Page 9 of Puck Me Daddy

Demian turned, his helmet obscuring his face, but I could feel his gaze. It was like a physical touch, sending a shiver down my spine. The air around me felt electric, every nerve ending standing at attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer boomed, "Welcome to tonight's game!"

The crowd roared, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. All I could see was number 19. And all I could think was, Game on, Demian. Game on.

The arena lights dimmed, spotlights swooping and converging on the ice. The puck dropped with a sharp crack, sticks clashing like drawn swords. I gripped my pen, notebook balanced on my knee, but my eyes were glued to Demian. He launched into motion, powerful legs propelling him forward, carving the ice with sure, swift strokes.

"Come on, ref! You fucking blind?" a fan behind me shouted, his voice hoarse with passion. I’d missed whatever it was that the ref was meant to have seen, but I jotted down the quote, the fervor in the air palpable. But my gaze strayed back to Demian, his broad shoulders cutting through the chill, his every movement a symphony of controlled power.

He slammed an opponent into the boards, the crunch of impact resonating in my chest. A shiver ran through me, not from the cold, but from the raw, primal display. Demian was a force on that ice, a predator in his element. I bit my lip, trying to focus on my notes. Crowd size: massive. Atmosphere: electric. Me: distracted as hell.

"Pierce is on fire tonight!" the announcer boomed. Demian sped past, stick handling with deft precision, his form a blur of grace and muscle. My pulse quickened, heat pooling low in my belly. This was more than just a game; it was a dance, a brutal ballet, and Demian was the star.

He slid near my side of the ice, spraying a fan of snow against the plexiglass. I started, my heart thumping. His helmet obscured his face, but I felt his gaze, intense and piercing. Like a caress, it sent a shiver down my spine. I inhaled sharply, the air crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through me.

"You getting all this, sweetheart?" The guy next to me leaned over, his eyes on my notebook.

I nodded, my mouth dry. "Every word."

He chuckled, nudging me with his elbow. "Make sure you mention me!"

I laughed. “Will do.”

Demian swooped past again, his presence commanding, impossible to ignore. My pen hovered over the page, forgotten. I was here to report, to capture the spirit of the game, the energy of the crowd. But all I could focus on was him—his power, his grace, his undeniable allure.

A roar from the crowd, a crash of bodies against the boards. I jumped, my heart pounding. The action was relentless, the players tireless. But Demian was a class apart. He moved with an arrogant confidence, a smooth grace that belied his brute strength. It reminded me of a dancer, a lover—all power and artistry combined.

I shifted in my seat, heat flooding through me. This was more than just a game; it was foreplay, a tease, a tantalizing display of male prowess. And I was more than just a spectator; I was a participant, a willing captive to Demian's spell. My notebook slipped from my grasp, forgotten. All that mattered was him, his prowess, his power. His promise.

He was dominating the other team.

I gripped the edge of my seat, knuckles white, as Demian sliced through the chaos. Then, like a bolt of lightning, his gaze locked onto mine. Time froze in that split second.

Before I could process the jolt of connection, Demian wound up his stick. A crack echoed through the arena as he blasted a slapshot toward the goal. The puck sailed past the goalie's outstretched glove, ripping into the net with such force it sent a shiver down my spine.

The crowd exploded, a deafening roar that vibrated through my chest. I shot to my feet, heart pounding wildly. "Holy shit," I gasped, clutching the collar of my shirt. Professionalism bedamned—I was just another fan, swept up in the exhilaration, cheering for him. For Demian.

"That's how it's done, folks!" the announcer boomed, but his voice barely registered over the thunderous applause. I couldn't tear my eyes away from Demian, circling the ice like a conquering hero. He skated toward my section, and I swear I could feel his presence before he even reached the plexiglass.

With a cocky half-smile, he lifted the puck from his stick, tapping it against the barrier. My breath hitched as he flipped it over the glass, sending it spinning directly into my hands. I fumbled, clutching it to my chest, fingers curling protectively around the cold, slick surface.

"Lucky girl!" someone shouted nearby, but all I could focus on was the heat rising in my cheeks, the electric thrill coursing through me. This was more than just a souvenir.

"You gonna share that puck, sweetheart?" The guy next to me leaned over, his eyes gleaming with envy.

"Not a chance," I breathed, clutching it tighter. My heart raced, a mix of exhilaration and embarrassment flooding through me. I couldn't stop smiling, my cheeks aching from the width of my grin.

I sank back into my seat, the puck clutched tightly in my hands, a pulsing reminder of the intimacy we shared amidst the roaring crowd.

The rest of the game passed in a blur. I was too caught up watching Demian to take in much of anything else. He moved like liquid silver, fluid and relentless, a stark contrast to the chaotic storm of the game. Every assist, every goal, every command he barked at his teammates—it all pulled me under his spell.

The final buzzer blared, a harsh, echoing blare that signaled the end. The Avalanche had won, and the crowd roared. I stood, phone still recording, capturing the jubilant screams andstomping feet. But my eyes—they were locked onto Demian as he pulled off his helmet, his damp hair sticking up in dark spikes. His face was flushed, eyes gleaming with triumph and something else. Something primal.

He looked at me. Really looked at me. A wave of heat crashed through me, starting at my toes, flooding up to my cheeks. I thought I might combust right there, melt into a puddle on the sticky arena floor.

His gaze didn’t just see me; it touched me. Intimately. Like a secret caress in a room full of people. I swallowed hard, my breath hitching as if he’d actually brushed his fingers against my skin.

I was meeting Demian after the game by the players exit. Moments later, a security guard came to collect me and guide me through the throng.

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