The Fan #2
“Right. Super fan.”
“I never called myself that.”
“What would you call it?”
“Normal appreciation.”
“You’re wearing a three-hundred-dollar shirt with my name on it.”
“It was on sale.”
“It wasn’t.”
I looked away.
He stepped closer.
The mood changed so quickly it felt like the room itself had shifted.
His fingers caught the bottom edge of the jersey.
“You wear this often?”
“To games.”
“Only games?”
I swallowed.
“What else would I wear it to?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“I can think of something.”
The heat in my face moved lower.
I should have laughed.
Instead, I asked, “Is this why you invited me down here?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
I raised an eyebrow.
His fingers still held the edge of the jersey. He rolled the fabric once between them.
“You looked at me during warmups like you already knew exactly what you wanted.”
“I was watching hockey.”
“You were watching me.”
“That is how being a fan works.”
“Is that all this is?”
The challenge in his voice made my pulse jump.
I looked up at him.
“No.”
His expression sharpened.
“No?”
“I don’t think you brought me into an empty locker room for a detailed explanation of skate sharpening.”
“I didn’t.”
“And I didn’t come down here because I desperately needed to see the stick rack.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
“What did you come down here for?”
He wanted me to say it.
The arrogance should have annoyed me.
Instead, it made me bolder.
I placed one hand against his chest.
His suit shirt was warm beneath my palm.
“You.”
For one second, he didn’t move.
Then he caught my waist and kissed me.
The first touch of his mouth knocked every fantasy I had ever had about him out of my head.
Reality was better.
He kissed me with one hand at the back of my neck and the other gripping the jersey at my waist, pulling me against him until I could feel exactly how much he had meant every look through the glass.
I clutched his shirt.
He backed me toward the stall and broke the kiss just long enough to look at me.
“Still want the tour?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed against my mouth.
His hands slid beneath the jersey, finding the bare skin at my waist.
The contrast between the cold room and his warm palms made me shiver.
He noticed.
“Cold?”
“No. I’m in an empty professional locker room with a man whose poster is on my bedroom wall.”
He stopped.
“You have a poster?”
“That is not the important part of that sentence.”
“It’s important to me.”
He kissed me again.
His hands moved over me with growing confidence, beneath the jersey and along my sides. He pushed it upward slightly, then stopped.
“Keep it on,” he said.
The quiet possessiveness in his voice made my knees weaken.
“You like seeing your name on women?”
“I like seeing it on you.”
He turned me gently.
My hands landed against the back wall of his stall.
For a moment, I could only stare at the empty hooks and shelves in front of me, acutely aware of him standing behind me.
The place where he sat before every game.
The jersey against my skin.
His hands settling at my waist.
“This what you imagined?” he asked.
His mouth brushed the side of my neck.
I closed my eyes.
“Once or twice.”
“Just once or twice?”
“More than twice.”
His hands slid down my hips as the bench pressed against the back of my thighs.
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“You.”
The answer sounded almost irritated, like I had done something to him merely by showing up.
His hand smoothed over the back of the jersey, following the shape of the number.
Then he lifted the hem.
The cooler air touched my skin.
My entire body tightened.
He noticed that too.
He seemed to notice everything.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
He stood close to me, tie gone and shirt partly unbuttoned, all the easy arrogance from the hallway replaced by a focus that made my pulse hammer.
“I texted a stranger from a phone number written on a puck and followed him into an empty locker room.”
His mouth curved.
“So yes?”
“Yes.”
After that, there was very little talking.
He slipped my leggings down past my hips, cupping my ass with one hand and tracing the hem of my panties with the other. He kissed me as he slipped his fingers into the waistline and slipped them down, too. I let my leggings and panties fall to my ankles before stepping out of them.
I felt exposed, naked from the waist down with this fully-clothed man in front of me.
He kissed me deeper, spreading my legs further with one of his hands, and slipping two fingers from his free hand inside of me as I gasped. He slowly moved his fingers in and out of me as I felt the pressure build low in my stomach.
