Page 29 of Pucking One Night Stand
“Yeah, we’re plus one. They’re minus one,” I reply, kicking off my boots. “Not exactly breathing room.”
“Still. They’re riding a two-game win streak.”
“So are we.”
Brody nods, opens the fridge, and grabs a water. “Fine margins, man. This is gonna be tight.”
“We grind it out,” I say. “Keep the lines tight. They like to pull their D high. Leaves them exposed if we’re quick on the transition.”
He slumps toward his bedroom, water in hand. “Just make sure I don’t oversleep in the morning, for God’s sake.”
I smirk. “Only if you promise not to snore like a lawnmower with asthma.”
His door shuts behind him.
I head into my room. Queen bed, white sheets turned down already. One of those too-soft pillows I always end up hating. My half-unpacked bag is splayed across the bed. My skating bag is by the closet, black with red piping, its logo half-scuffed from use.
The blackout curtains are open. Vancouver’s skyline flickers behind the glass. The city looks clean from up here. Distant.
Now I need a hot shower, then sleep. God, I’m tired.
I finish unpacking my gear. Practice kit, compression wear, hoodie, jeans, and a fresh suit for tomorrow’s departure. Then hang everything in the wardrobe, and my underwear goes in the drawer.
Off come the socks next. Jacket over the chair. Shirt, tie, pants, boxers, folded, sort of, draped on the dresser chair. Close my bag. Drop it beside the closet.
I head into the bathroom, shampoo and conditioner in hand, already thinking about hot water and five solid hours of dead sleep before we go to war.
The tiles are cold under my feet. Lights glow low and warm. The glass shower stall is clean and wide. I lean in, twist the handle, and the pipes groan for a second before water starts gushing from the rain shower above. I place the bottles on the narrow shelf, labels facing out. Habit.
Steam creeps up the glass as the water heats. I test it with a hand, still lukewarm. Give it a few more seconds. Then I step in.
The first hit of heat smacks my chest. Then my shoulders. I brace a palm on the tiled wall and tilt my head forward as the water pours down my neck and back. It feels good. Better than I thought it would. “Jesus!” It’s hot enough now to sting a little. I let it.
I stand, just breathing for a minute. Not thinking about the game. Not about line rotations or puck possession. Just the water and the silence.
Then her. Cassy.
Naked and twisted beneath me, head thrown back, hair spread over my sheets, her voice rasping into my ear. The weight of her thighs locked around my hips. The way her nails scraped down my ribs. And her mouth—God. That mouth.
My jaw tightens at the same time as my dick hardens. Water splashes off my skin as I shift under the stream. That night shouldn’t be in my head. Not now. Not when I’ve got shit to focus on.
But there she is. Again. Like she never left. I've tried so hard to ignore her. Ghost her, and pretend that night never happened. But it did.
I grab the body wash and scrub my shoulders, arms, chest, thighs, and rub the frothing foam around my hardness, trying to fight the burn building in the pit of my stomach.
I rinse off fast, then grab the shampoo and lather it through my hair, as the tone of her sensual moans echoes in my mind.
Rinse. Condition. Wait. Let the water run while I press both palms to the wall and stay still.
She’s still there. Her face clear as day.
The water hammers my shoulders like it’s trying to drown the memory. It doesn’t, and there's no chance it will as I find my hand naturally grips around my cock and slowly starts moving.
My eyes shut. Steam curls around me, and now I can see her. She's right in front of me. Her head tilted back, water slickingdown her long blond hair, and her skin glistening under the overhead stream.
Droplets roll off her collarbones, over the soft curves of her breasts, trailing down her stomach in slow lines like they don’t want to leave.
My arms move instinctively. I wrap them around her waist in my mind and pull her into me, her back to my chest. Her skin’s hot, soft, and wet. I bury my face in her neck. Her breath catches. “Ohhh,” That little sound, half gasp, half moan, makes something deep in my gut tighten.
