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Steady grunts of exertion accompanied the rhythmic clanking of weights that permeated the silence of the empty stadium basement. On a lone leg extension machine in the middle of the weight room sat a tall, shirtless woodland caribou, heaving as he worked his quadriceps to a point of painful exhaustion. After countless repetitions, the reindeer bent over and zipped open a duffel bag dyed in the putrid pear green of the locker room walls. He pulled a small notebook, labelled "Basil", out of the side pocket, opening it up to a calendar month before marking a series of short tallies with the attached pen. When the cervid stood up from the machine, he strolled to his locker, shrugged on a large tank top - the easiest garment to pull around his antlers - and laid it over his sweaty, aching pecs. As he left the dark building, he locked every obscure door the arena staff asked him to back when Coach granted him permission for these late weekend sessions.

When Basil got home, he strode through the door of his apartment, shrugged off his workout clothes, and collapsed on his bed. His eyes lazily crept up to read the bold digital red of his alarm clock. The time read 10:43 p.m.. Number 43. His main assignment for tomorrow: Richard Holden. The caribou mentally ran through some brief plays Coach set out for the next game before he smiled. His teammates just couldn't get enough of that Holden asshole, and everything he pulled that the refs let him get away with. "Rich on the game, Dick on the ice," the slogan in the league went. Dick Holden, the triple A asshole.

Holden... Dick... Basil smirked. Maybe in his dreams, at this point. The deer sighed and skated a hand down to his hardening wood. He ran through some of the usual fantasies: the tall bear on the first defense pair with the big ass; the fluffy mink goalie coach with the adorable Midwest accent; and the cute Eurasian wolf he played on the same line as, roomed with on the road, and, matter-of-factly, caught fucking a girl before. Fuzzy memories of Larry the lupine transformed into another kind of grunt out of the muscular reindeer, followed by three quick spurts on his chest and abs, and then a slow dribble of seed down the length of his penis. This afterglow accompanied Basil into the shower, where his lust remained as he scrubbed deep into his fur. After checking his muscle tone and injury healing progress in the mirror, the caribou crawled into bed, switched on the TV, and lay naked under warm blankets until sleep overtook his senses.

---

"Hey there. Come on in."

Basil stepped into Coach Wilbur's office with his breakfast in hand, still bagged from the drive-through line. Upon instruction, he took a seat at the desk facing the bear.

Wilbur peered over his reading glasses as he set down the newspaper. "Dunno if you've been listening to insiders, but the Heroes might be shopping around Kaz to bolster their D."

"Okay." Basil's heart rate rose at the mention of the major league affiliate.

"And you know where Kaz plays?"

The caribou didn't have to think. He inadvertently memorized every year's Heroes roster in his five years toiling in their development system. "Winger."

"Ye-up, and none of their scratches play forward."

Basil narrowed his eyes. "Wait. Are you telling me I'm getting called up?"

"No." The bear lifted a mug to his muzzle and set it down after a drink. "I'm telling you there's an opportunity this month."

Basil tapped fingers on the bottom of his seat. "But Larry's-"

"What?" Wilbur cut him off. "Larry's younger, yes."

The reindeer now leaned forward, intently.

"But the Heroes are young, too. I talked with McClement about what he's looking for, should the trade happen."

Basil waited for the bear to continue, but he didn't. "Yes?"

"And he'd want the best winger we got." Wilbur studied the player like a textbook.

"But... why are you telling me this again?"

"Because you're my guy." The coach responded with a bit of a growl in his voice. "I chose you as my captain, and you've got NHA-caliber work ethic." His eyes glimmered. "And you remember when that Russian kid took your place last year."

The caribou sat silently for a moment. "What do I have to do then?"

"Play like the best winger on this team."

---

Many who worked under Coach Wilbur's system would describe him as a players' coach. The bear's lenient philosophy ran through his quick, direct speeches to the three broad tenets eternally sketched onto the dressing room whiteboard: Play fast, play smart, and play like our net's empty. Regardless of the head coach's focus on the idea of a democratic dressing room, the bear felt some strong emotions about losing. Early practices became much more common following game day after a loss.

Wilbur glanced over his clipboard as Basil stepped into the locker room. "Hey Cap, finish your muffin and get out there on the fuckin' ice."

"Hi Baz! 'Sup, bitch?" The caribou's linemate cried out in his slight southern accent across the hum of muted, 9 a.m. conversation.

Basil parked himself next to the eagle centre. "Jet," he grinned as they slapped hands.

The eagle, half dressed, proceeded in taping his stick and went on. "You ready to get fucked today? Willy was pretty fired up after Saturday's loss." He lowered his voice. "I wish the guy would chill a bit. It's a development league, not a goddamn boot camp."

The caribou shrugged. "He's usually pretty fine. Besides, we survived the practice after 'eight-two'. Have you seen the papers yet?"

"Oh, god! Don't remind me about 'eight-two'! But naw, what'd they say?"

"Dreyer called us a farce."

The bird paused for a moment and bent over to tie one of his skates. "The fuck's he talkin' about? We're miles over .500!"

"Damn right we are, but the Yellow Jackets are leading the division."

Jet scoffed. "Yeah? The Yellow Jackets got more major league than our entire organization! It's a miracle we're ahead of the Terriers, even."

"And we're up against the Griffins today."

"Well, I got that one marked on my calendar. I have a bone to pick with that fox, Steadman." The eagle's face twisted in anger as he laid a hand over his taped up knee. "That bitch has fucked me over in more ways than one. You and Kline were the only reason we took it to O.T. when I was out."

"Mmm."

