves defined like he runs stairs for fun. Jock hug everything, the outline obvious even through the chill.

Jake's down to his jock next, body on full display—tall and solid, back rippling with muscle, ass round and firm from squats, legs like tree trunks. He misses a deke on Rowan and shimmies out of his jock first, standing there naked and shameless, dick swinging soft but heavy between his thighs, balls drawn up from the cold. "Your move," he says, skating backward with a wink.

I hit Rowan next—wrist shot to his chest protector. He strips his jock without hesitation, kicking them to the boards. Naked, he's a fucking sight: dick even thicker than Jake's, hanging long and heavy over full balls, foreskin covering the head, the whole package swaying as he adjusts his stance. His ass is perfect, high and round, dimples at the base of his spine. The cold makes everything tighten, but he owns it, laughing when Jake catcalls.

My turn to lose the last layer. I miss a snapshot on Jake—post again—and slide my own jock down, stepping out naked. My body's only slightly leaner than theirs, built for speed—defined chest, narrow waist, abs etched from core work, thighs strong from edges. My dick hangs semi-hard from the adrenaline, balls heavy and sensitive in the chill.

We're all naked now, sticks in hand, breath fogging, bodies flushed despite the ice. The game doesn't stop—it turns into chaos, chasing pucks, body checks that linger too long, skin slapping skin. Laughter echoes off the empty seats. Rowan's faster than us naked, dodging grabs, his ass flexing with every stride. Jake pins me once against the boards, his front to my back, dick pressing firm against my thigh, and whispers, "Game over."

We end up in a loose circle near center ice, sticks kicked aside, blades scraping as we slow to a stop. Bodies still slick from the skate, skin prickling in the cold. Jake bumps Rowan’s shoulder again—harder this time, playful aggression. “You’re quick as fuck naked. Bet you can’t even get hard in this freezer.”

Rowan smirks, chest rising fast, eyes flicking down to Jake’s junk then back up. “Wanna find out? Touch it. Ten seconds. See if it moves.”

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out, wraps his fingers around Rowan’s soft length—heavy, thick even flaccid, foreskin covering most of the head—and gives it a slow, firm tug. “One… two…” Rowan shifts his weight, thighs flexing. By five the shaft thickens noticeably, skin stretching as it lengthens and rises. By ten it’s half-hard, hanging thick and full, the foreskin retracting just enough to show a glossy slit. Jake lets go with a low whistle. “Jesus. You’re hung like a goalpost.”

Rowan laughs, a little breathless, then looks at me. “Your turn, Gray. Make him match.”

I step in close, our chests brushing. My hand closes around Jake’s rod—long and straight, already thickening from the cold and the dare. I stroke once, root to tip, feeling the vein pulse under my thumb. Jake’s breath catches; his length swells fast, curving upward, head flaring wide. “Fifteen seconds,” I say, counting slow while I pump him steadily. He hardens completely in my fist—thick base, long shaft, balls drawing up tight. When I release, it bobs heavy between his legs.

Jake grins, wicked. “Okay, rookie. Dare you to suck Gray for twenty. No hands.”

Rowan’s eyes darken. He drops to one knee on the ice—cold biting his skin—and leans in. His tongue flicks out first, flat and broad, lapping the underside of my shaft from balls to the cut head. Then his lips part around the crown, sucking gently, tongue swirling the ridge. I feel the wet heat close over me, inch by inch as he takes more—my thick length stretching his mouth, cheeks hollowing. He bobs slow, throat relaxing on the deeper passes. By twenty he’s got most of me buried, nose brushing my trimmed hair, saliva dripping down my sack.

I pull free with a wet sound, breathing hard. “Your go, Jake. Same rules. Twenty on Rowan.”

Jake kneels fast, eager. Rowan spreads his stance; Jake starts at the heavy balls, sucking one into his mouth, rolling it gently while his tongue traces the thick vein up the shaft. When he reaches the head he peels the foreskin back with his lips, exposing the slick crown, then sinks down slow. Rowan’s hips jerk forward; his massive tool disappears between Jake’s lips, stretching them wide. Jake works him deep, throat fluttering, saliva stringing when he pulls back for air. Rowan’s fingers flex in the air like he wants to grab Jake’s head but holds back.

