The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers)
The Best Kind of Forever: Chapter 1

HAYES

Tits or ass: that’s the eternal question. That’s the question I’ve been asked my entire life, by friends, flings, teammates, my ex-girlfriend. I’m not going to lie. For a long time, I was a tits man. But tonight, I think my answer is gonna change.

And that’s thanks to the girl’s thighs currently straddling me. They’re lean with muscle, and it’s clear she sticks to a rigorous workout regimen. I’m a thigh guy. Definitely. Is it wrong that I want her to crush my head with them? I really shouldn’t be thinking about this when I should be wining and dining sponsors, especially since my next year in the NHL is up in the air. But she’s wearing such a short dress, so short that from this angle, I can see practically everything.

Her lips ghost the shell of my ear, and her tongue tickles the column of my throat, doing wonders for my hard-on. I understand that I’m fully making out with a girl at a sponsor party. I understand that there’s media around every corner covering the new merger between the Reapers team and Voltage Sports Drinks. I should be mingling instead of acquainting myself with the inside of some girl’s mouth.

I don’t care, though. I need the distraction. Reputation wise, this season’s been shit for me, and it’s only just started.

It’s my second season playing for the Riverside Reapers. I was drafted to the team my senior year of college. It’s been my dream to go pro since I was little. My parents signed me up for minor ice hockey when I was eight, and I’ve been playing ever since.

When you enter the spotlight, there are so many rules that people don’t tell you. Rules like you need to make yourself presentable in front of the press. You can’t be caught doing anything that would shine a negative light on the team.

I’m lucky that my behavior off the ice hasn’t affected my playing time during games. Just last week I got into a fight with a prick who was macking on some uninterested girl at a bar. Granted, he deserved getting his face rearranged, but the cameras only captured the physicality of it all. The tabloids don’t care why I punched a guy; they just care that I did it. And I’m no stranger to getting into fights.

I’m violent when I get on the ice. I’ve already spent the most time in the penalty box my first season than any of my teammates combined. I’m not afraid to hit, I’m not afraid to strike, I’m not afraid to engage in a brawl if some douche gets under my skin. I don’t deal with my anger well.

That’s probably in part due to my shitty excuse for a father. Oh, and the fact my mom is dead. Sherry passed away of cancer when I was eight, and it broke my dad. He became distant, closed off, a shell of the man I remember from my childhood. I didn’t realize I’d lost two parents that day.

I don’t think my mom was even planning on telling us she had breast cancer. The only reason I found out was because my dad got a call from the hospital after she was admitted for fainting. Thankfully, she was outside when it happened, and our neighbors managed to get to her in time. Then the doctors told him everything. We all knew she had been acting a little off more than usual—curt answers, lapses in memory and judgment, distancing herself from us. I chalked it up to her being stressed with work.

I was wrong.

After she died, my father abandoned me and my sister. I had to take care of my younger sister, Faye, while I juggled school and hockey. We still had a roof to live under because of the monthly paychecks our dad sent us, but besides that, he wasn’t in our lives. He disappeared to some faraway, forest-grown part of the Michigan mountains where he made sure his tracks weren’t traceable. He wasn’t there for any of Faye’s milestones. He wasn’t there to see me off to college. He wasn’t even there to cheer me on at my first NHL game. The only contact he’s maintained is the occasional text whenever he needs something.

There are a handful of websites dedicated to capturing all the mistakes I’ve made, and some of the diehard Reapers’ fans have collectively formed a brigade to share in a universal dislike for me. If the stands came equipped with tomatoes—which I’m thankful they don’t—I’m pretty sure the only person people would be aiming at is me.

I never thought that so many people would be interested in my sex life…or maybe “disgusted” is the right word. When you sleep with a different girl every day for the entire month of March, it doesn’t give the best impression.

I want to forget this whole week. I want to stop feeling. The alcohol’s already helped a bit with both, but if I can rely on one thing in this damned world, it’s good sex.

In my defense, I haven’t slept with anyone in sixty days. And that’s a deliberate abstinence, okay? I haven’t really been able to trust anyone after my ex-girlfriend, Macy, broke up with me.

I caught her cheating on me with her coworker, who she’d apparently been seeing behind my back for the duration of our relationship. We were together for two years. TWO.

She then admitted to only using me for my money, my name, and my fame.

She dumped me before I could break up with her. She threw all my shit out her window—at least the shit she hadn’t burned yet—and topped everything off with a few glitter bombs and a passionately worded Notes app paragraph on her Insta story.

The girl in front of me is shaking the bed with how much she’s bouncing on top of me. We went from a fifteen-minute make out sesh to her riding me like rent was fucking due.

I’m not sure I even asked what her name was. She knew my name, though. Sponsor parties are always crawling with puck bunnies.

I can’t stop staring in awe at the way her perfectly proportioned tits recoil as she fully clenches around me, her head lolling back, dark hair spilling down her shoulders like ink.

My hands are gripping her thighs so tightly that red marks are rising in their wake. I love when girls are loud, but fuck, is she loud. I bet the whole party downstairs can hear us, despite the outdated EDM music playing. Her moans are heaven-sent, and they unravel the knot of desire in my stomach. She’s rolling her hips and playing with the curve of her breast, two images that rev the static inside of my brain. The warmth in my groin intensifies, erupting into a fire that sears every inch of me. Her perky ass slaps against the tops of my thighs.

I’m close to coming. My dick is practically begging me to release inside of her, and it’s a good thing I snagged a few condoms before leaving the house because no matter what dude you talk to, pulling out rarely works.

