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ONE
“Come on, Kucera. Let’s see what you got.” Sully knows what I’ve got. I’ve been running these same fucking small-area drills with them all offseason. I’m at the point where I just want to play. I’ve done all I can, but I need experience playing a live game. I’ve had some ice time in preseason, but tomorrow is my first game. My first real, legit NHL game—and I’ve got shifts.
Lee “Sully” Sullivan is a natural captain since he’s, without a doubt, thedadon our team. We’ve got the nets spread about thirty feet apart as we skate figure eights around them. I work defense, he works offense. My game has improved since starting with the team last spring. Today, I’ve held my own against him, and I can tell he’s pleased. Sully is huge at six feet, five inches and the classic blond all-American hero hockey player. He’d probably be a pretty boy if it weren’t for his intimidating size. Dude looks like a damn Viking. There are a lot of talented guys on the team. I’m shocked this is my life now. I looked up to these guys in high school, and now we’re running drills together.
Growing up, I had jerseys for Sullivan and Barrett Conway. They’ve played side by side for fifteen years, and their friendship goes back further than their playing careers. Both guys are bachelors, but from what I’m told, neither mess around nor party too hard with the fans. At least not anymore.
Nowadays, Camden “Banks” Teller is the Lakes’ playboy. Banksy is closer to my age at twenty-four. He’s a shameless womanizer and seems to enjoy picking fights. An absolute arrogant fuck but seems nice enough. Banks is one of those guys that grows on you, unlike Lonan, who I’ve liked since day one.
Lonan got married this past summer and won’t shut up about it, he’s always in a good mood. The rest of the team told me about his wife—that might have been the craziest story I’ve ever heard. Glad he’s in love, but I’ll probably run more with the Sullivan and Conway crowd. I don’t have time for women.
Having just been signed, I need to make sure I have my shit together. I’m expected to earn my number every time I step on the ice, every game this year will be a tryout. As a rookie I get a one-year, one-way contract. Three hundred sixty-five days to prove I’m worth signing a second season. I can’t let anything get between me and my career, not after I’ve worked so hard to get here. Being the best in high school, D-1, minors, it’s all led me to this. I put endless hours on the ice practicing and don’t have much of a personal life because of it, but I made it. I’ve always wanted to play for the Lakes—this is my dream.
It’s why I need to keep my head down and stay focused—also why the only woman I plan to focus on is Queen of Tarts. She’s perfect for me. Killer body, a sweet personality, and I have no idea who she is. She’s usually wearing some ’50s housewife apron around her waist and nothing else. For only ten dollars a month I can watch her bake almost nude and chat with her about her day. It gives me something to jerk off to, and I get a little social interaction outside of the team. She’s guaranteed not to be a distraction since we’re strangers, and I get to spend time with her whenever it works for my schedule. Could I go out and fuck randos? Absolutely. The guys would give me hell for paying for nudes, but I can’t beat the convenience.
“Kucera, what the fuck?” Sully yells after I miss the puck. Shit, if a woman I’ve only gotten off to through a laptop screen has got me missing passes, there’s no way I could handle bunnies.Focus, Rhys.
We run passes and line skate for the next half hour before it’s time to wrap up. When I walk into the locker room, it hits me—the next time I lace up, it’ll be for a game.
* * *
I log in to my Followers account and see her username on the side—Queen of Tarts. I click on the sexy redhead and scroll through some of her latest photos. Most are of shit she baked, which is surprisingly eye-catching. Some of her creations more closely resemble art than they do something one would eat. But if I could pick between the two, I’d rather eat from her pussy than her plate. I scroll through a few of her pictures—some tasteful nudes. She likes to get a little kitschy sometimes with whipped cream and melted chocolate covering her nipples. Her tits are unreal.
Last week, I overheard some of the guys talking about the website,Followers, and that you can subscribe to different people, some are athletes or Olympians, others are just everyday folks, and often you get access to nudes, videos, or live streams you wouldn’t find anywhere else. A couple of the guys are thinking of starting their own accounts. You shell out a few dollars a month and in return get a private view into the life of whichever content creator you fancy.
