Chapter 2

Riley

My thumb flicks across the screen, lighting it up again with a swipe. No new notifications. I shove the phone back into my hockey bag in the front seat floorboard of my teammate Zach’s small car, nestled between my skates and a wrinkled jersey. It's during these rides to The Blade's Edge, the Chicago Blades’ hockey practice facility, that I usually zone out, thinking about plays and what I can do to improve my game. I'm a center for the Chicago Blades, and hockey is more than just my job; it's my everything. But today, there’s this itch under my skin that just won’t let me be. All because of last night’s damn notification.

"Seriously, Cap, you've checked that thing like twenty times since we left your place," Alfie says from the back seat, his goalie pads crammed awkwardly against his legs in the tight space.

I lift my gaze to find Alfie's sharp green eyes watching me, an amused smirk playing on his lips. He's a solid wall on and off the ice, always deflecting trouble and keeping us grounded – not to mention his slapshot reflexes are the stuff of legend. His unruly dark curls are tamed beneath his cap, except for one stubborn lock that insists on springing free.

"Maybe he's got a hot date lined up after practice," Zach chimes in from beside me, elbowing my side gently. His sandy blond hair hangs just over his eyebrows, giving him that boyish charm that gets him out of trouble nine times out of ten.

"Ha-ha," I reply, dry as the air in the rink. "You guys are hilarious." My fingers twitch, craving another scroll through my phone, but I resist. Instead, I lean back, trying to shift focus to the upcoming practice. But the distraction is only temporary, the curiosity is about to drive me wild.

I angle my phone away, a sharp tilt of my wrist as Alfie's lean frame stretches across the backseat, trying to sneak a peek at my screen. His fingers almost graze the edge of my phone before I snatch it closer to my chest.

"Hey, man," Zach teases from beside me, his voice all careless grin and no substance, "what's so top-secret?"

"Nothing that concerns you two," I retort, locking the screen with a decisive click. The phone disappears into the depths of my jacket pocket, out of sight but not out of mind.

"Jeez, you'd think we were asking for state secrets," Alfie chuckles, settling back into his seat.

"You guys should've gone and hassled Jasper instead," I shoot back, a sarcastic bite in my tone. "At least then you could've raided his fridge instead of mine." I shake my head, smirking despite the annoyance nipping at my calm. "And for the record, I didn't ask for a ride. I could've driven myself. I have no idea why I agreed to ride with you."

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Zach grins, elbowing me again with an ease born of years on the same line.

Memories of college flash through my mind, the four of us—me, Alfie, Zach, and even Jasper—grinding it out on the ice, chasing pucks, dreams, and girls. The friendship was instant, the bond unbreakable, even when life after school and off the ice pulled us in different directions. Now, here we are, all signed with the Chicago Blades. It's a rare kind of luck, a shared path from scrappy college games to the gleaming ice of the pros.

"I still can’t believe it," I muse aloud. "From college rookies to the big leagues, and we’re all finally wearing the same jersey."

"Destiny or pure talent?" Alfie quips.

"Both," I say. "We're meant to be here, and we've worked damn hard for it."

"Chicago doesn't know how blessed it is," Zach adds.

"Damn straight," I affirm, as we cross over down into the underground parking lot of the Blades’ headquarters complex. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out only for Alfie to lean forward, hand extended.

"Watch it, Alfie," I snap as his fingers make a grab for my phone. The screen glows with the promise of forbidden pleasure, an indulgence I'm not about to share with anyone, least of all these two clowns. “I’m sure you can learn how to play goalie one armed after I chop yours off.”

"Come on, man, what's got you so hooked?" Alfie teases.

"Once again, it’s none of your business," I retort, slipping the device back into my pocket. There's a heat creeping up my neck. It's not like I'd normally be glued to my phone en route to practice, but last night's notification was a siren call I couldn't ignore—an extra live show that promised to be as intoxicating as it was exclusive.

"Fine, keep your secrets," Alfie laughs, but there's a note of defeat in his chuckle. They know when I've erected walls high enough to rival the rink's boards.

