Neutral Zone (Carolina Comets)

“Here! Here!” I tap my stick against the ice, begging for the pass.

The defenseman slides the puck my way from behind the net, and I take off at full speed, keeping my head up and making sure I’m in the clear.

“Wheels, wheels, wheels!” someone yells from the bench. I’m not sure who it is, maybe Greer? He’s not in the net tonight, but I know he’s sitting there watching the game with sharp eyes. Either way, I listen, charging up the ice, spinning around one LA player, then another. I lock eyes with the goalie as I let the puck fly off the toe of my blade.

All twenty thousand people in the sold-out arena explode in cheers when it hits the back of the net.

“FUCK YES!” I shout as the rest of the Comets empty the bench, crowding around me, knocking my helmet with their own, and shoving at me.

“Now, that’s an OT win, baby!” Rhodes says, tapping his bucket against mine.

“That was all you,” I tell him as Wright, another defenseman, grabs me and gives me an excited shake.

Rhodes gives me a look like I’m full of shit, but I’m not. If he hadn’t read that pass the way he did, I wouldn’t have been able to take off like that. He set it up, and I followed through on it.

The team bumps heads with the goalie, a tradition we have when we win, then we make our way off the ice, feeding off the cheers from the home crowd. I barely hold back a groan when I’m stopped in the tunnel and told to get my smile ready. I’m about to be bombarded by the media; I know it.

“Tonight’s first star of the game, with the game-winning overtime goal, is Ivan FIIIIIIITZGERALD!”

I hop onto the ice, skate a few quick circles, and toss the t-shirt in my hands into the crowd before taking a seat next to our commentator, J.P.

“Heck of a game there, Ivan! How does it feel to have the overtime winner?”

I grin. “Good. Really good.”

“I heard you tap your stick for Beast to pass the puck to you. You saw that opening from a mile away, didn’t ya, big guy?”

I did. I saw it playing out in my head before I begged for the puck, but I can’t tell him that. I’ll come off as too cocky, and that’s not who I am, especially not in front of the cameras.

“I saw something that might work, so I took the shot.”

“Good shot, too.” He laughs. “Well, we’ll let you get going, go celebrate with the guys. Thanks for taking the time to talk, and hey, thanks for that winning goal. Congrats on a great game, Fitzy.”

“Yeah, thanks, J.P.”

I shake his hand, give the still-roaring crowd another wave, and then head down the tunnel to the locker room, more than ready to hit the showers and go home for the night. We have tomorrow off before we continue our three-game homestand, and I’m looking forward to it.

“A couple of us are hitting up Slapshots. You game?” Hayes asks as soon as I walk into the dressing room.

“Nah, man. I’m going to head home.” I yank my sweater over my head and toss it into the laundry bin, then drop down into my cubby.

“You sure? Guaranteed to find some willing pussy there.” He lifts his dark brows up and down.

“Don’t talk about women like that, idiot.” Miller, a forward with some hot hands, slaps Hayes across the back of his head as he walks by.

I can’t help but laugh because I’m pretty sure Miller was Hayes at one point before he settled down with Scout, the donut truck owner turned romance novelist. Now, he’s wrapped around her finger and follows her like a lost puppy.

Looking at Hayes, I point at Miller. “For the record, I’m with him.”

“You are?” Miller asks, his mouth ajar. He snaps it shut quickly, then puffs his chest out. “I mean, yeah—of course I’m right and you agree with me.”

I do my best to hide my laugh.

Hayes lifts his eyes skyward. “Fine. We’re guaranteed to find some ladies who would love to be ravaged.”

I shake my head. “While that’s slightly better, no, thank you.”

“You’re no fun,” Hayes complains, but thankfully, he drops it.

I don’t feel like explaining that I don’t want to go out because I hate going out. It’s not my scene, and it never will be my scene. The few times I’ve been out with the guys haven’t really been my idea. I only did it for team bonding and shit when I was first brought on. In fact, the last time I went to Slapshots was with Greer and Hayes, and that night ended up changing the direction of Greer’s life.

That’s not something I’m looking for now.

