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I’m at Whitmore to earn a degree and prepare for the pros. I’m focused on getting bigger, faster, and stronger. The NHL is no place for pussies. If you can’t hack it, the league will chew you up and spit you out before you can blink your eyes. I have no intention of allowing that to happen. I’ve worked too hard to crash and burn at this point.
Or get distracted.
In a surprisingly bold move, Blondie slides her hand from my chest to my package and gives it a firm squeeze to let me know she means business.
I have no doubts that if I asked her to drop to her knees and suck me off in front of all these people, she would do it in a heartbeat. Other than a thong, the girl grinding away on Cooper’s lap is naked.
My first year playing juniors, when a girl offered to have no-strings-attached-sex, I’d thought I’d hit the flipping jackpot. Less than five minutes later, I’d blown my load and was ready for round two. Fast forward five years, and I don’t even blink at a chick who’s willing to drop her panties within minutes of me walking through the door. It happens far too often for it to be considered a novelty.
Which is just plain sad.
When I was in high school, I jumped at the chance to dip my wick.
Now?
Not so much.
It’s like being fed a steady diet of steak and lobster. Sure, it’s delicious the first couple of days. Maybe even a full week. You can’t help but greedily devour every single bite and then lick your fingertips afterward. But, believe it or not, even steak and lobster become mundane.
Most guys, no matter what their age, would give their left nut to be in my skates.
To have their pick of any girl. Or, more often than not,girls.
And here I am...limp dick in hand.
Actually, limp dick inherhand.
Sex has become something I do to take the edge off when I’m feeling stressed. It’s my version of a relaxation technique. For fuck’s sake, I’m twenty-three years old. I’m in the sexual prime of my life. I should be ecstatic when any girl wants to spread her legs for me. What I shouldn’t be is bored. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be mentally running through the drills we’ll be doing when I lead a captain’s practice.
I pry her fingers from my junk and shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve got some shit to take care of.”
And that shit would be school. I have forty pages of reading that needs to be finished up by tomorrow morning.
Blondie pouts and bats her mascara-laden lashes.
“Maybe later?” she coos in a baby voice.
Fuck. That is such a turnoff.
Why do chicks do that?
No, seriously. It’s a legitimate question. Why do they do that? It’s like nails on a chalkboard. I’m tempted to answer back in a ridiculous, lispy-sounding voice.
But I don’t.
I'm not that big of an asshole.
Plus, she might be into it.
Then I’d be screwed. I envision us cooing at each other in baby voices for the rest of the night and almost shudder.
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. Although I’m not going to lie, that toddler voice has killed any chance for a later hookup. But I’m smart enough not to tell her that. Chances are high that she’ll end up finding another hockey player to latch on to and forget all about me. Because let’s face it, that’s what she’s here for.
A little dick from a guy who skates with a stick.
Just to be sure, I run my eyes over the length of her again.
Toddler voice aside, she’s got it going on.