A pang of annoyance hits me as I recall the coach's text from earlier. An extra skate practice, just because we looked "too stiff" during morning drills. My body agrees with Coach, though. It craves the relentless push and pull of practice, even if I'm inwardly cursing the interruption.

"Extra practice, huh? Coach is really cracking the whip," Zach muses, breaking through my thoughts.

"Apparently we're a bunch of statues on ice," I grumble, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. As captain, it's my job to lead by example, to turn stiffness into fluid grace.

"Guess we'll have to show him how flexible we can be," Zach says with a wink, and I roll my eyes at the innuendo.

"Speak for yourself," I quip, trying to steer my mind away from the more carnal interpretation of his words. The last thing I need is my concentration shot before I even step onto the practice rink that's become our second home.

"Ready for this?" Alfie asks as Zach pulls into a parking space.

"Always," I reply. Because no matter what, hockey comes first. Always has, always will. And when the blades hit the ice, nothing else matters—not the teasing, not the secrets. Only the game. Only the win. Only the Blades.

With another check off, I shove my phone deep into my jacket pocket, cursing under my breath. The alluring promise of that extra live show now a pipe dream, thanks to the double whammy of Coach's impromptu practice session and the dynamic duo of disruption known as Alfie and Zach.

Speaking of which, Zach's slouched against the wall, lazily flipping his puck into the air and catching it with practiced ease. He’s got this whole California-surfer vibe going on, even though we're miles from the nearest beach and buried in the heart of Chicago's concrete jungle. His sandy blond hair is always a mess, falling into his eyes in a way that seems careless but probably takes more effort than he’d admit.

"Cap, you coming or what?" Zach tosses the puck in my direction with a grin that says he can't wait to hit the ice, and I return his smirk. We've been through this routine so many times; it's like muscle memory by now.

"Keep your jockstrap on, Mickelson," I shout back, grabbing my gear. We stride towards the rink, side by side, Alfie ahead of us, rolling his eyes. They’re roomies, practically attached at the hip, which means where one goes, the other follows. It’s like they share one brain cell between them when it comes to anything off the ice—but put them in a game, and they’re two parts of a well-oiled machine.

I step onto the gleaming surface of the frozen water, feeling the chill seep through my practice uniform. This is where all the bullshit fades away and it's just me and the ice.

My parents worked their asses off to keep me in skates and gear growing up. Every sacrifice, every extra shift they took on—it was for this dream. The dream that has me lacing up in the pros.

I’ve trained for it, lived for it, and most of all, want it—not just playing the game, but mastering it, owning it, becoming a name that resonates in the halls of hockey history. I'm not just here to play—I'm here to conquer, to build a legacy beyond what my folks could ever imagine.

I love the surge of adrenaline as I pick up speed. There's no place I'd rather be, no feeling that compares to this—the freedom, the power, the raw energy of the game coursing through my every move. Yeah, today's extra skate threw off my plans, but out here? Out here, I’m exactly where I need to be.

The echo of blades scraping the ice fades as we march off toward the locker room. The new girl, locker room attendant with a nametag I can't quite catch, slips out right before Jasper can barrel through.

"Hey, newbie! You got those mirrors shining like your eyes yet?" Jasper's voice booms across the hall as he sniggers.

I lock eyes with him, feeling that ripple of anger. There's no place for that crap here—not on my team. We're supposed to be professionals, not schoolyard bullies. I stare him down. He matches it, smugness lifting the corners of his lips.

That's when Alfie and Zach swoop in, their hands landing heavy on our shoulders like twin peacemakers. "Ease up, gladiators," Alfie chides.

Zach's laid-back grin is the opposite of the tension surrounding us. "Let's hit the showers, boys. No need for a throwdown where there are soap suds involved."

Jasper grunts, breaking eye contact first, and I silently count that as a win. As I stride into the shower, the hot water sluices over me, washing away the sweat and the irritation. Jasper Wright—built like a tank with the finesse of a wrecking ball. The guy’s ambition is super transparent, but his methods, man, they rub me the wrong way.