He pulled his fingers out, and unhooked his belt and let his pants fall to the floor. I slipped his boxers past his hips, watching as all seven inches of him spilled out in front of me. I stroked him once, then twice before he spun me around and bent me over his stall.
The bench creaked beneath my hands when he pulled me back against him. His grip locked around my hips, holding me exactly where he wanted me as he drove forward inside of me, hard enough to push the breath from my lungs.
The first movement made my fingers slip against the polished wood.
“Hold on,” he said behind me, his voice rough.
I tightened my hands around the edge of the bench.
He set the pace slowly at first, each deep roll of his hips dragging a broken sound from my throat. The jersey shifted over my back with every movement, his name stretched tight across my shoulders while his number disappeared beneath his spread hand.
The thought of it nearly undid me.
I was bent over his stall, wearing his jersey, while he stood behind me and watched his own name move across my body, and his cock slide in and out of me.
His hand slid up my spine and caught the back of my neck, not forcing, just holding me there as his rhythm sharpened. The steady knock of the bench against the stall joined the sounds of our breathing, his growing harsher each time I pushed back to meet him.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. Good girl.”
Heat gathered low and tight, building with every stroke. My legs began to shake, but he held me upright, one arm circling my waist as he pulled me closer and drove into me with less restraint.
I turned my head, trying to look back at him.
His hair had fallen over his forehead. His jaw was tight. His gaze was fixed on the jersey riding up over my hips like the sight of me in it was destroying whatever control he had left.
“You like this,” I breathed.
His hand tightened.
“You have no idea.”
He bent over me, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth finding the side of my neck. The new angle made my knees buckle.
I cried out before I could stop myself.
The sound echoed through the empty locker room.
He went still for half a second.
Then he laughed softly against my skin.
“Thought you were worried someone might hear.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He straightened and pulled me back into the next thrust, harder this time.
Whatever answer I might have had disappeared into a gasp.
The pressure inside me climbed until every movement felt sharper, hotter, impossible to take and impossible to lose. My head dropped forward. My nails scraped the bench. His hand covered mine.
“Look at us.”
I forced my eyes open, and met his gaze at the mirror on the opposite wall.
In the reflection, I could see him behind me, broad and half-dressed, one hand wrapped around my waist while the other held mine against the bench. I could see his number across my back, rising and falling with every thrust.
That was what broke me.
My body tightened all at once. I cried out his name as the pleasure hit, gripping the bench while waves of it rolled through me. He held me through every shudder, his pace turning uneven as my body clenched around him.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
His forehead dropped between my shoulder blades. His grip tightened once more, and then he followed, holding me against him as the last of his control gave way.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
The locker room went quiet except for our breathing and the faint hum of the arena ventilation.
Then he smoothed the jersey back down over me.
Carefully.
Like putting his name back in place.
Afterward, I stayed bent over the bench for several seconds, trying to remember how legs worked. Neither of us spoke.
Eventually, I turned around.
He looked less composed than he had all night. His hair had fallen over his forehead. His shirt was open farther than before. His cheeks were flushed red.
The sight made something warm and smug settle in my chest.
“You look pleased with yourself,” I said.
“I just scored twice tonight.”
“Only one is going in the official stats.”
He stared at me.
Then he laughed, loud enough that it echoed through the empty room.
“That’s bad.”
“It’s accurate.”
He reached into the stall and picked up the puck I had placed on the bench when we came in.
The silver number was slightly smudged from my grip.
He turned it over in his hand.
“Keep this one.”
“I was planning to.”
“You should text me again.”
I looked at him.
“This wasn’t a one-time tour?”
“I didn’t show you the showers.”
“You are unbelievably predictable.”
“You still came downstairs.”
He handed me the puck.
I closed my fingers around it.
“That doesn’t mean I’m doing this again.”
“No?”
“No.”
His gaze dropped to the jersey.
“Wear that to the next home game.”
I tried not to smile.
“What happens if I do?”
He leaned down, his mouth brushing mine.
“I’ll know where to aim.”