"I've been waitin' the past two weeks to take these damn Griffins and kick the everloving shit out of 'em. Show those fags that they can't fuck with-". The eagle suddenly clapped his wings and shouted to the doorway. "Eyyyy! There's ol' Fangs!"

"Hey Larry." Basil smiled sincerely. The wolf might be gaining on him on the depth chart, but he couldn't deny there was some chemistry in their friendship.

The bundled up wolf sauntered over to his linemates with a tray of coffees in hand. "Bros, we gonna win this practice or what?"

Jet cackled earnestly at the low effort joke. "Fuck yeah we are! This bird's at the centre of attention, baby!" He flexed, and looked side to side at his teammates. "With two real motherfuckin' wingmen!"

"Hell yeah!" Larry beamed as he bumped the fists of the other two men.

The conversation hit a lull when the three sat down to finish dressing, so Basil slid a look at Eurasian wolf. The twenty year-old, despite being eight years the caribou's junior, still had much of the same bulk as the older man. His arms and chest were fairly built, above thighs which could probably crush a melon. Despite standing in at six feet tall - slightly short for a hockey player - the lupine's abdominal strength allowed him to skate much faster than his peers. Basil didn't have a sexual preference for height, but his eyes were trained less on the figure as much as they focused on the cute face: the way the wolf tilted his muzzle when he smirked, or furrowed his brow when he was flustered, or how those piercing green eyes shone when the tigress got him off. It was a shame Larry was this year's prime candidate to snatch away a potential job from the cervid.

Basil placed a glove over his crotch as he threw on his olive green practice jersey marked with the white "C". He stood up abruptly, attached his helmet strap and clicked on the metal clasps securing his antlers. "See you on the ice, guys!" he called to the emptying dressing room and marched to the rink.

Legion practices often consisted of tuning basic skills, with segments of larger team tactics organized later on into the session. Free practice served as a reward for satisfying the coach's expectations. These demands, though often optimistic, were sane, given Wilbur's requirement of presenting positive results to the major league team.

This Monday morning was one of those days. Shooting repetitions followed losses where the opposing goalie stood on his head, and intense skating drills on the back of particularly bad blowouts. Today's practice readily incorporated both, leaving Legion forwards panting as they flew through the motions: skating from the goal line, hooping around the perimeter of the faceoff circle, breaking off to hit the blue line, cutting back, receiving a pass, and firing on net. Each line repeated this task in their assigned corner of the ice, recurrently shooting on their side's respective goalie. Basil always played vigorously through any chance to demonstrate his efforts, though today he felt the desire more than usual. To join that group of six hundred and twenty players in the majors had to be a priority. Eventually, the head coach whistled them out of this ritual.

"That's what a six-to-one loss should feel like," Wilbur scowled as the team huddled around him, "that was a fuck all effort from you boys on Saturday!"

Sullen agreement hung in the air around centre ice.

"And you guys know what you are," the bear continued, "you're thirteen, seven, and three: four points off of the top of the division with one game in hand. That's twenty-seven points, and one up on the Colonels, who we play Wednesday night. We're still second in the Atlantic!" He paused to let this statement sink in. "I know you boys bleed green and yellow, but I'd like to see your passion on both ends of the ice, giving leads to Ziggy before he bails us out!"

The aforementioned otter remained staring at the ice behind his goalie mask.

"The papers get part marks. That was not how a division contender plays. We are, however, a division contender!" Wilbur cast a stern gaze over the crowd of olive green jerseys. "That's what I want tonight on home ice. Alright, let's focus on the powerplay now."

---

The locker room showers were comically revealing, housed by a small square room containing no stalls, separated from the main changing area by an extended wall. Paint wasn't exactly peeling off the walls, but renovating the arena clearly wasn't on the top of the city's list of priorities. After all, the minor league Legion were the most prestigious team to play on this ice.

Jet emerged from the showers into a room of chattering teammates already dressed and preparing to leave. Approaching his spot between Basil and Larry, he shed his towel, compelling the caribou to avert his eyes. "That was a rough one, eh?"

"Mhm," Larry answered, "but it got me real fired up!"

Basil chimed in too. "Yeah, we're gonna kill them tonight!"

The generic statements of camaraderie turned a couple smiling heads towards the top line, before those guys returned to their previous conversations.

"Good, good," Jet grunted as he sat down.

After a couple more minutes of idle conversation, Larry slid into his coat. "So, how's the ol' ball and chain?"

Jet snickered at the lupine's sardonic smirk. "Faith? She's outta town," he divulged as a smirk crept onto his fat beak, "and you know what that means!"

Basil wore an artificial grin. "New bitch?"

"Yep! This bird's gettin' his dick wet!" the gregarious Jet yawped, about thirty percent too loud to a dressing room with most of its players and coaching staff still present.

"You are sex crazed," Larry commented, not while entirely hiding his interest. "You got a mistress for tonight?"

"Aha! Today and tonight: pre-game and post-game. Pussy or ass, depending on how we do."

"Niiiice. She a nice gal?"

"Oh, hell yeah. Millie's a deer," Jet announced, nudging Basil, "but she's got hooters bigger than my owl."

"How big we talking?" Larry asked with perked ears, which drooped when the eagle cupped his wings out about a foot away from his chest. His wedding ring flashed in the light when he made a squeezing gesture. "Yeah fuckin' right!"

"Yuh-huh! She could hold a stick and take a clapper with 'em!"

"When they're that big, its-"

"Godly." Jet cut the lupine off. "And over dinner she told me all about her friends and how their titties are just as big and bouncy and how guys can hardly keep their eyes offa' them!"

