Page 42 of Chasing The Goal
I pictured him behind me, pushing me into the shower wall, his cock thick and pulsing, sliding inside with one deep, relentless thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin, the low groan he’d make as he fucked me through it—slow at first, then faster, rougher, until I was nothing but sensation.
“Jaymie,” I gasped, breathless, desperate, the word breaking free like a plea.
The orgasm hit hard—my body locking, shuddering. Heat spiraled out from my core in waves, my moans muffled by the hiss of the water and the wet slap of my palm against the tile. I stayed like that for a moment, trembling, my heart pounding out a rhythm that matched the pulsing between my legs.
When I finally turned off the water, the silence was deafening, broken only by the soft thump of the vibrator as I set it on the ledge. I stood there a moment longer, catching my breath, water dripping from every inch of me.
Even satisfied, my body still craved something I couldn’t get from silicone and steam. It cravedhim.But we could never get past the point of friends, there was too much on the line. It was hard to remember where these hormones flow through me like crazy.
Content. Sated. And still—aching for him in ways that had nothing to do with loneliness.
Part Three
Jaymie
Another win.
Three in a row now, and the buzz of it clung to my skin like sweat under my pads. We’d owned the third period…controlled the tempo, read every line change like a playbook. I could still feel the way the puck kissed off my blade when I fed that last assist to Connor. Smooth, sharp. Like it had always belongedthere.
The locker room was chaos in the best way—elbows knocking, skates half-untied, jerseys peeled down to the waist. The air smelled like effort and victory and the sour tang of Gatorade spilled on the rubber mat flooring.
Someone had cranked Logan’s “pregame pump-up” playlist again, but now it was postgame, and the song blasting was pure pop trash. The kind of thing none of us would ever admit to liking, but the whole room was shouting along like we were drunk at a college party.
“Tell me that wasn’t the cleanest assist I’ve had all season,” Connor hollered, voice hoarse from shouting on the ice. He was propped against his locker, one knee bouncing, cheeks flushed red from the cold and the win.
“You’re welcome,” I shot back, tossing a strip of athletic tape toward the trash. It missed. “You owe me at least three goals for that feed.”
“Two,” he corrected. “The third was pure magic.”
“You tripped into it.”
“Gracefully.”
I laughed, the kind that came from somewhere deep in my chest. My gloves were off, fingers flexing slow from the grip I’d had on my stick all night. I peeled the sweat-damp jersey from my torso and tossed it into the laundry bin, muscles still warm, adrenaline still coiled low in my stomach.
God, it felt good. Like I belonged here. Like the ice and I were speaking the same language again.
Confidence didn’t hum like it used to—shaky, unsure. It settled. Quiet and steady, like it had taken up permanent residence in my bones. Every stride tonight had felt strong. Every shift—tight. Controlled. I wasn’t just reacting anymore. I was leading.
By the time we got back to the hotel, the energy had dimmed into something looser. That slow-drip satisfaction of a game well played. My thighs burned the right way. My shoulders ached with use. The bus ride over had been full of chirps and chirps-back, Logan half-asleep against the window while Darren critiqued his playlist choices like his life depended on it.
Inside our suite, Darren and Logan dumped their duffels in the corner, unceremoniously kicking off their shoes. The room still smelled faintly like old carpet cleaner and something lemon-scented from the hall.
Connor made a beeline for the mini fridge and squatted down, rummaging with a frown.
“Beer or mystery liquor in a hotel shot glass?” he asked, holding up two bottles—one clearly domestic, the other unlabeled and suspicious.
He raised both like a bartender offering salvation and sin.
I toed off my sneakers and dropped onto the end of one of the double beds, stretching my legs out. My calves protested, but I welcomed the ache. It meant I’d left everything out there tonight.
“Beer,” I said, grabbing the one with the actual label. “Let’s not relive Vegas.”
Connor snorted and cracked his open. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Logan has video.”
“Logan’s a traitor.”