I’m content with what I have—hockey, hockey, and more hockey. It’s all I’ve ever needed to be happy. It’s not that I don’t want to settle down someday; I don’t hate the idea like some guys, but I’m not actively pursuing it either. If it happens, it happens, but for now, I’m happy playing the best game ever to exist and getting paid damn well to do it.

And none of that has anything to do with the fact that I’m horrible at putting myself out there. No. That’s not it at all. I just like being alone.

“Fitz! Media!” Coach Heller yells, and I try to keep my eyes from rolling.

I hate talking to the media. They all ask the same questions, forcing me to give the same answers creatively. They must get together and coordinate this attack on players. There’s no way they don’t.

I finish stripping off all my gear, then toss on a pair of shorts and a navy Comets t-shirt before heading off to fulfill my duty. As I predicted, it’s a bunch of the same old bullshit.

“How did it feel to get the overtime winner?” Just terrible. I hate winning.

“What about that pass from Rhodes? Incredible, huh? Did you practice that?” No. Not at all. We never practice. It’s purely natural talent.

“You guys struggled a bit during the second period. Any reason for that?” Because we sucked. No real reason other than simply playing bad hockey when we should have been playing hockier hockey than the other team.

While those aren’t the answers I give, they’re the ones screaming loudest in my head.

“Fuck, this shit is hard sometimes,” I mutter as I head back to the locker room, feeling completely exhausted after being forced in front of the camera. Sure, it was probably only five whole minutes of my life, but it felt like years. I am not cut out for this part of playing professional sports, that’s for damn sure.

“I fucking feel that,” Rhodes says as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I’m getting fined for my interview.”

I laugh. “Did you shove the microphones out of your face again?”

“You’re damn right I did. I could smell the spit on one.” He wrinkles his nose. “And tobacco. I hate when they do that. It’s bullshit.”

It really is.

“I might have also given them an earful of my opinion on that crap call in the second. But, hey, they asked.”

I shake my head. “They’ll never learn.”

“Nope. Sure won’t.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m heading home to the wife. Great game out there tonight. Later, man.”

“Yeah, later,” I say as he walks out of the room.

There are a few stragglers, a couple of guys I’m not close with, so I finish stuffing my bag and hit the road too. I manage to make it to my old 1971 forest green Chevy truck without being bothered again—a miracle, really—and the first thing I do is stop at Smoothie Town for my late-night strawberry fix. It’s a little tradition of mine after home games. Win or lose, I get a smoothie for the drive home.

I shove the truck into park and check my phone for the first time since before the game. I’m unsurprised to find a few texts waiting for me.

Mom: MY BABY BOY!

Mom: Before you yell at me, I know you’re not a baby, but you’ll always be MY baby.

Mom: I’m so proud of you, son. I love you. Call in the morning, okay?

If you looked up “hockey mom” in the dictionary, the name Anya Fitzgerald would be right next to it because that’s exactly what my mother is—a hockey mom through and through. She’s been my biggest cheerleader since I first stepped foot on the ice, and that dedication has never waned. Hell, she’s more into my hockey career than my father, and I think it strengthens our bond.

Don’t get me wrong—my dad loves and supports the hell out of me, but football is where his heart lies; he even coaches it at the college level. So, while he appreciates that I’m an athlete and greatly respects my work ethic, he doesn’t understand why I couldn’t put that devotion toward football rather than hockey. It was always a sore subject between us, and my mother was excited to get a break from all things football and focus on something else.

So, yeah, I fully expected to be hearing from her after that game.

I shoot her a few texts, a grin on my face as I type.

Me: I promise to call first thing in the AM.

Me: Well, maybe not the FIRST thing. Time difference and all that.

Me: And I’ll always be your baby boy…just don’t tell any of the guys I said that. Deal? I love you, too.

Satisfied, I turn off my truck and hop out, heading toward one of my favorite things about playing home games.

“Hey, Fitz. That was a great goal tonight,” Dirk, the kid behind the window, says when I walk up.

“Thanks, man. It was all Rhodes, though.”

“Really? Because I didn’t see it go off his stick into the net. Pretty sure that was all you.”

My cheeks grow hot under the attention, and I clear my throat. “Can I—”

“Get a twenty-ounce strawberry smoothie?”

I chuckle. “That predictable?”

He shrugs. “I prefer to call you a regular instead of predictable.”