"Yeah, okay, boob man. And did they roll around in wheelchairs because of their broken backs?" Larry tittered during Jet's story.

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you totally care so much about the backs of women when you still jerk off to them. I saw you going to town on her tits when we went to that strip club that one time!"

"It's different when I'm horny! Do you think any guy would turn a girl down when she's sticking them in your face like that?"

"Maybe you should get off your fuckin' high horse and let me enjoy big fat tits so you can go be morally conscious on your own time without harassing me about it!"

"Dude, I don't care if you like fake-ass sluts! Just don't be a fuckin' dick pretending you get all the pussy in the world!"

"Oh, I would if they were as good! Girls up here are way less fuckable than the ones in Houston."

"I guess the guys aren't, then, considering how at your birthday party your wife kept trying to hop on my-"

"Guys!" Basil interrupted, on account of the heads looking at them. The two death stares now focused on him, so he switched to a satirical tone. "Cool it with the misogynist remarks!"

"Oh, pff." Jet's eye twinkled. "I'm sure you appreciate a good pair of titties, Baz. When I met Millie in physio for my leg, I gave her your number just in case..." he scratched his beak. "Y'know, deer and all."

That's where those unknown calls were coming from, thought Basil. "Thanks," he replied, in full monotony.

"She's been waitin' a while for a new guy, and she rang me up last night askin' me to come down. Your pal Jet's gonna perform in more than just a hockey game tonight! Dunno if you want a shot at her."

"I'm good," Basil insisted.

Larry cleared his throat. "Ah, can I grab that number too? Just to check and see if you're lyin' about those tits..."

The eagle looked amused. "See? Jet's always right."

---

Those five hours between the end of practice and a home game's first puck drop were valuable preparation time for Basil. After he left the rink to grab a hearty lunch, he would head home to play video games, watch a movie, practice yoga, take a nap, or whatever he felt would best clear his mind. He may not have played a truly meaningful game of hockey since two Aprils ago, when the Legion made a second round run, but he still fixated on every game as if the block "C" on his chest could sway the outcome alone.

Basil made a sacrifice choosing to focus on hockey, rather than basketball, back in his junior year of high school. Going undrafted in all three years of his eligibility didn't prevent him from eventually earning six figures and a fairly household name in a city with two larger professional sports than hockey. However, this near-idyllic career necessitated an offering of any fulfilling social life. The ultimate reward of realized childhood dreams was always just out of reach.

The caribou also wanted to find a man to settle with, but he was probably closer to the majors than he was to obtaining a boyfriend. He was out to five people still in his life: his parents and his bi college buddies. There was one more person on this short list, until the caribou's ex-boyfriend went off and hitched himself to some kinky fox in France who made porn.

Basil parked at the players' entrance of Fanta Coliseum beside the truck of a friend on the fourth line, not far from where the opposing team's bus was stationed. With earbuds plugged in to some rap rock, he advanced into the stadium and down a walkway echoing with the chatter of fans in the concourse above.

The dressing room still dripped with the smell of sweat from the morning's practice, though its occupants seemed content enough. Adjacent to Mason adjusting his goalie pads and beside Jake pulling on his pants sat Larry, still in his coat, gripping a puck and ogling it like an ancient relic.

"Hey!" called Basil, yanking out one of his earbuds.

The young wolf inclined his muzzle to meet the caribou's eyes, still fondling the puck. After a split second, he beamed. "Yo!"

Basil sat in his spot a seat away from him. "What's with the puck?"

"Oh. We're facing the Griffins and-"

"Right. Felix's old team."

Larry flipped the puck horizontally to reveal a taped edge written on in Sharpie. "His first goal in triple A."

"He gave it to you?"

"Yup!" Larry's ears shot straight up and his muzzle betrayed some sentimentality. "It's been in my bag for three years! He gave it to me to motivate me."

"To get here?"

"And further."

"Mhm." Basil gazed away from the wolf. "Ah, well, the blogs say you're a shoo-in next September."

"Not unless I can get there by the playoffs."

The caribou tried to hide his sulking. "Alright, second round pick."

"Hey," Larry's eyes were serious, "I'm sure there's room for two."

Basil affected a smile and nodded. Larry was clearly in the dark on the news front.

---

The clean white of the ice was illuminated only by reflections of ads plastered above the suites high up in the seating area. With a smaller crowd than normal - expected for a Monday night game - cheering for the pre-game affairs of the Legion was muted. However, the booming voice of the regular announcer furnished the dead air as the old badger cried out the starting lineup over some repetitive hip-hop hype up track.

"Centreman, number ninety-four!" thundered the voice through the arena's speakers, "Jet! Clark!"

Ahead of Basil, the eagle bounded under the inflatable tank and onto the ice, twirling his stick and raising it towards a section of the crowd before taking his place on the blue line next to the starting defencemen.

"Playing right-wing, number twenty-three: Laaaaurence Kline!"

The jumbotron played a similar six second video to the rest of the announced players, with a showcase of Larry's highlights over his fifty-odd games in a Legion uniform, capped off with a glamour shot of him stickhandling with a lupine grin. While Larry skated out to stand beside Jet, a couple wolves howled in the stands.

Basil tensed up, stepping up to the entrance of the tunnel and high-fiving the enthusiastic cubs leaning over the railing.

"Left-wing! Number forty-two! Your captain: Baaaasiiil Lewis!"

The caribou lifted his stick and nodded to the closest section of seats. It made sense that the cheers were whopping relative to the crowd, based on the time he spent with this team. Basil glided over beside Larry, kicking up a bit more snow than usual when he stopped, just to be theatrical. "The Griffins have got to be one of the smallest teams in the league, eh?"

