Page 62 of Penalty Shot

My right hand moves to the center of my body, straining every inch of that arm from shoulder to wrist. If this body can survive triple overtime of high intensity hockey, I swear it better not let me down now.

I rub my palm over the stiff column. My fingers tingle with the need to grip. I wrap around it andwhat the fuck. What new torture is this?

The welcome tightness around my shaft is in reverse proportion to the spasm-inducing ache of my sore hand.

Seriously, body?

You’re not gonna let me jack off as hard and fast as I want?

Fine. I can focus. Elise, it’s always Elise. I can focus on Elise.

Her back against a wall, that red dress hiked up. I shove a tiny, lacy red thong out of my way. I would get on my knees and inhale deeply before that delicious first lick of her arousal. She would be soaked and tight, like she always is.

This pussy misses me so much, doesn’t it, Elise?

She’s wiggling to ride my face. I grip her ass while grinding my mouth over her soaked folds. Just thinking about it brings back the rich warmth of her arousal. The memory of her taste makes me crave it.

God, yes, please Randall.

She sighs and moans. The way she says my name unleashes yearning so strong, it sends pounding blood to my cock, which is red, engorged, angry.

Please, what?

I feel the heat surge to my lower back, collecting at the edge of explosion. My control is a dam about to break. Her legs hike over my shoulders, soft thighs clamping my head in place.

Please, sir, will you eat me out till I come?

Thick ribbons shoot up in tall arcs, spilling over my stomach and hips, my chest and sheets. The kaleidoscope of Elise in ecstasy floods my brain, wringing me of pleasure.

Afterward, emptied but unsatisfied, I head to the shower and consider my options. Now what?

When the Mavericks lost last night, I thought I was going to get crushed under the weight of disappointment.

My brain cycled on repeat:I could have made one more save. This is my fault. The team, the whole damn city, was counting on me and I let them down. I could have made one more save. This is my fault.

The road to self-blame is a smooth sheet of ice. But my teammates kept me from slipping down that road.

One after another they hugged and praised me. We cried. That’s right, real men cry.

When lifelong dreams arethisclose but out of reach, there are tears.

We all know the opportunity to chase the Stanley Cup is never guaranteed. People get traded or hurt or retire.

That locker room became a home we built together. When we return at the end of summer, we have to build it all over again.

There’s plenty of regret and frustration and uncertainty in the face of defeat.

But we shared defeat like a bottle we passed around and from which we each took a sip, tasting its bitterness and swallowing down till it got absorbed to nothing. One drop at a time, we took our loss, till eventually there was only each other left.

I open my phone to check the group chat where everyone is posting their plans. Some are staying around with their families to finish their kids’ school year. Others are off to exotic vacations. Many will be flying home to all corners of the world.

Home. I’m not in a hurry to go there, although I am always expected to pay a visit in the summer.

The playoff series loss, even if I’m managing my disappointment, remains a raw wound that I don’t want my father to pick on.

I’ll deal with flying to Vancouver after I do the one thing I really want to do: drive to Cleveland.

***