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I slip one finger inside myself, then two. I'm soaked, drenched, my body hot and slick. My inner walls clamp down around my fingers, eager to draw them in deep, wishing they were his cock.
My palm grinds a tight circle against my clit as I masturbate furiously to my pictures of Parker. His body is unreal, his skills incredible, but I know what I'm holding out for —
There. That picture of Parker triumphant, looking right at me. His eyes are what I always come to. My back arches in the chair, legs splayed obscenely wide as I whimper and cry out.
His name on my lips, his eyes on my spread pussy.
My audience of one.
2
Parker
I love having an audience.
When I was a kid, I'd try to get up and practice every day. But the empty rink in the early morning light always struck me as off. Oh, I'd still put in the hours, but it wasn't until other people showed up that I really felt on.
I can't be in the zone without someone watching.
Once I feel those eyes on me, once I have the added pressure of someone watching, that's when I really perform. Practice has always felt like a bit of a waste because I know it's not real. But practice makes perfect, so I push through. It helps if I can have eyes on me doing drills, too.
Now that I'm in the big leagues, I've always got eyes on me. Some people, like our taciturn goalie Erik, might hate it. But me?
I love being watched.
"Quicker, Parker, quicker!" Emerson calls from the sidelines.
He and Dakota are half my audience as I run shooting drills. Under their watchful eyes, I'm improving by leaps and bounds. Emerson Stone is one of the team's best forwards. He's lightning-fast — but even his speed couldn't save him from an illegal hit to the head. Now he's on injured reserve, but he's still here every day, training and coaching us.
Well, mostly me. It makes sense because I'm his replacement. Emerson's injury is terrible, and I never wanted anyone to get hurt —
But I'm still glad for the chance to show off.
I work my legs, pouring on speed. If they want fast, I'll show them fast. We're doing breakaway practice, drills for when you get a one-on-one situation. I know I'm good, but I need to be better to keep my spot on the squad once Emerson fully recovers.
Erik, the goalie, is already studying my approach. With no one else on the ice, he knows the shot is coming from me. It's a bit of an unfair, unrealistic drill. He'd have to worry about me dumping the puck to a teammate in a real game. Here, in a one-on-one, he can focus solely on me.
Sawyer is on the ice with us, but he isn't helping. The team captain is studying us both from a closer perspective than the sidelines. Payton, his little sister, is by his side, but she's not looking at me. She's studying Erik.
Makes sense. Two sets of eyes, two of us.
Payton is almost a carbon copy of Sawyer. Same light blonde hair, same sky blue eyes. Same skills, too — Payton is also a demon on the ice. If she was a man, there's no doubt she'd be on the squad too. But it makes her a fantastic social media manager. She knows the ins and outs of the game better than anyone else.
Even with a professional coaching staff, Sawyer, Dakota, and Coach Morgan often rely on Payton's careful eye for detail to catch the things they miss.
Then there's Sofie Rivera. The team photographer peeks out from around the telescoping lens that might as well be attached to her face. Her dark eyes meet mine across the ice, and for a moment, the world stops. Then she raises the camera again, blotting out my view of her like a cloud moving in front of the sun.
Sofie is short and compact, with the kind of deep caramel complexion and hourglass curves that can drive a man to his knees. Her hair is an inky black riot of curls. Even the pale pink headband she's wearing isn't enough to contain the wild explosion of it around her face and down the middle of her back. Behind the Nikon, her features are a careful mask of disinterested concentration.
Her brown eyes are warm and wide, framed by thick black lashes. When I can see them, anyway. Usually, Sofie makes a point of disappearing behind the safety of her camera.
But I caught the way she was looking at me just now. There was a spark of something hot enough to melt ice in Sofie's eyes. I recognize it as the same fiery need that ignites in my gut whenever she's standing too close.
Sofie could be looking at anything right now. For all I know, she's photographing the empty stretch of ice behind me. But she's not. She's looking at me.
The realization makes me want to throw my head back and crow.
That look isn't about professional interest or dedication to her job. It isn't even the dreamy-eyed stare of the dedicated fans that pack the arena on game night. Sofie watches things. Studies them from behind her shutters and lenses until she's seen what the rest of us miss.