Larry squinted at the line of five dressed in white, blue, and gold on the opposing blue line, still easily visible for the wolf due to his night vision. "The Sabres are younger, Coach said!" He yelled it over the chanting of the fans in attendance.

"Starting in net for the Legion, number one: Mason Zigada!"

Basil bounced on his skates. "Sure, but we're faster than any of 'em!"

"And put your hands in the air for the rest of your London Legion!"

---

Basil inhaled the crisp, frigid air of the rink from his position while Jet lined up with the opposing centre for the puck drop. Holden - the hyena beside him - leaned towards the play far more than the caribou, occasionally edging his skate across the line but quickly yanking it back whenever the referee looked in his direction. Larry smirked and spoke something hushed to the player he lined up with, behind the ref's back.

The marten holding the puck declared the typical formalities to Jet and the moose he faced, before bending over, reaching out his arm, and dropping the puck.

The two centres shoved into each other, clashing their sticks over the dot and digging in their skates into the ice for grip. Before Basil could rush the draw, the Griffin moose found control of his stick under Jet's shoulder, and flicked it back to a ready defenceman.

Basil muscled his way around the growling hyena, extending his stick in an attempt to push the puck off of the big tiger carrying it. The tiger drew back and passed it to the other defenceman, where the Griffin mink carried the puck into the Legion zone. Squeezing by Larry near the benches and heading towards a ready defender, he slid the puck horizontally to the centre, and the moose, relatively uncovered, managed a wrist shot right into Mason's glove.

On the following draw, Jet won it back to Mike, the bear assistant captain on defence, who bounced it off the back board to his partner, a panther named Chasin. The cat transferred the puck behind the net. Skating backwards, his eyes lit up, and he hammered a quick pass to Jet, who moved towards the edge of the zone.

The eagle glanced down to collect the puck, somewhat poorly aimed into his skates, before he squawked in surprise. A solid two hundred fifty pounds of tiger rammed into the bird, sending him sprawled out on his backside and the puck free just inside the blue line.

Basil, still paying attention to Holden, drifted back towards the goal, letting Larry apply pressure to the tiger and the Legion defenceman supervise the other Griffin forwards. Seeing no simple options, the tiger passed to the mink, who carried up further up ice before attempting a pass between Mike's legs to the winger breaking off behind.

Luckily, the bear read this play, and intercepted the puck to bounce it over to Larry, who was a stride ahead of his man. Pulling the puck to his right, he ducked around the tiger and slid it back onto his forehand, breaking across the red line with Basil and a now-recovered Jet. They then executed a set play where Larry dropped puck back diagonally for Basil, allowing for the caribou to cross over with Jet and shoot it into the goalie's pads for a hopeful rebound.

However, as Basil fired a solid wrister on net, Holden was not only pushing Jet out of the slot, but also actively shoving him away with his stick. Larry wasn't fast enough to converge at the net, so the mink collected the puck in front of the crease, glanced up, and threw a stretch pass to one of the three Griffins in the neutral zone. The pass somehow sailed wide of all three of the players, forcing the ref to blow the play dead on an icing.

Basil skated back to his team's bench, briefly congratulating Larry and the two defenceman on their play, before he heard shouting behind him.

"Fuck off, mutt!" grunted Jet to a snickering Holden, as a zebra linesman escorted him away from the hyena and back to the Legion.

As the second line swapped out to tackle the cornered Griffin first line, the three forwards perched on the bench together.

"Dude, you got rocked," commented Larry.

"That was so fuckin' interference by that Dick fucker! After the play he told me he fucked my mom and shit," Jet protested, grimacing, "and I told him my mom's fuckin' dead!"

"Hey, they're just trying to rile you up," replied Basil.

"You don't need to tell me that again, Baz. Hyenas are everything bullshit about this league!"

"We're a minute into this game, so maybe calm down, pal."

Wilbur floated over to the three. "Mhm. Good work turning that play around, guys."

Basil's line played three more uneventful shifts in the first while they slightly outshot the Griffins. With one minute left in the period, Wilbur sent them out for an offensive faceoff.

On this play, Jet pressured the Griffins' second line centre past the faceoff dot, so Basil could grab the puck and pass it back to Mike. The bear slightly bobbled it, but managed to keep it within the blue line and send it diagonally to Larry. The wolf gathered the puck on the opposite wall and deked around the left winger for space in the middle of the ice.

After scanning the play and sizing up the one Griffin bounding at him, Larry hurled the puck towards the net. Jet, screening the goalie, hauled his stick down. The puck ricocheted off of the eagle's stick, changing course to slip between the standing netminder's legs and into the back of the net. The goal light flashed on behind the play and a loud siren wailed through the scream of the crowd.

"Let's fucking go!" Basil cheered in surprise, hustling over to hug the eagle with his teammates.

"That was all you, buddy!" Jet shouted to Larry.

The wolf responded by hopping up and throwing an arm around the larger man's shoulder, wagging his tail like a jet engine.

In no other job would Basil get to hug hot guys as frequently as they scored. The elation of a goal was joined by the faint smell of earlier sex on Jet, which resulted in two different arousals that followed Basil back to centre ice to take the next draw.

When the horn blared again to signal the end of the period, the more dangerous of those two excitements faded for the caribou. The same could not be said for Jet, whose jock cup hardly covered his enjoyment in the whooping dressing room.

"Wish we had cheerleaders here like I did back in Houston!" the eagle clamoured, perhaps a bit delirious from the goal.

"Oh dude," began Brandon, a cougar on the second line, "I went to school here, and we had the hottest fucking cheerleaders. After every goal I scored they'd bring me to the back and give me the best head I've ever..."

