Chapter 27 Ellie
ELLIE
“Hey guys… you’re here.” I grimace as my aggressively large family crowds in the vestibule in front of the locker rooms.
“They wanted to see some hot NHL ass.” Granny Murray jerks her thumb. “I said I’d hook ’em up.”
My cousins all smile gleefully when they see Fletcher step away from the media scrum and head to the locker room. His silvery eyes narrow when he approaches.
“Fletch, you’re so hot!” my female family members catcall.
My dad is shoved to the front of the group.
Suddenly, my father, who always called me his baby girl, is face-to-chest-plate with the guy who snuck into my childhood bedroom and had his face between my legs.
I cross them.
Fletcher looks down at me from that impossible height, and his mouth twitches into a smirk.
“Uh, Dad, this is…” The guy who had his candy cane where the sun don’t shine. “This is our centerman.”
I can blame the flush of my cheeks on the media lights, right?
My dad doesn’t seem impressed. “Nice shot on goal,” he says to Fletcher flatly.
Fletcher tips his head down to look at me briefly then back up to my dad. “I have a good coach.”
His stick shifts in his hands, then the flat of it presses briefly but definitely on purpose right on my backside. I jump and grab my skirt.
“Well, Fletcher needs to go, uh, get changed…”
My cousins are drunk, and their normally minimal filter has turned into no verbal filter whatsoever. “We won’t keep you from fucking in the locker room.”
I kick Violet in the shins.
Fletcher raises a dark eyebrow under his visor. My dad gives him a suspicious look.
“Don’t wait for me,” I babble as I give Fletcher a shove toward the locker rooms. “I’ll get a ride back.”
“Ellie!” my family calls.
“See you later! Thanks for coming to the game.” I practically sprint away from my family. I can’t take it. I’m sure my dad knows something’s up.
The players are all in various states of undress in the locker room, so I scurry away into the back to my windowless office.
Shut the door.
Lean against it.
Try not to think about Fletcher.
Is he going to show up at my bedroom? My mom is hosting a postgame party for the whole family.
I could just surprise him in the locker room shower…
No, that’s a bad idea. We’d get caught. I need to stop obsessing over him. He’s my player.
I don’t even like him. It’s the fact that he’s a forbidden hockey fruit bat—that’s the problem.
I pull a makeup wipe out of my bag and blot at my face with it. Try to get myself together.
Watching him on the ice, the way he moved, the raw power of him… “Bet he fucks like he plays,” the part of me that’s the bad daughter, the bad coach, singsongs.
I unbutton my suit jacket and fan myself. It doesn’t help. I’ve been half gone since he snuck into my room last night, like he had every right to be there.
I mean, who does that? It’s the same kind of cocky that lets a man just walk onto a NHL team from the minors and score goals.
The door handle rattles.
“Just a minute,” I choke out as I fumble with the buttons in the dark. “I’m coming, I just—”
The door opens. Fletcher stands there in the doorway, a huge, dark shadow. He’s still in his skates, balanced on the knife-edge of the blades inside their guards.
“You didn’t want to get showered?” I croak.
Full disclosure here, everyone: you can’t be a straight female with NHL-adjacent family members and not at one point in your life wonder what it’s like to get absolutely railed by an NHL player decked out in his full gear.
The way Fletcher’s looking at me… the sweaty dark curl of his hair peeking out from under the helmet…
“I think,” the deep voice rumbles, “I told you I wasn’t going to fuck you until after I won you that game.”
My mouth opens, ready to argue—but then his fingers are at the lapels of my white jacket, pulling it off in one fluid move. The pads underneath his burgundy-and-gray jersey shift, exposing the sweat-slicked skin at the base of his throat.
I stare.
“You think I’m doing all this because I’m confused?” he asks. “You think I bust my ass on that ice for the sticker or the prize bag?”
He moves toward me slowly, deliberately. I back into the desk. His skate guards click faintly on the floor like a warning.
“You should leave,” I whisper.
“Tell me to. Order me to.” His teeth graze my neck.
My lips part. But no sound comes out.
“You’re the coach. You own me. So tell me not to bend you over and fuck you.” Fletcher leans in, one hand braced on the desk beside me, the other cupping the back of my neck like he did earlier—possessive. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, voice low. “Unless you order me not to.”
I don’t. I can’t.
And when his mouth crushes mine, hot and hungry and devastating, I realize I’m already gone.
“What drill do you want to run, Coach? Hmm?” His head dips down, helmet bumping my jaw as he pulls my tits out of the lacy red bra.
