CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CARTER
The meet with the new Canucks goes well the following night. I expected friction, but the team seemed happy enough to have me around, even let me onto the ice for a bit of back-and-forth. Williams looked pleased enough.
I arrive home late, but can’t resist picking up Wren before I head back to the Oatville Ice Palace.
I switch on the rink lights. “Remember this place?”
Wren looks around, hands in her jacket pockets. “Wow, it hasn’t changed a bit. It even smells like sweaty underwear still.”
I grab her from behind, sniffing her neck, her tight ass against my cock. “That smell is beautiful.”
She spins around in my grip, hands on my chest. “You are beautiful.”
I nod to the rink. “You want to?”
“Skate?” she laughs. “I haven’t put on a pair of skates in years.”
I head over to the rental counter, running through the skates racked up. “What were you, an eight, right?”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“How could I forget? I can’t tell you how many lonely nights I spent dreaming about you inside.”
“I do not want to hear about your spank bank.”
I select a pair of eights, placing them on the counter. “Another time then.”
She goes to take them. I pull them back. “You haven’t paid, miss.”
Her head drops towards her shoulder. “If you’re looking for a blowjob, you’re fresh out of luck.” She looks down. “My jaw’s still a sore from trying to pack away Wilson last night.”
I tap my lips. “A kiss will suffice.”
She leans over the counter. I reach up and take her face, pressing my tongue deep into the warm recess of her mouth, savoring the candy sweetness beyond that’s turning my cock to steel.
Panting, she looks down. “At least you didn’t forget your hockey stick.”
I wink. “Skate first, puck later.”
She pushes herself off me, running off with skates in hand. “You’ll have to catch me first, Crusher.”
She runs laughing to the ice, stopping by the bench to lace up her skates.
I take a seat beside her, calmly putting on my own.
“Damn it,” she says, struggling to get her foot in, her ass rounded out in her jeans as she lifts a leg up. “I don’t remember this being so hard.”
I laugh back and grab my crotch. “It’s not the only thing hard around here.”
“With one-liners like that, it’s no wonder they locked you up.”
“Low blow.”
With an ‘uh,’ one skate slips on. She’s puffing from the effort.
In contrast, my foot slips easily into the boot.
She finishes lacing up the second. “No, this is a low blow.” She shoves me off the bench. “First to the other end of the rink wins.”
“Wins what?” I shout from the floor—a floor that’s suspiciously sticky.
The second she hits the ice she goes right over onto her ass, sliding to a stop.
I skate briskly up to her, pull her to her feet while wiping down her backside, now wet, shards of ice clinging to it.
“If you wanted to get wet, all you had to do was ask.”
She shoves me again and powers off, this time with something close to balance.
I glide up to her with one push—backwards, hovering in front of her.
She’s panting with the effort. “You’re a real show-off, you know that?”
“Wouldn’t you if you had my skills?”
She pushes past me muscling for the other end. “I guess that’s why you’re kicking ass in the NHL then?”
I whistle. “Man, you are mean tonight. I have to say, though, it’s kind of turning me on.”
She calls behind her back. “A cold cup of coffee would turn you on.”
She’s almost at the end. I skate up behind her, crushing her between my erection and the barrier.
She gives a gasp against the glass, a breathy specter appearing there. I grind up against her backside. “Goal.”
She turns around between me and the barrier, hooking her hands around my neck. “Careful, I’ve got blades for feet, and given your dick practically drags on the ground…”
“What, you’re going to go Ramsay Bolton on me all of a sudden?”
“Wow, a Game of Thrones reference. They let you watch something other than Wentworth in prison?”
“Touché.”
She looks past the glass. “Is that it? The thing you drive?”
“It’s a Zamboni, not a ‘thing.’”
“I’ll give you a ‘boni’ if you don’t show me what it does.”
“Alright,” I nod, taking her hand. “Follow me.”
Once we’re out of the rink, I have her put her shoes back on. I do the same and start the Zamboni up, driving it out onto the ice where she waits, arms crossed.
I hop down. “Here she is—the finest ice re-surfacer money can buy, though this one is technically an Okay Elektra, made right here in Canada.”
“That’s like calling a tissue a Kleenex.”
I laugh. “I reckon I single-handedly kept Kleenex afloat when I hit puberty.”
She holds my jacket. “Were you thinking about me?”
“I don’t know,” I tease. “What was our math teacher’s name, Miss. Heckleston? She was pretty hot.”
“She was in her sixties with a snaggletooth.”
I shrug. “It was slim pickings.”
She runs a hand down the front of her pants, a finger hooked into the corner of her mouth. “Is this what you were thinking about while you were jerking off?”
“We called it ‘cleaning your rifle.’”
“Choking your chicken?” she retorts.
“One man tug-o’-war,” I counter.
“Shaking hands with shorty.”
“Answering the bone-a-phone.”
We both laugh.
“But seriously,” I add. “I could have filled a pool.”
She breaks away. “Ew.”
She runs her hand down the side of the machine. “I’ve always wondered what these things do.”
“Think of it like what a lawnmower is to grass, except for ice.”
“It’s big.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
She turns around, glaring. “Are you ever not thinking about sex?”
“Not when you’re around.”
“So, you going to give me a ride?”
“On my big lawnmower?”
“And maybe something else of the large persuasion should you play your cards right.”
I swing up into the driver’s seat. “You’ll have to clear it with Melanie first.”
“Who’s Melanie?”
I tap the steering wheel.
She shakes her head.
I shrug. “I’m saving your name for something really special.”
“Like a Ferrari?”
“No, like a 1967 Alfa Romeo 33 Stradale.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing but the sexiest god damn vehicle ever made. Here,” I say, reaching down with my hand to help her up. “It’s a little pressed for room up here, so I’m afraid you’ll have to sit on my lap.”
It sounds like a line, but Wren simply smiles and takes my hand. I lift her up.
She settles into my lap, my cock growing hard against the warm cushion of her ass.
“It’s high,” she says.
“It is.”
“Is it hard to drive?”
“It ain’t a Jeep. “I don’t think people realize how hard it is to drive in a straight line for two-hundred feet, and if you don’t…”
“That counts me out then.”
“It requires a steady hand, absolute mechanical precision, and focus.” I try to think of a good analogy. “You wouldn’t hand a scalpel to someone with no medical training, would you?”
“Have you ever driven one in front of a crowd?”
I shake my head, very conscious of the way her ass cheeks are enveloping my cock. “With the lights out, music blaring? I don’t think I could do it, in all honesty.”
“Yet you used to play out there, with crowds.”
“True,” I nod, smiling at the memory, the indescribable feeling of an entire stadium getting behind you, lifting you up, “but it’s a different kind of concentration. You’ve got to monitor gauges, check flow speeds, water temps, blade levels…”
She spins around, pivoting on my dick and wrapping her arms around my neck. Her lips are inches away, her eyes heavy with need. “Could you concentrate now?”
I laugh, my cock giving a little twitch of surprise when she rocks her hips forward, her crotch on fire. “I think you might be compromising said concentration, but I’ll give it a go. You ready?”
She jerks her hips forward, my cock resting against the hot seam of her jeans, only a few layers of clothing separating us. “Forward, driver.”