Basil tuned the guy out and looked to Larry, who was returning from throwing some wrapper in garbage. "These guys and sex, huh?"

"Oh, they never stop." The lupine looked a bit silly dressed fully in uniform from the waist-down but only wearing a Tupac t-shirt above. "Good play off the draw there. You an' Mike were great getting me the puck like that," he commended with a toothy grin.

The head coach strode into the room then, examining its inhabitants and pausing once he saw Larry. "Hey, Fangs! Keep playing stellar out there!"

Larry shot him finger guns back. "Gotcha, chief!"

---

The Griffins mostly dominated the second period, outshooting the Legion ten-to-six but not scoring. Two of the Legion shots were credited to Basil, though he couldn't manage to beat the Griffin goalie. Jet took a hooking penalty before the second intermission to narrowly prevent a goal by the other team. Nevertheless, the Legion remained in high spirits skating back onto the ice for the third period.

Coach played Basil on the first penalty kill unit with Oskari, the defensively dependable lynx centre from the third line. His teammate won the draw, allowing Basil to handle the puck and carry it up the neutral zone.

Facing the pressure of three players at the blue line, Basil lightly flicked the puck to the back of the zone, killing some time and allowing his team to prepare for an upcoming rush. A Griffin defender grabbed the puck, scanning the ice to set up a chance in the limited time he had to work with. Basil crept up into the offensive zone, edging towards the puck carrier but stretching a stick, hoping to cover any pass options behind him.

The rabbit jerked his head to the right, clearly attempting to fake the caribou out and open up an opportunity, so Basil feigned a movement, but maintained his balance and flashed up his stick in the opposite direction. The rabbit attempted to lift a pass across the zone to another defender and then froze like he was caught in the glare of headlights.

Basil lucked into knocking the puck out of midair onto his backhand, not quite in a prime scoring area but still alone within a faceoff circle, with only the rabbit near him.

"Here! Here!" Oskari slammed his stick on the ice, leaping past the blue line and readying himself in the slot.

Basil wristed a pass that was pretty well on target, except it never reached its target. A lone hyena rushed behind the lynx and locked sticks with the slower cat, forcing the puck to fly crosswise out of the zone and right onto the stick of a cheetah dressed in white.

The cheetah sailed through the neutral zone, catching a Legion defender flat-footed after the unexpected turnover and making some obscene back-and-forth deke and easily rushing by him. The other Legion defender skated back, leaning towards the cheetah but also covering his pass option on the two-on-one. He realized that the cat was indeed passing, but his intuition came late, as the puck already sailed under his stick when he dropped to cover it.

Mason shifted into position to block a shot from the Griffin centre who now held the puck.

Making a similar fluid move to his teammate, the moose appeared to shoot low, dropping Mason onto his knees, before hurling the puck back across the ice for the cheetah to slap it in.

Basil only made it back to his own blue line by the time the Griffins shrieked to celebrate their goal in the quiet arena.

"Fuck," mumbled Basil as he retreated to the bench.

"Fuck!" cried Jet as he slammed the door of the penalty box shut.

Despite allowing the Griffins to tie the game, the Legion found a new momentum and outshot the visiting team. Wilbur ran the top line on a powerplay halfway through the frame, where Jet supported a variety of chances from Basil and Larry, with the wolf ringing a close one off the crossbar. However, their efforts were in vain.

With under three minutes left in the period, Basil and the rest of the first line rested on the bench while the top defensive pairing stayed out for a play starting in the Legion zone.

The Tuesday papers would later describe this goal as "inevitable". The Griffins set up a cycle, playing their defencemen and wingers to the corners of the zone and using their centre's movement to pull Mike or Chasin away from their coverage. Once a potential passing lane formed between the Griffin left defenceman and their centre, Chasin drifted in to cover Mason's right, allowing the winger to escape into the corner. The defenceman rung it around the boards to the open winger, who pulled it around the net and flipped the puck right onto the centre's stick.

The lion flicked his wrist, and the puck soared right above Mason's swiping glove. The Griffins now held the lead.

With about thirty seconds remaining in the game, Wilbur sent out the top line and pulled the goalie onto the bench for an extra attacker.

"Hey!" Basil called as he stepped onto the ice.

Looking up, the Legion defender sent a fast vertical pass to the caribou. Basil took the puck in and glanced up to see Larry, who was covering the left side for him, crossing over with Jet. Basil entered the zone, wound up, and took a slap shot that sailed far over the net. Jet collected it in the left corner and sent it around to Larry, who immediately took a shot. The puck careened off of the goalie's blocker and to the right side of the zone. Larry rushed to pick it up, but a fox defenceman arrived there first and tucked it back away from him.

With five seconds left to go, the wolf reached a stick around to poke the puck off, not quite wrapping his other arm around the fox but still immobilizing him. Suddenly, the fox's eyes widened. Larry shoved himself to the glass to protect from a coming impact.

A massive, muscular eagle threw his whole weight against the fox, utterly flattening him against the ice to the sound of a holler from the crowd. The nearby referee whistled to signal the end of the game alongside the final buzzer, but Jet was busy sprawled out on the ice, wrestling with the defenceman. After a few more urgent whistles, Basil and Brandon managed to tug Jet off of the opposing player. The other linesmen finally stepped in to separate the two teams, threatening suspensions if the fighting proceeded after the game.

"He fucked my wife," grunted Jet, as Basil let go of him leaving the offensive zone, "and I wanted to fuck him up."

Basil contemplated that for a moment, glancing back to see the fox standing, but unsteadily grasping onto the boards for support. "It was a clean hit, I guess."

