Page 11 of Her Hat Trick Daddies (Game On Daddies #3)

David

T he game might’ve only been a scrimmage, but I always have the same problem, nevertheless. Boundless, untethered energy. When it’s a loss, that energy is tense and often miserable. And even when it’s a win, that zing of restlessness gallops through me like a racehorse on crack.

It wouldn’t be difficult to find a woman to expend that energy with. Hell, in my early days, I was one lucky son of a bitch to have them lining up for me. I hadn’t had to chase or pursue a single one. They wanted me .

Truth be told, since the divorce, there would still be plenty of takers if I wanted to take a dip in the puck bunny pussy pool.

But I’m just not up for that. I’m not some rookie in my twenties, fresh out of college. I may only be thirty-five, but on many days, I feel older. Not physically, so much. Out there on the ice, I can still slam my stick down and score as often as any other guy .

After having a wife—now an ex-wife—the thrill of waking up next to some random woman every other night just doesn’t hit the same.

We made it five years before it all crumbled.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m just not built for marriage…

or if I wrecked it by choosing the wrong person.

I thought we were solid, thought we wanted the same things, but in the end, she wanted what I couldn’t give her. I guess life had other plans for me.

Whatever dream I had of settling down and building a life together, it blew up spectacularly, leaving nothing but smoke and wreckage in its place.

Even now, years later, the idea of walking that road again feels like heading straight for a dead end.

I’m in no hurry to put my heart through that kind of hell twice.

Only one night in the past few years refuses to fade— Phoenix .

A masquerade ball full of shadows and secrets, the kind of reckless abandon that only happens when everything, and everyone, is a mystery.

And yet, she still haunts me. What if we’d just exchanged numbers? What if I’d learned her real name? Too late for that now.

So here I am, jacking off in my hotel room in San Jose, phone in hand, working my way through the newest porn drops.

The only thing that matters right now is getting this out of my system.

I need to calm down and get at least five hours of sleep.

Otherwise, my concentration will be shot tomorrow.

And as the Avs’ new captain this year, I don’t dare risk that.

I was alternate captain back in Minnesota, and I quickly rose through the ranks to captain here in Colorado.

And that’s a responsibility I take pride in.

So, I won’t forgive myself if I fuck it all up.

The screens on these smartphones might be small, but it’s enough to get things done. So, I perch myself on the end of my queen-sized mattress stroking my dick in my tightened fist, allowing the hot thrum of need to roll through my system.

I’m pretty good at making do with whatever’s on hand, especially when I leave the expensive lube at home, the stuff worth every damn penny. A little lotion from my suite’s bathroom should get the job done, though.

The video I’m watching is pure filth—four men wrecking one woman strapped down to a bed spread-eagle.

She’s face-up, completely bare, her body nothing but an offering.

One man fucks her throat, thick cock slamming past her lips with ruthless rhythm.

Another pounds into her soaked pussy, hips snapping hard, flesh slapping flesh.

But it’s the other two that really do me in, one at her feet and the other at her chest. One sucks on her toes, all of them, his mouth stretched wide, worshipping her like he’s starved for her taste.

The other one licks and nips at her breasts as he fists his cock, muttering filthy praise under his breath.

“I can’t wait to fuck these babies. God, I love a perfect fucking set. ”

The sounds—moans, slaps, wet gags, low grunts—make my hand work faster and more desperate, chasing that edge. My breath stutters when the guy in her mouth groans, jerking as he unloads, half of it spilling into her mouth, the rest streaking across her lips, chin, neck in thick, pearly ropes.

That’s it. That’s the push I need.

I come hard, gasping, the release hot and messy, coating my fingers, slick trails pooling across my stomach and thighs.

I moan, the sudden bliss of release loosening my tired muscles.

I feel better—less tense, less tightly coiled.

But let’s be honest, getting off is still a pretty poor substitute for the real thing.

So yeah, I go in for round two. Tired of the first clip, I start scrolling, aimlessly, until one catches my eye.

Freshly uploaded, barely any views. Another group sex scene.

The quality is trash, though. Grainy, low-res, like it was filmed in someone’s basement with a flashlight. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? It’s an amateur site. The raw, unpolished feel is part of the charm… or at least the expectation.