The minute I saw her across the room, I think a part of me knew how the night was going to end. Before I even got the chance to talk with my teammates, her hand was stroking me. Yeah, self-control has never been my strong suit.

“Fuck…” I groan, though I think it comes out more like a frustrated growl.

We move together in a synchronized pattern of movements, and I watch her pick up the pace. Her pussy squeezes up and down my length as she nears her climax, and when she comes down hard on the hilt of my pubic bone, an avalanche of arousal suffocates me. The tip of my dick tingles, and it feels like a supernova is exploding in my veins, coloring my vision with constellations. Before I know it, I’m spilling myself into the latex in hot, wet bursts.

When I get up to dispose of the condom, she has the bedsheets pulled up to her chest.

“Are you coming back to bed?” she asks, hope playing in her umber eyes.

“I should probably head back to the party. You know, rub shoulders with some sponsors, maybe a few geriatric sugar daddies,” I joke, but her lack of laughter hits me in the face like a wicked slapshot.

“Oh, right. Will I see you again?”

My cock loves the idea of seeing her again, but I really shouldn’t be entertaining a relationship with everything going on. This was a one-time thing.

A wrecking ball of anxiety swings to the center of my chest, making the air in my lungs diminish. “Sure, I can get you tickets to an upcoming game.”

I take my time getting dressed, because I’m definitely not in a rush to get back to the party.

My response must’ve been convincing enough because she perks up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That would be great. Uh, can I see your phone?”

I hand my phone over to her, slowly slipping one pant leg on at a time so I don’t look like I’m in a hurry to get out of here.

Look, I don’t want to hurt her feelings, alright? I know she’s gonna put her number in there, and I’m not going to stop her. I’ll just let her down nice and easy over text. That way I don’t have to deal with the tears and the yelling.

She hands me back the device, exposing her tits as she reaches down to pick up her shirt. “I put my number in there. I hope you use it.”

I’m only able to nod because I’m currently contemplating how moral it would be if I proposed we go for a second round.

Verdict: not moral.

I shake the thought from my addled brain, say a quick goodbye, and give her a half-hearted hug. Then I slip out of the bedroom, ready to sprint for the exit to evade any prying eyes. And I foolishly think I’m in the clear before I come face to face with the last person I wanted to run into.

The top buttons of my shirt are undone, my hair’s a mess from the girl gouging her fingers through it, and I’m pretty sure I saw at least three hickeys decorating my neck in the mirror.

“Coach?” I sputter, the air around me seeming strangely distilled.

“Hollings, I—”

Coach takes in my disheveled state, and then his eyes turn as round as frisbees.

“Please tell me that’s not Sienna Talavera’s bedroom,” he bellows, that one vein on his forehead pulsing with a mind of its own.

Who?

My back goes as stiff as a board when I hear that drill sergeant voice of his, like it’s a conditioned response. “I…I don’t know, sir.”

I’ve never heard that name in my entire life.

“Sienna. Talavera,” he reiterates slowly. Those behemoth arms of his are barred over his chest, reminding me how easy it’d be for him to squash me like a cartoon mouse.

I wait for him to elaborate, and judging by the death glare he’s giving me, I know I just fucked up. My hands are so clammy that I keep wiping them on my pant legs, my heart is galloping like a racehorse in my chest, and my stomach is seconds away from revolting the hors d’oeuvres I polished off an hour ago.

Coach expels what I think is supposed to be a cleansing breath, but his nostrils are still flared. “Son, Raymond Talavera owns the sports drink company sponsoring our team,” he explains.

Fuck me.

“Coach, I swear, I had no idea,” I blurt, desperate to temper the anxiety racing through me at warp speed.

“Hollings, this cannot get out, do you understand? If Raymond hears that you slept with his daughter, he’ll pull, and we need his sponsorship. We need the media coverage, especially with all the negative traffic from your fuckups.”

“I promise I won’t say anything, Coach.”

“If it comes down to it, the team owner will have no problem picking Talavera over you. Every player is tradeable, expendable.”

“Understood.”

Shit. I can’t get traded. I can’t imagine the rest of my NHL career—if I even have one—without my teammates. Not only would I have to move, but I’d have to somehow seamlessly weave my way into already-lasting relationships.

“And Sienna? Do you think she’ll talk?” he asks.

“I’ll take care of it. Plus, she knows the game.” Right? Sure I’d offered to get her tickets to the next game, which she clearly doesn’t need, but we parted with a hug. We both knew the deal going into the night.

“I—it won’t happen again.”

How have I fucked up…fucking? I’m great at fucking. If I wasn’t a professional hockey player, I could probably make it as a porn star.

“It better not. And I better see you working your ass off at practice tomorrow.”

I nod, trying to keep my nerves from catapulting themselves up my throat.

“Look, Hollings. I want to give you a piece of advice. And I’m only saying this because I truly want you to succeed, okay?”

That doesn’t sound good.

The redness in his face has started to fade. “You need to start cleaning up your act. All of these headlines are shining a negative light on the team. The bar fights, the constant partying, the waves of women, your hostility with the paparazzi. You’re not likeable. I can’t be babysitting you all the time. You’re not a rookie anymore. You need to start setting a good example for first-time players. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice hiking a pitch louder than intended. Anxiety batters at my chest like exploding shrapnel, and I fear that my knees are going to give out despite my back being against the wall.

Coach knits his furry eyebrows together, deepening that wrinkle on his forehead. “I expect you to be a strait-laced hockey player for the rest of the season,” he explains, and just like that, my world full of carefree living and endless drinks has just been turned on its axis.

“And do not, under any circumstances, repeat what happened here tonight.”