“Fuck,” Rowan breathes when Jake finally releases him, shaft glistening, fully rigid now—longest of the three, thickest, veins standing out like ropes.

The dares keep coming, faster, dirtier. “Jerk each other for thirty,” Jake says. Rowan and I face off; hands wrap around each other’s tools—mine thick and cut, head broad and flushed; his massive, uncut, foreskin gliding over the swollen head with every stroke. We pump in sync, eyes locked, breaths fogging between us. Jake watches, stroking himself slow, length curved and leaking.

“Finger him,” I tell Jake at the next dare. Rowan braces on the boards, ass out—round, firm, dimples flexing. Jake spits on his fingers, rubs the tight ring in circles until it softens, then presses one knuckle-deep. Rowan pushes back, exhaling sharp. I join, adding my finger beside Jake’s, two now, opening slow, feeling the muscle yield and grip. Rowan’s thighs shake; his heavy balls swing with every twist inside.

“More,” Rowan rasps. Jake adds a third finger; I drizzle spit for extra glide. We work his tight hole open together—three fingers each, stretching the rim wide, curling against that swollen spot until Rowan’s tool leaks steady onto the ice, clear threads dripping.

The ice feels less cold now. Our bodies generate heat. Rowan turns, grabs my hips, pulls me close. “Enough games,” he says, voice wrecked. He kisses me hard—tongue deep, tasting like salt and want—then drops to his knees again, taking my thick shaft back in his mouth while Jake kneels behind him, spreading him wider.

We move to the blankets Jake spread earlier. Rowan lies back first, legs spread. Jake lubes himself with lube from his bag—his rod long, curved tool shining—then nudges the blunt head against Rowan’s hole. The ring parts slow, swallowing the beast, then the shaft inch by inch until Jake’s hips meet Rowan’s ass. Rowan arches, hands fisting the blanket, breath coming in short bursts as Jake starts rolling his hips—deep, steady drags that make Rowan’s massive tool slap his stomach with every thrust.

I straddle Rowan’s chest, feeding my length back into his mouth. He sucks eagerly, tongue pressing the underside, throat opening to take me deeper. Jake speeds up, skin slapping skin, the wet sound echoing in the empty arena.

They flip—Rowan on top now, sinking down onto Jake’s curved shaft, riding hard, ass rising and falling, the stretch visible around Jake’s base every lift. I move behind Rowan, hands on his hips, then press my own thick head to the already full rim. Rowan stills, exhales long. “Yeah. Do it.” I push steady—the ring yields again, stretching wide around both of us. The squeeze is crushing, velvet heat gripping tight as I slide in alongside Jake, filling Rowan completely.

We thrust in rhythm—me deep as Jake pulls back, then reverse—alternating so Rowan’s never empty. His body shakes between us, massive tool rubbing against Jake’s stomach, leaking steadily. He nuts first—shooting across Jake’s chest in heavy arcs, hole clenching rhythmically around us. The vise pulls Jake over—hips bucking up, flooding deep in spurts that overflow around our shafts. The added wetness sends me crashing after—thrusting through the waves, adding my own heat until everything slicks down Rowan’s thighs.

We collapse sideways, chests heaving, bodies gleaming. Jake drags the blankets over us. We lie tangled, skin sticking where it’s messy, the cold now a dull throb beneath the afterglow.

Rowan sighs long, head pillowed on my chest. “Fuck… that was insane.”

“No shit,” I say, fingers lazy along his spine. “Worth the Zamboni burn tomorrow.”

Quiet falls. Jake drifts off beside us, snoring softly. I stare up at the rafters, words slipping out easy.

“You know, Chris was the first person I ever told I was bi. London, shitty hotel coffee. He just listened. No judgment. Made it feel like no big deal.”

Rowan lifts his head, eyes steady in the glow. “Guy really does sound solid.”

“Yeah.” I grin faint. “If you ever got something like that on your mind… he’s the type who gets it.”

Rowan nods, gaze lingering thoughtful, then nestles back, breaths slowing.

Seed’s planted. Ice hums beneath us.

Night’s just the start.