Anyone can upload their triple-X adventures. This site may not be my top choice, but it’s convenient, anonymous, and doesn’t ask for anything. No logins. No usernames. No strings. Just one click, and you’re in. Simple.

But I freeze, thumb hovering over the screen. Something about this one feels different, something unsettlingly familiar. The way a body shifts, the angle of a thrust, the flex of muscle under skin. It stirs something in the back of my mind, a warning bell I can’t place .

I bring the phone closer to my face, heart pounding a little harder.

And then I fucking see it.

The mask. The scar.

Clear as day, stamped against the skin of one of the men on the screen. A punch of recognition so strong it knocks the air from my lungs.

The same jagged, gnarly line carved into my left hip and upper thigh—the one I earned during my Division One days when a brawl broke out in front of the goalpost. I remember the chaos.

Another player’s skate had gone airborne just as I was shoved into the mess.

My body slammed into it—pad, jock, and all—and the blade sliced through everything like paper. Jersey. Pads. Underwear. Skin.

There was blood everywhere.

The doctors said it missed my femoral artery by inches. Lucky, they said. I didn’t feel lucky. It took seventy-seven stitches to sew me back together, and it still aches when the weather changes. Seven’s not my lucky number. It never was. I’ve had injuries. Plenty. But nothing like that.

And now I’m staring at that scar, my scar, on some random amateur porn video.

What the actual fuck?

My stomach flips, nausea rising fast and sharp. I should close the tab. I know I should. But I don’t. I just sit there and stare.

And then the others come into view .

Shane, with his telltale tattoo stamped on his left bicep, the way his hand grips her hip, the curve of his smirk even under the half-shadow.

And just behind him, caught in a flash of movement, is Andy. The jester mask. That same swagger. That same twisted little grin I know way too well.

Fuck. Double fuck. Fuck my fucking life.

I should be spiraling. Maybe I am. But I let myself have a few seconds, just a few, to take in her . The woman I’ve tried not to think about, but never really stopped thinking about. Couldn’t stop. The one I’ve convinced myself I’d never see again.

The woman in the red sequined mask. Phoenix.

There’s something painful about knowing everything about someone’s bare body and nothing else.

That’s what I get for being a dumbass and diving headfirst into a no-strings-attached fuckfest at a masquerade ball, where real names weren’t part of the equation.

Just masks, hands, mouths, moans. A night that’s been living rent-free in my head ever since.

I’ve tried looking for her, but all I had to go by was blonde hair and blue eyes. It was impossible.

Her body. Damn, that body. A body that owns most of my nights. A cunt I could’ve written sonnets about, if I wasn’t too busy jerking off to the memory of it. And those lips. Fuck, those lips. Soft, lush, kiss-bruised, stretched wide around Shane’s cock .

If we’d had more time that night, I would’ve had mine buried in her mouth too. One hand twisted in her hair, the other gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at me while she swallowed every inch.

And yeah, I would’ve paid it back. Thoroughly. Happily. Worshipped her until she forgot anyone else was even in the room.

And the sounds she made when she came still wreck me—high, breathy, desperate, like she was trying to hold them back and couldn’t. I remember the blush, too. How it crept from her cheeks down over her chest, spreading across those gorgeous tits like a goddamn sunrise.

And her eyes. God, her eyes. Pale blue. The color of the sky on the first real day of summer.

I’d give up millions just to see her again. Not through a shitty, grainy screen. Not hidden behind masks and lies. Not with this ache sitting heavy in my gut every time I remember.

In person. Real. Name and all. Touch her again. Make her mine in a way that counts.

Not just watch her get split open by my friends on a desk and a couch under shitty fluorescent lights, caught in a clip so bad it makes me want to punch whoever thought putting a camera in that room was a good idea, and the asshole who uploaded it.

Hell, I’m half a second from launching my phone across the room for even letting me see it this way .

I stayed shirted through round one of my jack off session, but all that tension? It’s back with a vengeance, rooted deep in my gut and slowly crawling up my spine. So, I throw on my boxers, then sweatpants, hands already flying across my phone.

I text Shane. Then Andy. We need to have a talk.

David : Shane, need you to get to my room. Now.

David : Andy, got time to meet me in my suite? It's important. Room 601.