I decided to see what the fuss was about. When I joined, there was a list of the newest creators on the left side of the screen, and the username Queen of Tarts stood out to me. After clicking, she had me hooked. My wallet was out, and there I was signing up as her first subscriber. There was no need to continue window shopping after seeing the merchandise.
We chat a lot. We had a lot of one-on-one time as she grew her following. Thankfully, the distance keeps us apart or she’d be irresistible. She’s cool as hell. But I rely on our “relationship” to be online only, this way she doesn’t interfere with my job. We have good chemistry as friends, often there’s flirting involved. And I almost always get off during her cam sessions. She doesn’t show her face, it’s only neck down. But it’s one great neck down. I don’t stalk her page every second, but she usually gives a cooking tutorial every Tuesday. And well... it’s Tuesday. And I’ve got nowhere else to be.
A notification pops up saying she’s live. I’m the first viewer. Until someone else joins, this is a private show. She moves around a kitchen wearing a frilly pink half apron with bright-red cherries. It looks like something June Cleaver would wear, which is why it’s so hot. The flesh-colored sleeve on her right arm covers up tattoos, I assume. She explains that today she’s making French macarons. I’m already salivating.
“Looks like it’s you and me today, Hat Trick Swayze.”
It’s a stupid nickname I earned in college.
HatTrickSwayze: Nice cherries. New apron?
“Why, thank you for noticing. I found it at a thrift shop last week for a dollar! Can you believe that?”
God, she’s cute. I send a twenty-dollar tip with the note:Apron Fund.
Her laugh plays through my laptop speakers—she has an incredible laugh—that’s what I was hoping my twenty would buy, and it worked. I still don’t quite understand why it does something to me, but it does. It’s not like me to want to make a woman laugh or get her to like me. I couldn’t care less.
“I’ll be sure to pick one out just for you, then, thank you.”
I can hear her smile, but I wish I could see it. I’m already attracted to her voice. It literally gets my dick hard. My cock strains against my zipper.
This is how I get off these days. It’s better this way. Even if I gave a woman the time of day, I’m a shitty boyfriend. As soon as things start to get serious, I burn it to the ground. I’m not relationship material. Hockey is my wife, and I’m her faithful husband. There’s no way I’m about to throw away this opportunity by partying and fucking it all up. I’ve made enough mistakes in life, and I’ve been known to self-sabotage. But that’s what makes Queen of Tarts so advantageous. She keeps me on track but gives my mind something to indulge in on the side. It’s intimate and feels more personal than porn.
Even if I found a girl for the night, I like things rough. I can get off in the missionary position, but I’d rather wrap my hand around her neck and whisper dirty things in her ear while I do it. However, when you grow up in a small town in Maine, most of those women want someone gentle and sweet. They want a rural boy next door that will bring them daisies and change the oil in their car. Someone they can bring home to mom and dad and take to church on Sunday. I can play the part, but that’s all it is—an act. I’m done acting. Until I find a woman who can match my level of wickedness, I’d rather fuck my hand than go through that song and dance again.
“One time in college, my girlfriend and I had a final coming up, and we needed to ace our meringue practical. Our macarons were absolute shit. So we stayed up all night making hundreds of these little guys, and by early next morning, we had them down pat. They were divine. The trick is getting the consistency right. You want it smooth like honey, like this.” She holds up the beater attachment and shows the blush-pink batter drizzling off like... well, honey. She scrapes the side of the bowl with a spatula and transfers it into a piping bag.
As soon as she starts piping, her tits squish together, and the suggestive placement of her piping bag is enough for me to palm my erection. I grab the lotion and envision her down on her knees for me. What I wouldn’t give to see her lips right now so I could add them to my fantasy. I do the best I can with my imagination.
“I got a new neighbor not long ago, so I’m making these to welcome them to the building.”
Lucky fucker.
