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“I don’t care,” Jo snaps, her tone strained and her smile fake. “If you ever ask Mickey that question again, I’ll sue you for breach of contract—”
“We don’t have a contract,” the interviewer sighs.
Jo laughs coldly. “Oh, we will soon. Now, you better leave since you’ve worn out your welcome.”
Their words make me realize I’m still fucking sitting here, unmoving and mute, like a weak-ass moron, allowing our head of PR to fight my battle. I clench my hands and stand so abruptly the chair I occupied falls to the floor.
Then I look straight at the interviewer and point at her. “Never again!” I growl menacingly. “Or I’ll find where you fucking hurt and drag you through the mud.”
Jo nods approvingly and places her hand on my upper arm. “And I’ll help him.”
I have no idea if the cameras are still rolling, and I couldn’t care less. I meant what I said, and I know Jo did as well. She can be a hard person to work with at times, but the one thing none of us ever doubt is that she has our backs when it counts.
As the interviewer leaves with a huff, I can feel the restlessness kicking in, a familiar itch beneath my skin. I’m ready to get out of here, ready to move, to breathe without the weight of expectation pressing down. But just as we think we’re in the clear, Coach reappears like a shadow at sunset.
“Good work today,” he begins, his tone softer than usual but still edged with steel. “Rest up. Tomorrow, we will show them what we’re made of.” And with that, he strides out, leaving a silence that hums with unspoken anticipation. We’ve been given our marching orders; now all that’s left is the waiting.
I appreciate that he didn’t bring up the failed interview, but that’s Coach for you. He rarely holds his tongue when it’s directly related to our gameplay, but he hates getting involved in anything else.
As I turn and make my way outside, Soren catches up to me. I can feel his concerned glances as we walk to the parking lot, but I ignore him. The cold hits us like a slapshot, sharp and bracing, but it’s freedom compared to the stale air of canned answers and camera flashes.
“God, I need a real meal,” I grumble, thinking of nothing more than a hot plate and a moment of silence.
“Let’s hit the road then,” Soren replies, his green eyes scanning the darkening sky. He’s always been more attuned to the world around him, like he can sense the ebb and flow of things unseen.
We drive in comfortable silence, the city lights blurring past, each one a reminder of the game looming over us. Pulling into his driveway, Soren kills the engine, and we step out into the crisp evening. His house is a fortress of solitude for us, a place where the press and the fans can’t reach.
Inside, the ritual begins. Clothes hang in preparation, equipment laid out with precision—a warrior’s armor awaiting battle. We raid the fridge, piling our plates with enough carbs to fuel an army, and sink into the cushions of his couch.
“Man, this is the life,” I say between mouthfuls, relishing the quiet before the storm.
“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Soren adds absentmindedly.
The evening ticks by with the methodical pace of a metronome, each second a note in the symphony of preparation. We talk strategy, dissect plays, and visualize the ice beneath our feet. It’s second nature, a dance we’ve performed countless times.
“Early night?” Soren asks, checking the clock. It’s not even nine, but tomorrow demands everything we have.
“Definitely,” I agree, feeling the pull of my personal pre-game ritual.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the confines of my room in Soren’s house feel like the only reality that matters. The air is thick with silence but for the steady hum of my own breaths coming faster now. My body already knows what comes next; my favorite pre-game ritual, one I’ve come to need.
I quickly get rid of my clothes, before dropping to my knees, feeling the familiar scratch of the carpet against my skin. Reaching underneath the bed, I search blindly for a moment before my hand closes around the familiar shape of the flesh light. I pull it out, holding it almost reverently. Anticipation coils within me, tightening with the knowledge of what I’m about to do.
Puck bunnies used to be my pre-game ritual. But those nights have faded like last season’s highlights. Since Soren and I became members of Cupid’s Court, we’re rarely turning toward the puck bunnies.
Where Soren is happy to pay so he can get his need to cause others pain out of his system, my needs are the direct opposite. I want the fucking relationship package, without risking my heart again. By paying, there’s an uncrossable distance. It’s all a game I can control with my wallet.
I settle onto the edge of the bed; the mattress dipping slightly beneath my weight. My hand wraps around my hardening cock. The sensation is immediate, a spark igniting in my core as I begin to move my hand—slowly, purposefully. My breath hitches, catching in my throat as the pleasure begins to unfurl within me.
With each stroke, each pull of my skin, the urgency builds. The memory of bodies pressed against mine fades into the background, replaced by the singular focus on my own touch, my own needs. I take my time, teasing myself.
Tightening my grip, I stop moving for a moment. My dick’s still growing, hardening, and I fucking love feeling it swell. Groaning, I begin moving my hand up and down again, relishing every movement.
My chest rises and falls rapidly now, each breath laced with a growing desperation. The heat is intense, almost unbearable, as if every nerve ending is straining toward the same inevitable conclusion. My dick throbs in my hand, pre-cum glistening at my pierced tip.
I reach for the lube under my pillow, greedily squirting a large amount onto my cock, stroking it into the skin as much as possible.
The cool, silken touch of the flesh light’s interior beckons, a siren call to the depths of my carnal desires. I grip it in one hand, steadying my breath before guiding my cock inside. The sensation is instantaneous, a tight, enveloping warmth. A low groan rumbles from deep within my chest, reverberating against the walls as I start to move.