He pulls his plastic mouthguard out, tosses it on my desk, then attacks my tits, working the nipples with his teeth, his tongue sucking them raw as the heavy gloves force my legs apart.
I pant as the raised logo slides against my clit—the best kind of friction.
The red lingerie has a secret surprise that makes for precarious sitting. Wearing the fabric of the gloves, it takes him a minute. He stares down at the wetness on his gloves.
“It’s a good thing you won.” I look up at him, chest heaving.
“You got your cunt all nice and pretty for me, didn’t you, Candy Cane?”
“I just wanted a win.”
“Nah, you wanted to get fucked.”
“No.” I grab the chin strap of his helmet. “If you lost, I would have made you sit there and sweat and watch me get myself off.”
He growls low in his throat. “I won, so your pussy is mine.” He gives me another bruising kiss. “You ever been fucked by an NHL star?”
“No,” I whimper.
“No, your daddy didn’t let you fuck any of his NHL buddies. You didn’t spread your pussy for any of them?”
“I’m not a virgin,” I choke out.
He uses the handle of his hockey stick to tease my pussy. The taped handle nudges at my opening. I groan as it slides in.
His rough glove is on my neck. He pushes up the short white skirt and falls to his knees, the heavy padding clicking and shifting under the jersey as he goes down on me.
I clutch at the smooth helmet, the clear visor bumping against my hip as his tongue forces its way between my pussy lips, lapping at me as my cunt soaks the thin scraps of my crotchless lace panties.
“Does the NHL know how much of a puck-bunny cum slut their newest coach is?”
I moan as his tongue twists on my clit. Then I screech as he stands up abruptly, my head almost crashing into the ceiling tiles.
He thuds me against the whiteboard; the markers clatter to the floor. “You’re hell on my knees.”
“We’ll have to do more leg strength training. I have some drills.” I breathe then moan as he gives me a punishing lick. I know what he can do. I’ve seen him on the ice.
I wrap my legs around his neck and ride his tongue, ride the fingers until I’m coming all over his face and helmet.
“You gonna actually score, or you just going to play around on the ice?” I pant then groan as he continues to lick my pussy clean.
He pulls me off of him. Drops me to the floor in front of him. His gloved hands briefly squeeze my tits then moves up to cup my jaw.
I can’t read his eyes in the shadow from the helmet as he says, “Coaches are supposed to take care of their hockey players, so I need you to get my dick nice and hard for you.”
You’d think his cock would look small against all the thick padding, but it’s not. It’s fucking huge. I can barely take it in my mouth.
One glove grabs the back of my head, forcing me to him, so I take the whole length down my throat.
My eyes sting as he makes me take all of it.
He’s powerful, forceful, but he never loses control—just glides that thick cock into my mouth as I pant through my nose around the length, sets it there for a split second, then slides it out.
I grab his powerful legs as he fucks my face.
“I told you you’re a good coach, Candy Cane, taking care of your players.”
My nails scrabble against the thin fabric of the burgundy pants over the thick padding. But it’s not all padding. I’m wet again, pussy throbbing as I think about those huge thighs, slabs of granite ramming this thick cock in my pussy.
He pulls out of my mouth with a wet noise. “Damn, you’d look good with my cum all over your face and tits.”
His mouth twitches into a smirk. Then he grabs the back of my neck and slams me over the desk, sending my little cup of paper clips all over the floor.
He runs rough gloves down the expanse of my body. I arch my hips into his hands.
His tongue licks a stripe along my dripping-wet pussy. Then up to my ass.
“You only get to come in my ass if you score a hat trick,” I manage, barely keeping the upper hand.
Fletcher hisses. His gloved hand comes down hard on my bare ass, making me squeal.
“Fine. I’ll destroy your pussy.” He cups my jaw, pulling my head back so I arch against his cock, rock-hard against my swollen pussy. His hands in the huge gloves are rough. The gloved fingers push in my mouth. I taste the leather and sweat.
His glove comes off, and he stuffs it in my mouth. “I don’t want an audience while I fuck you,” he whispers in my ear as I hear a condom packet rip.
He doesn’t give me a minute to adjust to the fact that I’m about to do it—I’m about to let one of my players turn me into a puck bunny.
But he’s forcing my legs apart. I feel a slight cool breeze on my pussy, then he rams that huge, thick length in me while I curse around the glove in my mouth, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the laminate desktop.
“Take it, Ellie, take it. That’s my little cum slut. Damn, I want to fill you up. Take my cock.” The filthy language flows from his mouth as he drags me backward onto his cock, making me take every thick inch of him until he’s seated deep inside of me.
