Page 62 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

I nod, my breath hitching as he climbs on the bed, easing me back onto the pillows. His mouth captures mine, hungry and pleading for more. His hands are everywhere, exploring, claiming. Elliot adjusted his frame so he is seated at my entrance, entering me slowly, the sensation of him without any barriers sends shivers through my body. If the feeling of his piercings with a condom was great, then this is next level. I might have died and gone to heaven. There he is, touching me in places I've craved, giving me everything that I’ve wanted and needed. He moves with deliberate precision. Each thrust pushes me closer to the edge.

"You're going to feel every inch of me as I fill you up with my cum," he growls, his voice a dark promise. "You take me beautifully, just like everything else that you do."

Elliot's words bring a whole new level of pleasure to the experience. My walls start to tighten, the fullness of him building up the pressure in my core until it erupts through my body. The orgasm courses through my body as I scream out his name. His movement become more erratic as he works, thrusting in and out of my clenching pussy, chasing his own release.

"That's it, Anatife. I'm going to claim you forever." Elliot growls as he comes, pressing his hips into mine. "Fuck, you feel amazing," he says as he pulls out of me and collapses on top of me, panting.

"You were right. We can never go back after that." I say, trying to wiggle out from underneath him as the weight of him crushes me into the mattress.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Elliot asks, rolling to his side. He presses his leg between mine to widen the space and leaves it there to hold me into place.

His fingers find their way to my quivering pussy, pushing our mutual pleasure back into me. The sensation is overwhelming, and I cry out, my body trembling with need. Elliot doesn't stop, his fingers working me relentlessly as he continues. Curling his fingers into me, he teases my inner walls. The intensity of our connection brings tears to my eyes.

Elliot pushes me to the brink, and over it. I feel him pressing what's left over from our mutual releases deep inside me. His finger filling me up and using his release from earlier to work them in and out of my aching muscles feels incredible. What little control I have left shatters as my inner muscles strangle his fingers. The orgasms he gives me are the perfect culmination of our shared desire. We stay like that for a while, limbs tangled, our breathing heavy and synchronized. He uses my body in every pleasurable way he can until his strength returns, and he fucks me into the mattress again, pumping his release into me as if he can't get enough.

“Now that you know how much of a slut I am for watching my cum leak out of you, you are going to have to beat me off with a stick.” Elliot grits out as he stills inside me.

When we finally pull apart, Elliot presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. "You're everything, Ziggy," he whispers, his voice full of emotion.

I don't know what to say. There is nothing I can say. Instead, I say nothing at all and snuggle into him until I am perfectly content. Letting the sounds of his deep breaths and gentle snoring lull me to sleep.

The next day, the team is back on the ice for Game Seven. This is the end. Everything the Red Wolves have been working toward is coming to fruition today. By proxy, I am also celebrating my own victory by making it through the season. I should be on the edge of my seat, nervous or even sad that this is the last game, but instead, I feel a strange sense of calm. Whatever happens, I know the Red Wolves are ready, and as the puck drops, the Final Series is within their reach. All they have to do is grasp it.

Chapter 44

I lace up my skates for the final time this season. The weight of Game Seven settles in my chest. The locker room buzzes with nervous energy, and each of my teammates is lost in their own rituals. I grab my stick, feeling the familiar grip that has seen me through countless battles. Stepping onto the ice, I tap my stick exactly 96 times, a number that has become my silent mantra. The sound echoes in my ears, a steady rhythm that grounds me. The crowd roars, a wall of noise that fuels my adrenaline. With one last primal roar, I join my team, ready to leave everything on the ice.

The puck drops, and immediately, the game is a blur of motion. I center my focus to block out the madness on the ice and keep my eye trained on the puck. The roar of the crowd fades into the background, replaced by the sharp sounds of skates cutting ice and sticks clashing. From my vantage at the net, I watch as my boys battle fiercely on the ice. They weavethrough the Reaper’s defense with a desperate energy, their coordination nearly flawless. Oren, with his deft maneuvers and sharp instincts, passes the puck to Ford, who powers forward, taking the shot. The puck slices toward the goal, a blur of potential victory, but it ricochets off the post with a resounding clang, denying us the early lead. The missed shot on goal sucks but it just means that I have to work even harder to defend our net. We are in this together, every save, every miss, pushing us closer to glory or defeat.

The first period is a whirlwind of near misses and close calls, each moment sharpening my focus. As the horn sounds, we skate off the ice, hearts pounding, ready to regroup and come back stronger. We hit the ice for the second period after a swift kick in the ass from Coach Wilder with renewed determination, but the score is still locked at zero. The intensity ratchets up a notch. All of us, regardless of which team we are on, dig deep. Knowing what’s at stake, I ignore the frustration lingering on the edge of my focus.