---

"Well, to start, we looked good!" Wilbur spoke to a quiet dressing room. "You guys outplayed 'em for most of that game, but we're fucked if we only score one. We've scored four in our last three. One of those was a win, but we're an offensive team. That ain't sustainable. Think on that. Bus leaves at ten tomorrow."

Basil undressed faster than most of the team, opting for a brief shower. He got to his car without much post-game conversation, apart from commenting on the game for the few specialized reporters paying attention to a triple A hockey contest.

Despite living in a fairly nice complex and having more than enough funds to afford a house in the area, Basil always kept his room spartan and his bags packed. Minimal preparation was required for tomorrow, given a single game road trip around Lake Erie to Cleveland for Wednesday night. They would then return to London for another home game and set out to to Montréal for a date with the Citadelles.

The caribou laid down, tired but not quite ready to sleep. His phone buzzed briefly to alert him that the Colonels lost to the Comets. That game ended in overtime, so the Colonels still received an extra point for pushing Orlando past regulation, ultimately tying with the Legion in the standings. Basil rubbed his eyes.

It was nearing the middle of a freezing December night, but Basil still decided to put on a small frozen dinner and eat on the couch front of his TV. He opted to search for some inane sitcom or movie, rather than the West Coast major league games he usually watched that started around now due to the time zone difference.

He settled on an action comedy with a wolf he liked. The guy was in his mid-thirties but still retained much of the cuteness of his youth. At some point in the film, the wolf and his otter friend were talking to some girls on a beach, when a horse and a fox approached them, challenging them to a beach volleyball match.

Basil bit his lip, feeling his cock start to harden. He knew this scene well, having shot many loads to the flexing muscles of the sweaty guy back when he was just learning of his sexuality. The main wolf wore a fairly modest swimsuit, while the otter fit into a snug pair of briefs that tightly gripped his ass and showcased a bit of bulge up front, surely for some female viewers. In some decade-old fantasies for Basil, these swimsuits would be gone, with the otter on all fours, muzzle full with the dick of the womanizing wolf. The boys would thrash about in the sand, play fighting until the wolf pinned the otter and humped urgently under his tail, to the pleasure (or horror) of the surrounding crowd.

Sometimes, Basil would be right there on the beach, standing with the tight briefs cupping his ass. Maybe he would hold a beach ball, or some other similar prop that the otter would casually take and discard as he sensually slithered onto the reindeer's side.

"Sorry, Carolyn! Just give us a sec!" the wolf would call back, and then march forward and grab Basil's length through his briefs, "Let's get these off. Okay, big guy?"

The otter would then drop to his knees, sliding down the swimsuit and popping out Basil's erection, while the wolf would grab the stunned caribou's muzzle to guide it to his own. Several people on the beach wolf-whistled at the sexual gestures, causing Basil to feel flustered even before the lutrine took his dick in his muzzle. The wolf broke away after holding the kiss for several seconds. While he disrobed himself, the otter hopped up next to him, hungrily admiring the assets as much as Basil was sure he did.

"Hey Rob, can you go back and ask Carolyn for some lube, and maybe a vibrator for his cock?" the wolf asked nonchalantly.

Nodding, the horny otter strode out of Basil's sight.

The wolf's cock bounced as he crossed his arms over a bulky pair of pecs. "Don't worry, stud," he whispered, "we're gonna work a whole bunch of loads outta 'ya."

Basil hesitated, but found himself on his knees, nuzzling at the wolf's long member and big balls when he glanced in the distance. His ex-boyfriend and that fucker fox he slept with were right there, doing it on a beach mat. Sniffing hard, Basil descended into the lupine masculinity and arousal.

"There's a good reindeer," the wolf urged, rubbing in between Basil's antlers when he stuffed the wolf's whole hardness in his mouth, "just keep suckin' and we'll let you by."

Before Basil could ask what that meant, he noticed himself groaning around the stiff cock, sliding the full length in his mouth and slathering his tongue over the glans. Just then, some footsteps swished in the sand behind him. It was a large, muscular eagle.

Jet was wearing nothing but sunglasses, a light pair of flip flops, and - most compellingly for Basil - a blue thong studded with white stars, appearing several sizes too small and leaving nothing to imagination under the eagle's slight gut. "Hey Baz! Y'ever been fucked by a teammate before?"

The reindeer shook his head, and the wolf pulled his muzzle back onto the lupine cock, though the owner of it was now sitting, rather than standing.

"Mmm. Well I want some fuckin' ass tonight," Jet resumed, spreading one of the reindeer's cheeks with a hand and pressing his bulge against the hole, "and yours is the cutest fuckin' one here." He spit, dead accurate in Basil's hole. "Listen to the waves and enjoy the fuck, baby!"

Basil kept bobbing up and down on the wolf cock, now spread on his elbows and knees, waiting for the eagle to penetrate him.

With a thrust, Jet plunged his full length inside of Basil relatively effortlessly, despite its girth. He thrust back and forth a number of times, grunting with exertion and sighing in pleasure. Jet leaned down to Basil, yanking the caribou's muzzle off of the wolf's cock and groaning, with breath drenched in lust as much as it smelled of beer, "Damn... you feel better than my wife."

The otter returned as Basil's head was turned, strutting slowly and shaking his hips to show off a bobbing cock. "You boys having fun?" he queried, with a bit of a lisp that he didn't have in the movie. He stopped at the threesome and knelt down to strap something to the caribou's dick.

"Oh my..." gasped Basil as a click sounded and his cock fluttered with the action of a vibrating bullet strapped to it.

Jet was getting into it too, now shouting out in pleasure as he thrust deep into Basil's ass.