“I appreciate that.”

He’s full of shit, though. I am predictable. I know it, and he does too. Hell, even my teammates know it. The only place I’m not predictable is on the ice, which I suppose is good because I keep the goalies on their toes.

Outside of the rink, though, everything about me is consistent. I get up at five every morning, go for a quick three-mile jog, then head back to my apartment for the same breakfast I have every day: oatmeal mixed with strawberries and a slice of toast topped with peanut butter and even more strawberries because my strawberry obsession is alive and well.

After breakfast, I set my coffee to brew and hit the shower while the machine does its thing. After that, I do what I do every other day—hockey. It takes over my whole afternoon and evening during the season and, truthfully, the rest of the year too.

My life is pretty boring, except for that one thing I don’t ever talk about with anyone.

“Here you go,” Dirk says, pulling me from my own head as he slides my drink across the counter. The kid shakes his head at me when I try to hand over my card. “On me. My way of saying thanks for getting those two points for us.”

Points we needed, especially after starting our season with a three-game losing streak. We were still reeling from losing in the Playoffs after Greer’s injury kept him out of the lineup, so we tanked our first three games. We’re already in an uphill battle, and the season has just begun.

“Thanks, Dirk. Have a good night.” I slip a fifty-dollar bill into his tip cup, returning to my truck before he can complain.

I swing myself up and into the driver’s seat, then head home. It’s a quick five-minute drive, and I’m parking my big beast before I know it. I wave to the doorman as I hustle past him to the elevators. I hit sixteen and sip on my drink as the car takes me up.

I grin when the elevator doors open because I can hear her from here.

I unlock my door and push it open just wide enough for me to shimmy through, moving quickly so she can’t slip out. She’s done that too many times for my liking, especially with Miss Drake living down the hall and feeding her too many treats any chance she gets. I got a reaming from the vet last time I took her in, and I’m not looking for a repeat of that.

“Hey, Carl,” I say, scooping the fluffy brown and white cat into my arms. “How was your night?”

Meow.

“That good, huh?” I scratch under her chin. “You hungry?”

Meow.

“Come on, let’s get you something.”

I let her leap down to the floor, then make my way to my kitchen, pulling her food out from her designated cabinet and filling her bowl with a small scoop. I add a little treat on top just because I can. Carl rubs against my legs as a thank-you, then dives right into her second dinner like I didn’t leave her a first one before I left.

Carl does her thing, and I make my way to my bedroom, stripping out of my clothes. It’s been a long day, and I’m more than ready to relax. I pull on a pair of sweatpants, skipping a t-shirt, then pad back to the poorly decorated spare bedroom I use as my office, where I flop down into my desk chair. I don’t even bother pretending I’m going to do anything productive. I know exactly what I’m sitting here for.

Her.

I shake the mouse to wake up my computer, then navigate to my favorite streaming site. As I expected, she’s already on.

RoPlaying is online. Would you like to watch?

Not join. Watch.

Because that’s what I like to do—I enjoy watching.

I didn’t realize it’s something I’m into until a few years ago when I was more into watching the woman I was seeing than I was into actually having sex with her. It’s not that I don’t enjoy sex, because I definitely do, but just sitting back and watching is perfectly fine by me. The sounds, the lighting, the outfits…it does more for me than the actual act of having sex. It’s not just about the physical aspect of it; it’s everything.

I asked her one night if I could just watch, and she allowed it. She thought it was weird but agreed. I asked her to go to a bar and flirt with another guy, told her I’d sit in the corner and let it play out. Again, weird for her, but she did it. We had some great sex that night, but when I asked her if I could sit outside her house while she had the curtains drawn open and watch…well, it crossed the line for her. She informed me I was a pervert and the only reason she was dating a “toothless loser” like me was because I played pro hockey.

After that, I backed off the dating scene. I didn’t want this newfound thing of mine to get out, especially not to the media. The last thing I needed was a headline calling me a Peeping Tom.

It’s been me, my hand, and porn sites since. That’s how I found this particular stream I can’t seem to get enough of, by surfing the web. I figured I like to watch, so what better way than watching a cam girl?

I click join, then settle into my chair as her image fills the screen.