Showered and changed, I slip out the door without pulling any attention to myself. I tap my phone, the car service app already loading. Alfie and Zach are good guys, but tonight I need speed, not company.

"Come on, come on," I mutter under my breath, watching the little car icon inch closer on the screen.

"Riley Watson?" the car service driver asks as he pulls up and rolls down his window. I'm pretty sure he sets a record getting me through downtown Chicago. I thank him with a generous tip and bolt up the stairs to my apartment.

Phone clutched tight, I unlock the door and rush inside. The notification I've been waiting for all day blinks at me. My evening plans are back on track.

My laptop shines a soft blue light throughout the room as I click on the bookmarked page. The 'live now' banner flutters across the screen, and I exhale a sigh of relief. Timing is everything.

I kick off my shoes and peel away the last of my clothes. The fabric of my sheets whispers against my skin as I slide into bed, the comfort of a routine set during my college days several years ago. I reach for the drawer beside me, its contents as meticulously arranged as my hockey gear in the locker room. Large bottle of lube, check. Fleshlight, check. A stack of tissues, check.

My fingers dance across the keyboard, adjusting the volume to just the right level where it’s audible but won't alert the neighbors. There's something about the live aspect, knowing it's happening right now, somewhere out there, that makes the blood pulse louder in my veins.

The stream kicks in, and the performer comes into view, pixels morphing into the curves and angles of desire. My hand wraps around the bottle of lube, flipping it open with practiced ease. It's cold at first, a stark contrast to the heat pooling in my lower belly. But it warms quickly, slick along my fingers as I coat the Fleshlight, prepping it like I would my hockey stick before a big play.

I start slow, gliding the toy over my now hard cock at first sight of her, allowing the sensations to build layer by layer. In the back of my mind, I know this isn't the kind of stamina training coach had in mind, but it demands focus all the same.

With each stroke, my grip tightens, my breath hitches as the plump head of my cock presses against the opening of the toy. I exhale heavily, gripping the sheets as I begin to slide in, feeling every inch disappear into the warm, tight grip of the Fleshlight. Her sultry voice echoes in my ears, commanding and intimate. The toy around me strokes and squeezes with each thrust, mirroring her movements perfectly. My hips buck against the mattress, chasing that perfect friction that only comes from being inside a warm, wet pussy.

As I move faster, my mind wanders to the fantasy: her nails raking lightly down my back, her body arching under me searching for her release. I can almost taste her sweet nectar on my tongue as I thrust harder and deeper. Sweat breaks out along my brow. I bite my lip to stifle a moan that threatens to escape. Each stroke sends electric shocks through my core, sending tremors through my body. My muscles tense and release in perfect rhythm with her hips moving on screen.

The sight of those rounded globes bouncing hypnotizes me. Her cries of pleasure fuel me further, driving me onwards despite the burn building in my legs from hours spent skating earlier at practice. I grind into it—the woman on screen—my hand working faster now taking control over what feels like an extension of myself. My heart pounds in time with each thrust, imagining sweat beading from between our bodies.

There is nothing else but me and her together; everything else fades away into background noise until all that remains are our joined bodies writhing towards climax...

Until suddenly it hits. The release is so intense that I hold my breath. It’s as if she was here with me physically drawing every ounce of cum from my body. I groan loudly out into the open space of my room. With one final pump, I collapse, sinking into the sheets exhausted yet satisfied.

I lay there and feel the aftershocks, my heart still pounding beneath my ribs. Tissues crumple in my hand, ready for the cleanup.

I've always been good at compartmentalizing—Riley the captain on the ice, Riley the man in control of his own pleasure in the quiet of his bedroom. I close the laptop, the show over, the performer none the wiser of their number one fan. This subscription is what gets me through and not having to rely on puck bunnies or the dangers of what lurks out there in the dating world. Here, in the privacy of my room, hidden behind a screen, I can get the release that I need to keep me focused on my job.