Page 5 of Puck Like A Girl

My thoughts drift back to the sassy girl in the white dress from last night. She was hot as fuck. If she had been any other girl, I would have had her upstairs naked in my bed before the night was over, with her moaning my name around my huge cock. But she isn’t just any random girl to hook up with for one night. She’s different.

No other girl has ever turned me down. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ve ever been denied anything I’ve ever wanted, and I definitely want her. The memory of her voice as she told me she wasn’t wearing any panties has my dick getting hard. I may have to have one of my usual puck bunnies take care of it for me until I find my girl from last night.

My cock instantly deflates at the thought of having sex with any girl besides her.

“Well, this is new,” I mutter under my breath, looking down at the still-impressive bulge in my gray joggers, except instead of being hard as a rock like it was only a second ago, it’s just lying there like a dead fish.

I am so fucked if I don’t find my dream girl soon.

“What did you say?” Coulter eyes me warily.

“Nothing,” I mumble, focusing my attention on the guys doing the suicide drills on the ice and then up to the scoreboard where the timer is. They’re about two and a half minutes into the five-minute drill, and as expected, they start dropping like flies.

At the four-minute mark, the only one left doing the drill is number thirteen, who looks barely winded. The timer hits five minutes, and instead of the coach blowing the whistle to stop the drill, he lets number thirteen continue with the drill.

His speed and endurance are something we don’t see much of with new players. It usually takes a good couple of months, if not longer, to condition your body to do the full five minutes of the suicide drill. Number thirteen is something special. There is no way we can lose the championship with him on our team.

I shift my gaze to Royal and Coulter, trying to gauge their reaction. They’re both leaning forward in their seats, watching number thirteen power through the drill.

Finally, at the eight-minute mark, Coach Johnson blows his whistle, stopping the drill. “Alright, everyone, take a ten-minute break, then report back here for the tryout results.”

I watch as number thirteen skates across the ice to where his puck bunnies are waiting for him, not showing any signs of fatigue from the suicide drill he just crushed. He lifts his mirrored visor to take a drink from the water bottle one of the girls hands him. I try to make out his face, but the girls are all circled around him, making it impossible to see his face.

He’s definitely going to give me a run for my money with the puck bunnies. I wait for the euphoric feeling I get when I think about bedding a different woman every night, but it never comes. What does come is a vision of the girl in the white dress from last night.

Well, shit. I might be passing my title of King of the Puck Bunnies to number thirteen. He certainly looks to have the stamina to keep up with the endless revolving door of puck bunnies that frequent our team.

All that’s left to do now is announce our two new team picks, and then I can go in search of the hot girl from last night. Just the thought of her tight, sexy body in that short, white dress has my cock standing at attention.

“Good boy.” My eyes land on my lap and the growing bulge that’s finally waking up.

four

Royal

What a joke, these ass clowns couldn’t skate their way out of a wet paper bag. There’s no way we’re going to win the championship this year.

I’m so fucked.

Number thirteen is the only promising one out there, but his shady behavior has raised my suspicions. Who hides their face during tryouts? I don’t like it, and I definitely don’t trust him. He looks like trouble, and that’s the last thing I need this year. My reputation barely survived last year. I don’t need another scandal to completely ruin my chances of getting drafted into the pros.

Shit, just thinking about last year pisses me off. It was one mistake. A small lapse in judgment. I shouldn't have to spend the rest of my life paying for it. Coulter and Fin are the only two who know the truth about what happened. I tried to defend myself, but it was impossible. Even when the charges were dropped, everyone still wanted to believe the worst in me, especially my stepfather.

My asshole teammates had to throw a party last night. All I wanted to do was relax in my own room by myself, but I couldn’t even do that. Not with all the puck bunnies hiding around every corner trying to land themselves a potential future professional hockey player boyfriend.

I’m not interested in any random hookups this year. It almost cost me everything last year. My plan is to keep my head down and focus on winning another championship, graduating, and getting drafted. And nothing or no one is going to come in my way.

What about her? The girl in the white dress from last night.

I fight with my conscience, struggling to wipe the image of her big brown eyes blinking at me as I told her to get out of my way. Or how her body felt against mine in that split second we touched when I brushed past her on my way to my room to get away from the conniving puck bunnies, all vying for my attention.

She didn’t deserve my harsh words, but her nearness was wreaking havoc on my body and my vow to stay away from women this year. Just thinking about her makes my body tense with unstrained desire. Luckily, I won’t have to be around her again, and I can stick to my goal of not letting anything distract me from winning the championship.

I successfully block her from my mind and turn my attention back to the ice and the players doing the suicide drill, finding only one of them left skating.

Of course, it would be number thirteen. He looks good out there, and his form never falters, even after running the drill for over seven minutes. I snap my eyes back to the scoreboard’s timer and then lean forward in my seat. No one but Coulter, Fin, and I have ever done the drill for eight minutes, but now this newbie looks like he’s about to beat our record.

Just as the clock hits the eight-minute mark, Coach Johnson blows his whistle, stopping the drill. Number thirteen stops on a dime, his blades cutting into the ice as he instantly comes to a halt, a spray of ice coating his skates. Damn, he’s good.

---