"Keep going, Jet! Pound him!" Coach Wilbur yelled, sitting on a beach chair and dressed in a skimpy lifeguard outfit, not unlike the clothing Jet wore earlier.

Basil flinched at the presence of his coach, but the eagle readily humped away without shame. Jet's moans grew even more audible to the beach.

Wilbur blew his whistle. "Great work out there, Basil! Stuff that cock back in your maw! Keep up with the odd-man rush! Let's see you cum, Larry!"

The caribou just remembered the wolf in front of him, and looked up, panicked, into the grinning face of his own wolf teammate.

"C'mon bro, why'd you stop? Your head's damn good!"

Larry grinned at Jet, who declared, panting from fucking his captain's ass, "Augh... if his head is half as good as this ass, I gotta come back for round two!"

Basil made some inarticulate vocalization, stuffed up between his teammates, and threw his head back on wolf dick.

"There you go!" called Larry, affectionately stroking the bottom of his oral partner's antlers. "Keep sucking! Hell, if you were this talented with a stick, maybe you'd already be in the NHA!"

"Oooh!" Jet yowled, smacking hard into Basil's rump, shooting a thick rope of seed into the ass.

"Ahaha! Your balls tou-" Larry teased, until Basil crammed his dick far enough into his maw that it spurted in the caribou's throat. "Ohhh!"

The buzzing on Basil's penis grew louder than any ambient sounds of the beach. He humped into air while still trying to maintain the bobbing movements that pleased the two men. With a rush building up in his genitals, he bellowed an orgasmic cry in this serendipitous moment of time.

Basil's eyes shot open as he came in his pants in front of a Pizza Hut commercial.

With a sigh, he shook off the afterglow and returned his plate to the kitchen, where the microwave clock read 1:25 a.m..

He showered again quickly, as he didn't want his teammates to smell the sex on him during the four hour bus ride, and crawled into bed. The sexy dreams left the caribou as he slept long and peacefully until he woke up naturally before his alarm clock.

---

Ambient chatter filled the air of the cabin bus amidst the muted noises of an ESPN broadcast presented on the satellite TV at the front. This display hung on a juncture in the ceiling behind the driver, where viewers sitting at a compact set of fold-able tables could eat and watch. Further down the bus, a kitchenette and group of cabinets loaded with supplies separated the tables from parallel rows of bunks, arranged in columns of three along the bus's walls. At the back, the hall broke off for a set of stairs leading up to the top floor where the coaching staff typically stayed. Beyond those stairs resided a compartment for the team's immense amount of equipment.

Basil reclined on his bunk at the top, scrolling on his phone idly after having watched through a full movie already. Jet's bunk across from him was curtained off to allow the eagle to nap. Larry, lying directly under Jet, was fully awake with perked ears as he mashed buttons on a portable game console. Basil could clearly hear the irritating pop music of Chasin bunking under him, but he didn't reach out to complain. Jet was a heavy sleeper anyways, he supposed.

The team arrived in Cleveland at half past two. Lunch for Basil was some unsatisfactory leftovers he took along, but there was at least a team dinner to look forward to that night.

Dinner itself was solid when everyone met up after spending the rest of daylight around the city. The equipment manager took the team to a downtown steakhouse owned by a friend, pandering to the cuisine tastes of the beefy male athletes on behalf of the rest of the staff.

Basil ate with his close friends, but the new kid - a rookie raccoon from some West Coast college who the team recently took on - planted himself beside the caribou and introduced himself as Kurt. He went on to engage the team captain in discourse over a variety of topics, from schools, to movies, to video games. Lastly, Kurt notified Basil that he played on the fourth line right now (something the reindeer already knew), but carefully mentioned that he looked forward to playing on the caribou's opposite wing one day, "whether in triple A or the majors".

"Fuckin' kids," criticized Jet after the raccoon left for the bathroom. "They've got no respect these days, 'cept Larry."

Larry cut another piece of his food and chewed without responding.

Basil played devil's advocate. "Cut him some slack, eh? The kid just wants to move up in the world."

Jet practically spit in his indignation. "He could've done it when Larry wasn't here!"

"Yeah, but-"

"I didn't mind it." Larry fit a familiar casual grin on his muzzle and swished his tail. He nudged Jet and shot Basil a wink. "We'll lap him way before he gets this far!"

"Easy for you to say, wonderboy!" Basil joked, with a bit more internal honesty than his teammates likely realized.

"He just doesn't get the team dynamic," ranted Jet, with a slight glare at Larry's defense. "Coach knows we're dynamite, and he won't split us up. Doesn't matter if they picked you first round or last."

"Or not at all, if you're talking about me!"

Jet nodded vigorously. "And your work got you the 'C'!"

Larry's response manifested in an easygoing shrug. "I'm just saying!"

The topic dropped there as Kurt returned and filed back into his seat.

They stayed long enough to catch the prime time major league games, including a contest featuring the Heroes. By the time they left the restaurant, their sister group led the game by three goals. They then left for their hotel complex and unloaded personal suitcases in the lobby. Before the team broke up to retire to their rooms, Wilbur offered a short toast.

"Legion! Do whatever you need before tomorrow's practice and game. Forget yesterday, and keep moving forward. We're successful despite a couple losses, and we'll be more successful once we win tomorrow!" The bear simpered, "Because I know we're winning tomorrow."

---

Larry flashed the key card and ushered Basil into the room. They each picked one of the two beds next to the night table, with attention to nearby outlets so they could plug relevant devices in. The evening proceeded as it normally would on the road, with the two tired hockey players eventually lying back and tuning into some brainless soap opera.