As usual, she’s wearing a mask. It’s a black and gold Venetian style that doesn’t cover her entire face, but it’s enough to hide her real identity. She has on heavy makeup that makes her green eyes extra bright and a light pink wig that ensures she could walk down the street next to you and you’d have no clue you’re standing beside her.

She keeps her voice low as she talks about her day, all while painting her toenails. She’s fully clothed but wearing lingerie that doesn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, especially not with her legs bent and the bottoms of the tiny shorts she’s wearing flirting with flashing the parts of her I’m dying to see.

That’s all she’s doing—painting her toes and talking.

And I’m absolutely fucking addicted to it.

I have no idea why. I’m not sure if it means there’s something wrong with me that I find this so damn hot, but I do. I love every minute of it, and my cock is already beginning to swell behind my sweats.

It’s been two months since I found her channel, and it took me all of one night to get hooked on it. Now, if I miss a stream, I feel off. It’s sad, I know, but here we are anyway.

Watching her isn’t why I didn’t want to go to Slapshots tonight. Okay, so watching her is part of it, but no matter what, I still would have told Hayes no, not only because I’d rather be sitting right here but because I don’t have any interest in hitting up a bar. I have no desire to pretend to be one of the guys who only worry about getting laid. I’m happy staying home and doing my own thing. I learned long ago I don’t crave the attention some other guys on the team do.

My gaze is pulled back to the screen when she jostles around, and I don’t miss how her tits spill out of her top even more. She’s wearing a black bra that barely covers anything, showing that she’s well aware of who her audience is and what they’re there for…myself included, as much as I hate to admit it.

I press against my cock that’s now hard as a rock, trying to relieve some of the growing ache. I promised myself when I started tuning in for this that I would never, ever touch myself while I watch, and so far, I’ve kept that promise.

I should feel ashamed for doing this, for watching her and enjoying it so much, but she wouldn’t be on this camera if she didn’t want people watching, right?

At least that’s what I tell myself to feel better.

She dips her brush back into the bottle—a deep orange—and her tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on what she’s doing. After she’s done with her toes, she moves to her hands, and I watch diligently as she paints each one twice.

That’s the weirdest part of all of this. She doesn’t talk much, but it doesn’t make watching her any less appealing. It should, but it doesn’t. I’m still here, showing up nearly nightly even though there’s never much said other than a few low sighs. Sometimes she’ll talk about her day, like tonight, but others she’s silent. It doesn’t make it any less thrilling to watch her.

It’s pathetic.

I’m pathetic. I gave up a night out with my teammates to watch someone online do the most mundane things.

“And done,” she says softly in that raspy voice of hers. She looks down at the task she’s completed and smiles, then shimmies her hips, making her tits jiggle once more. I watch with rapt attention like the pervert I am.

My eyes drift over to the button that’s been taunting me for months now.

Request Private Video.

I want to click it. I want to click it so fucking badly my hands actually tingle with need.

But I don’t. I never do. That’s crossing a line I can’t uncross.

I try not to think about the times she’s accepted that request from other people, the things she could be doing in those chats. I want to pretend she doesn’t, want to pretend it’s just me and her and nobody else is watching.

She looks over at the clock that’s hanging on the wall of the background that’s one of her favorites to use and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip when she looks back at the camera.

Oh yeah. She totally knows what she’s doing.

“It’s getting late,” she says in a husky whisper. “I have an early morning. Thanks for tuning in this evening.”

Her eyes move to the camera, and it feels like she’s staring into my soul. Like it’s just us in this room. Like there aren’t other people watching her.

Some nights, like tonight, she’ll have her comments turned on, and her eyes flit over them as they roll in. Nearly all are respectful, but some make me want to reach through the screen and punch whoever is on the other side.

So, I do what I always do at the end of every stream I watch. I sit forward, hands on my keyboard, and I write her a message.

ShootsAndScores: I’m glad you chose orange. It’s my favorite color. Hope your day was amazing, Ro.

A slight smile plays on her lips as she reads over the messages, and I tell myself it’s because of mine, though I highly doubt that.

“Good night,” she says.

When she covers the camera with her hand and the screen goes black, I pretend her words were just for me.

“Good night, Rosie,” I reply.