Pucking Wild

1. Sofie

I hate crowds.

There”s something about the press of bodies that affects me on a visceral, physical level. My senses sharpen, and I can taste every dirty drop of sweat, every unwashed armpit, every person who didn”t wash their hands.

The worst part is the eyes.

I can feel every eye on me— watching, waiting, judging. I can feel them tracing my curves, dragging across my body like it”s a piece of property for sale. I developed young. It was like waking up one morning trapped inside the body of a woman. Suddenly, all anyone could see was an ass and boobs.

How dare my body betray me like that?

There”s no law against looking, but dios, there should be. There really should be.

Then again, if there was, I”d be out of a job.

Even though the Arena is packed, the crowd isn”t too bad where I”m sitting. It”s another Snowhawks home game, but the laminated square around my neck entitles me to special seats, set apart from even the regular press section. Being team photographer has its perks.

The only people seated with me are my best friend Dakota— assistant manager for the Houston Snowhawks— and Payton Lawson. Payton is the team”s social media manager. She”s also the team captain”s little sister.

”Let”s go, Mita! Move,” Dakota shouts at the passing blur of a blue and white jersey.

Dakota is wearing Kai Mita”s jersey. He”s our big bad defenseman, the guy who loves to take a crowd apart one body at a time. He”s also Dakota”s boyfriend. The last time Dakota dragged me out in public, Kai saved us both from a very nasty crowd.

I”m not watching Kai, though. It”s my job to take pictures of the whole team, but I”ve got my eye on one player in particular.

Parker Knight.

It”s hard to keep him in focus, too. Parker is fast on the ice, the fastest player I”ve ever seen. Ever since Emerson Stone got injured, Parker has been working hard to ensure everyone knows he wasn”t just given a spot. He”s earned it.

I”m definitely not the only one watching him. The crowd reacts with a sudden intake of breath as Parker lines up another shot.

Blocked. The crowd hisses and boos, but only my camera catches his face. The look of dejection is palpable, like a dog that just got scolded. I know the crowd is booing the other guy, but Parker is taking it to heart.

Myheart aches for him.

It”s not the only piece of my anatomy that does.

Parker is scorching hot. Every guy on the team is built, muscular, and solid. Impossibly tall. Emerson was the only exception, and now he”s injured, coaching until he recovers. Parker is more than big, though. I”ve photographed him without a shirt enough times to know. Six feet of pure, honed muscle, Parker could model for a medical textbook.

I”d rather he model for me.

His eyes are hazel— the color of sunlight peeking through the fog on a spring morning. His sandy brown hair is cropped close, and the dark shadow of stubble clings to the sharp lines of his jaw. But it”s Parker”s smile that captures my heart and my camera lens.

Two Flyers suddenly break away from everyone else, passing rapidly back and forth as they bear down on our goal. There”s a hush, a sudden silence as thousands of people all hold their breath.

The puck sails through the air and towards our goalie.

Erik Nordstrom, aka the Viking. He”s the biggest guy, not just on the team but in the whole league. He looks more like he belongs on a battlefield with a battleaxe than on the ice with a stick. He”s amazing — but even he can”t guess right every time.

The arena buzzer sounds off, marking a goal for the other team.

”Come on, Erik!” Payon cries from beside me.

Payton resembles her big brother Sawyer, the Snowhawks” team captain. Blonde hair that borders on platinum and clear blue eyes, they could almost be twins in looks. Their personalities couldn”t be any more different, though. Sawyer is a boy scout, and Payton is a wild child.

She”s also, technically, my new co-worker. Now that we”re taking social media seriously, Payton and I have been spending a lot of time together sifting through photos. If she”s noticed that Parker eats up more real estate than any other player, she hasn”t mentioned it.

I can”t help it. The boy is photogenic.

”Get a few shots of Erik looking dejected, will you? I want to make them my lock screen,” Payton says, leaning in close so I can hear her.

I smile from behind my camera. I can”t tell if Payton wants to fight Erik or fuck him. She”s in for a struggle either way. He”s famously reclusive.

”That”s going to be hard for her, given her Parker fixation,” Dakota crows from my other side.

I can feel the first flames of embarrassment licking up my cheeks, but I”m a past master at ignoring my BFF. If I couldn”t tune her out, I wouldn”t ever get anything done.

”I do not have a fixation. You”re just mad I don”t give Kai special treatment,” I mutter.

Dakota laughs next to me.

The heat in my cheeks intensifies, but I hide it behind my camera. Being a photographer is my one true calling, but the fact that it”s acceptable to hide yourself behind a lens? That”s a big, big bonus.

A vicious check against the boards leaves one of the other team”s players sliding down the glass not far from us. I get a few shots of it. Hockey is a brutal sport. Giant, angry men with big sticks and knives strapped to their feet flying around at speeds that could get you pulled over in a school zone.

At first, I wasn”t a big fan, but watching Parker skate won me over.

He”s graceful as he breaks away from the opposing team”s defenders, all controlled power and explosive movement. The shutter on my camera clicks rapid-fire as I take shot after shot of him moving across the ice like a phantom, dodging defenders until he”s got a clear shot.

This one doesn”t miss. The crowd goes wild. Dakota and Payton squeeze me into a hug, but I don”t let them ruin my shot. I don”t take my eyes off Parker.

Because as he loops around, his eyes find me in the crowd. I know he can”t see me, but I can feel that gaze pierce right through the lens and into me.

That”sthe money shot.

I manageto avoid the crush of the crowd exiting the arena by lurking, snapping photos of Parker and the rest of the team. Alright, they”re all of Parker, but that”s my alibi if anyone asks.

He must sense my eyes on him because he turns to look right at me, even behind the safety of Nick, my trusty Nikon camera.

”You”re coming out to celebrate, right Sofie?” Parker asks, hopefully.

I shake my head, smiling.

”I don”t do crowds, Parker,” I tell him.

He looks like he wants to argue or stay, but Sawyer throws an arm around his shoulders and drags him away. He tosses a look at me back over his shoulder, and I capture it.

Am I imagining things, or is there regret lurking in his eyes behind that happy, celebratory smile?

The question haunts me all the way home. Ever since Dakota hooked up with Kai, I”ve had the place to myself. It suits me just fine because it lets me indulge myself.

I have a routine.

First, I turn off every light in the place. It”s not quite as good as a darkroom, but the ambiance is essential.

I hook my camera up to my computer, setting the display to slideshow. As pictures of Parker slide by, I strip my pants and panties off and toss my legs over the arms of my chair.

I”ve been aching for this all day. It”s the only time I can turn off my brain. There”s a movie theater in my head, constantly seeing everything from different angles, analyzing every detail. It”s what makes me a good photographer and a downer at parties.

But here, in the dark, with Parker on my monitor, I can finally turn my brain off.

And turn my pussy on.

My fingers drift down, teasing the insides of my thighs. I try to draw it out, but I know I won”t be able to for long. I can”t resist touching myself to the pictures of Parker.

Pictures of him at the game. Photos from the locker room, fresh out of the shower, a towel the only thing keeping his modesty safe. My eyes trace the bulges of his muscles and the bulge barely hidden beneath the towel.

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.