With the Reapers pressing hard to break the deadlock, each rush toward my net is a heart-stopping moment. But I am dialed in, distractions no longer tolerated. The first crucial save comes from a deceptive wrist shot from the Reaper’s left wing, the puck darting through a forest of legs. I drop my stance, pads flush against the ice, and I feel the contact of the puck against my blocker. Barely a few minutes later, a breakaway puts me one-on-one with their star forward, the one and only who had my girl in his jersey on national television. I channel the anger that bubbles up inside me toward defending the crease.

He attempts a slick fake out to my right, but I anticipate his move, stretching my leg pad out to smother the puck under my body. As the clock runs out on the period, they manage apowerful slap shot from the blue line. I see it late, the crowd's roar nearly drowning out the sound of the puck whipping through the air, but I throw myself across my domain, glove outstretched, and catch it just beneath the crossbar. The buzzer sounds, and I exhale; every save was a statement.Not tonight, not on my watch, and because of that, the scoreboard still sits at 0 to 0. My jersey is damp with sweat but not defeat.

The third period begins with each play a potential game-changer. We hit the ice to put everything on the line. Early on, Vlad breaks through with a tricky play, darting past a defenseman to flick the puck over their goalie's shoulder. The crowd's roar is still ringing in my ears when Ford capitalizes on New Jersey’s distraction, intercepting a sloppy pass and hammering a low shot into the back of the net, doubling our lead within minutes. With two goals on the board, the game shifts; it becomes about defense, about preserving the lead.

The Reapers throw everything they have at us, their desperation clear as they pull their goalie in the dying minutes for an extra attacker. The game play tilts toward my net, attempt after attempt coming as they seek to crack our armor. But the boys and I hold firm, our fortitude as solid as the ice beneath our skates. Each save is met with louder cheers from the Red Wolves fans in the stands, every second feeling like an eternity. The moment the final buzzer sounds, signaling our victory in Game Seven and securing the Stanley Cup, time seems to stop. The deafening roar of the crowd, the flashing lights, the overwhelming emotions—all of it hits me like a tidal wave. We did it. The Red Wolves are champions, and my lifelong dream has been achieved.

I am mobbed by my teammates, our collective happiness spilling over as we hug, scream, and cry. The ice is a blur of chaosand celebration. Cameras follow our every move, capturing the raw, unfiltered look at our triumph. My eyes find Ziggy on the edge of the rink. She is in her element, microphone in hand, capturing every moment with a professional grace that never ceases to amaze me. Her smile is infectious, reflecting the faith she has in this team, yet there is a focus in her eyes that speaks to her dedication. Watching her weave through players and officials to get her interviews, her laughter mingling with the celebratory shouts, fills me with a profound sense of pride. The woman I have fallen for, shining in this role, her passion for her work as clear as my own on the ice. The smile plastered on my face for the win only grows bigger as my heart swells with love, A thought that I would probably have fixated on more, if this wasn’t hands down the best day of my life to date. She turns briefly, catching my gaze and winking, before diving back into her reporting.

As I hoist the Stanley Cup, the sheer weight of it is nothing compared to the burden we all carried to get to this moment. The silver gleams under the arena lights, a collection of all the blood, sweat, and unforgiving drive that defined our season. The crowd roars, a sea of cheers that resonates deep in my chest. I take a moment, letting the energy wash over me, engraving this memory where it will never fade. Then, with the biggest smile stretching from ear to ear, I hand the Cup to Ford, whose eyes mirror the same fierce pride as mine. He takes the trophy with honor, lifting it as the cheers double. We are more than a team; these men on the ice with me are my brothers. The ones I've fought alongside to prove to the world that we are at the top of our game and that this win is more than deserved. As the Cup passes from player to player, each face tells a story of sacrifices and triumph, and I stand there among my boys, overwhelmed with gratitude.

The jubilation from the ceremony bleeds over into the locker room. Champagne sprays everywhere, soaking us as we act a fucking fool, without a care in the world, reveling in our victory. I feel bad for the poor soul who has to clean up after our mess. The media clamors for their chance at us, everyone wanting a piece of the story. I start answering questions, posing for pictures, and embracing even the aspects of hockey I dislike the most. Truly soaking in every moment. This moment is what I have dreamed of since I was a kid—the pinnacle of my career.

Before getting fully caught up in the postgame interviews, I pull out my phone to text the one person I need to talk to the most.

:We did it.

Won the Cup.

:And you look

super hot today.

I hit send and wait, the seconds stretching into an eternity. When her reply comes, my heart skips a beat.

Ziggy:Be serious! !

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