“You like that, don’t you?” He shifts my hips up and snaps his hips, somehow seating his cock even deeper in my cunt. “Your cunt is so fucking tight on me. I think this is the nicest pussy I ever fucked. You feel even better than your mouth.”
He does that little microthrust again, rolling his hips so that I feel that thick cock deep inside me.
He leans over me, forcing my back to arch up with his cock so he can run his hand, warm and rough, over my tits, squeezing them, rubbing my raw nipples as I whimper, my legs split so he can wedge his huge body, bigger in the padding, between my legs.
“You take a cock like a winner, Candy Cane.” He slides out then slams into me again. “Fuck.” He lets out a low growl. Then he’s bucking against me, burying that huge cock in me over and over again. The pace is brutal.
“You haven’t been fucked until you’ve been fucked by a pro athlete.”
And he’s right. On the ice, Fletcher’s all raw power, brutal grace. He fucks like he plays—raw power.
“I love fucking after a win. I wanted to fuck you after that Orcas win.” He says it like we’re just having normal pillow talk, like he’s not pounding in me like he’s defending against the boards, jackhammering into me with blindingly powerful, inhumanly quick thrusts, destroying my pussy in the best way as I moan and whine and beg wordlessly against the glove, which muffles the porn sounds I make as he takes me until I’m shuddering on his cock.
He gives two more powerful thrusts, then I feel him explode in the condom as he rolls his hips into me, using my throbbing pussy to wring out the cum.
I spit the glove out as I collapse on the table. He turns me over, and I just lie there in a puddle on the desk, my tits out, the red lace of the teddy in sweaty tatters.
He runs his hands all over my perspiring, tremoring skin. Like I’m better than any hockey trophy he’s ever won.
He hooks one of my legs around his neck.
His helmet is cool on the inside of my thighs as he licks me with long, slow, powerful strokes from his tongue.
His fingers, gloveless, slide into my throbbing pussy, stroking in me not as deeply as his cock but still enough that he’s wringing another orgasm out of me before I can catch my breath from the last one.
Then he’s between my thighs again, his cock pressed against my raw pussy as he slowly grinds against me. Inexplicably, I feel him grow hard against me.
“I can’t,” I gasp.
“You won’t get a prize from the surprise bag,” the deep voice taunts.
“You don’t even have another condom,” I whimper.
“Yeah, because I’m going to come all over your pussy.” He wraps my legs around him, grinding against my pussy, teasing my clit with his hard cock.
I arch my back off the table and groan when I feel the head of his cock at my ass. “You didn’t get a hat trick.”
“Just a little motivation for next game.” I feel the slight burn of him pressing against my ass, then it leaves, and that thick cock is sliding bare in my pussy.
“Your cunt can take it.” He hooks his fingers into the panties, the thin straps digging into my skin as he slides that impossibly long length into my abused pussy until I feel his balls, huge, against my cunt.
He bends over, smothering the begging and pleading and moaning with his mouth. The helmet falls off, and I wring my fingers in the sweaty dark waves of his hair as he fucks me with a smooth, unrelenting pace.
“I’m gonna ruin your fucking pussy,” he grunts, hiking up my hips so he can drive his cock deep into me. “You’re never going to spread your legs for anyone but me, are you?”
I pull at his jersey. “I’m gonna—are you gonna—” I gasp. Part of me wants it, wants to feel what it’s like for him to empty all that cum in my pussy.
“Shit!” He pulls out, the sensation making me finally come.
He strokes himself twice as he watches me in front of him, legs splayed, pussy bare for him, then I feel it—the hot thick cum spray all over my tits, my stomach, coating my pussy and my thighs in white to drip down my desk.
He takes my hand, slides it into my messy pussy, mesmerized as he uses my fingers to tease my clit.
“I can’t, I’m—” I pant.
He moves my hand, coated with his cum and my pussy juices, forcing my fingers in my mouth.
I suck my finger as he works his own hand in my pussy, stroking me roughly until my hips betray me, rolling erratic and lazy against his hand until another orgasm twists out of me, my legs clutching his wrist until the last of the tremors pass.
“I’ve done some shit, but this is a new low point.” I breathe hard as Fletcher adjusts the padding. He’s sweaty and messy from the hockey match and fucking me. Me? I shouldn’t look like I just got fucked in an alleyway.
“It’s not completely low. You didn’t let me come up your ass.” He kisses me hard, possessive, as he slides his gloves back on.