In the middle of the reveal of some affair between the protagonist and his mistress, which Basil nearly dozed off before, Larry abruptly spoke up. "Hey dude, you have a girlfriend?"

The caribou froze. "Huh?"

Larry now looked more puzzled than ever. "'Huh'? Come on dude, you're an athlete. You're telling me you don't have a girlfriend?"

"Uh... Not now." Basil stiffened. "But nah, dude," he retorted, switching into an approximation of Jet's locker room bragging, "I've banged like, ten million girls!"

The wolf scoffed. "That's exactly what you'd say if you had sex with zero girls."

"You calling me a virgin?"

"No, I'm calling you gay!"

The hotel room dropped ten degrees. Basil swallowed as his heart rate quadrupled. Larry couldn't possibly know, right? The younger man's grin was gradually fading from his face. The lupine had to know. Time was speeding up, and the caribou's hesitation seemed like a response of its own. He felt light-headed. Larry was a kid from the new generation, and he was pretty mature for a young hockey player of his caliber. This was also the wolf who could block him out of the NHA even longer, but Basil was fed up, and there were just some secrets he was just tired of keeping.

"Ah," Basil stuttered, "I am."

"Oh," the wolf's neutral look turned concerned. His eyebrows rose after a second. "I was kidding."

Basil's tongue felt like the Sahara. He opened his mouth but couldn't make a sound.

Larry's eyes were analytical, despite his relaxed posture. "Don't worry about it, dude, I'm cool with that."

Basil exhaled. "Good."

"And you're not the only one, too."

"What?"

"Yeah," Larry smirked, "Mason likes girls and guys."

"Oh," was all the caribou could manage, attempting to picture the otter in the arms of some nondescript man.

"Uh-huh, and he's super weird about it too. He said he never uses his own dick. He only uses a toy or lets them do him, in case his partner is an alien who's probing for his DNA," the wolf shrugged with a muzzle-wide grin, "Remember when that Patterson slapshot hit has mask a couple months ago? I wonder if he secretly got concussed there."

Basil snorted. "Well... They do say goalies are fucked up."

"And the motherfuckin' tin foil hatter's so serious all the time! I wonder if he shoves his own stick up his ass, too!" Larry's head shot up as he hollered out a hearty laugh.

Basil chuckled, politely. "At least he stops pucks."

"Yeah. It's just funny how we need some History Channel host to bail us out." The wolf's eyes shifted back to the caribou. "What about you?"

"Hm?"

"What's it like, y'know..." Larry flipped onto his front and rested on his elbows, tail wagging, "loving dick?"

Basil hesitated briefly before considering the already raunchy nature of the conversation. It was time to loosen up a bit. "Mmm... I can jerk off to myself in the mirror."

"Pff. Of course you would."

"Hey! I'm just saying I can, not that I would!"

"Yeah right. I mean, like, what's so cool about it?"

The caribou pulled a leg up to cover his growing bulge. "I've never really thought about that before. It's like..." Basil groped for words, "you know what a good pussy looks like?"

"Sure."

"No, I mean like," he laughed, reaching to recall a description Jet used before, hoping that in a hypothetical Larry wouldn't try to attack the ideal. "When her tits are huge and perky and they bounce through her shirt when she walks?"

Larry, apparently sufficiently horny, glanced up and his tail wagged harder. "Mhm."

"That's what a big dick looks like to me."

Larry seemed even more confused. "It's tits on a crotch?"

"No! I just..." The pressure between the reindeer's legs served as positive reinforcement. Larry's insistence on inquiring about Basil's sexual preferences surely wouldn't help the deer dispel his personal fantasies about the straight wolf, but the miscommunication opened up a desire to somehow justify his tastes. "It's like, when it's hard and girthy, I kind of just feel like it's calling for me to suck it."

"Calling for you? Is this some more alien shit?"

"No! I just get off on it. It makes me feel good and I want the guy to feel good."

"Hm." He still seemed unsatisfied. "Okay. Are you a top or a bottom?"

"Er... that's a bit personal."

"You just told me why you like dick."

"Fair."

"Have you fucked a million guys, then?" Larry questioned, and then promptly rephrased following Basil's silence. "Or have you had a boyfriend?"

"Yeah, in college. He was a blue jay. One of the nerd kids in engineering. Our lives didn't really mix but I..." Basil cringed a bit as he journeyed onwards, "I still kinda miss him."

Larry appeared mortified. "What? Have the guys sucked since your ex?"

"Some hookups were okay, sure, but no one's fucked me in two years."

"Aha!" The wolf shot up from his bed. "You are a bottom!"

Basil prepared a response before closing his mouth and submitting to Larry's nosiness. "Yeah," his bulge stood fully erect between his retracted legs. "I like big dicks up my ass, I guess."

"That's cool."

The caribou looked away. The moment he heard that conclusive response, he got some nervous jitters. Larry wouldn't tell the rest of the team without his permission, but Basil still sort of feared for his job, despite it being twenty-nineteen and whatnot. Coach Wilbur always complimented the caribou's maturity, and told him that Jet's emotive demeanour might help him score goals and win puck battles, but expressing leadership qualities required strong discipline. This, the bear claimed, was the attribute that the Heroes management loved in its players. Maybe this whole thing was just a lonely lapse of judgement. Basil's guilt hung briefly in his mind before Larry slid onto his bed.

In one quick motion, the wolf wrapped an arm around the caribou's chest and pushed him back. Any measly protest Basil attempted in his shock found answer in Larry's hardness pressing into his hip. The wolf clamped his paw over the caribou's muzzle and whispered three words seductively. "That's real cool."