By: MirageMaven
Liam sat on the couch in the cozy living room, the faint scent of birthday cake still lingering in the air. It was December 18, 2025—his eighteenth birthday—and his parents stood in front of him, both grinning with that telltale look of excitement they always got when they knew they’d nailed a gift.
His mom stepped forward first, holding out a flat, flimsy package wrapped in shiny blue paper with a silver bow stuck crookedly on top.
“Here you go, birthday boy,” she said, handing it over.
Liam took it, turning it over in his hands. It was light, bendable, definitely not a book or a game case. He shook it gently—no rattle. He pressed his thumb along the edge, feeling the slick cover beneath the wrapping.
“Hmm,” he said, narrowing his eyes playfully at his parents. “Too thin for a poster… feels like paper. A calendar? No, too flimsy. Wait—is it a magazine?”
His dad chuckled, folding his arms. “You’ll have to open it to find out.”
Liam grinned, already tugging at the paper, curiosity burning.
Liam ripped the wrapping paper away in one eager pull, revealing the glossy cover of the latest Sports Illustrated hockey special issue.
There she was—Catalina Kowalski, all fierce intensity and raw power, posed in full gear on the ice. Her dark hair peeked from under her helmet, sweat glistening on her sharp jawline as she stared down the camera like she was about to check it into the boards. Bold red text screamed across the top: “CAT KOWALSKI: THE UNSTOPPABLE FORCE REDEFINING WOMEN’S HOCKEY—RECORD SEASON IN PROGRESS.”
Liam’s breath caught. He stared at the cover, fingers tracing the edge of her shoulder pads, eyes locked on the confident smirk that made her look invincible.
His mom laughed softly. “You gonna stand there admiring the cover all day, or check what’s inside?”
Liam blinked, flipping open the magazine. Tucked neatly between the pages, held in place by a clear plastic sleeve, was a sleek black VIP ticket with gold lettering.
His eyes widened as he read it aloud, voice rising with every word: “Congratulations! You’ve been selected for the Halftime Goal Challenge at the December 28 PWHL game. Score through the precision slot from center ice, and win a private full-day experience—just you and the female phenomenon herself, Catalina ‘Cat’ Kowalski.”
He looked up at his parents, mouth slightly open, the ticket trembling in his hand.
Liam’s gaze flicked between the ticket and his parents, disbelief written all over his face.
“How… how did you guys even afford this?” he asked, voice cracking a little. “These VIP experiences are insane. I’ve seen them online—people drop thousands for stuff like this.”
His dad shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the proud smile gave him away. “Let’s just say your mom entered every single contest the league ran this year. Hundreds of them.”
His mom nodded, laughing. “It was supposed to be a long shot, but one finally hit. The PWHL partnered with the magazine for a big holiday promo—no purchase necessary, pure random draw. We got the call last week.”
Liam stared at the ticket again, thumb brushing over the embossed gold lettering. A whole private day with Catalina Kowalski. Just the two of them.
“No way,” he whispered, heart already pounding harder than it should.
Later that afternoon, the winter sun hung low over the neighborhood, casting long shadows across the frozen pond behind the community park.
Liam laced up his skates on a snow-dusted bench, knee pads and elbow pads already strapped on under his jeans and hoodie, helmet snug over his head. Safety first—he wasn’t about to risk eating ice with the big challenge just ten days away.
He stepped onto the pond, the crisp scrape of his blades echoing in the quiet cold. No one else was around; just him, his stick, and a worn black puck.
He pushed off, gliding smoothly at first, then picking up speed as he circled the makeshift rink marked by piled snow along the edges. The puck danced ahead of him, stickhandled in quick little flips and dekes he’d practiced a thousand times in his driveway.
Every few laps he’d stop at center ice, line up an imaginary shot toward the far snowbank, and wrist one as hard as he could—visualizing that tiny precision slot he’d have to thread during halftime.
His breath puffed out in white clouds, cheeks burning from the chill, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was her—Cat Kowalski—watching him from the bench if he made it.
He scooped the puck again, spun around a nonexistent defender, and fired another shot, the satisfying crack ringing out as it buried itself in the snow.
Ten days. He had ten days to get ready.
The next morning—December 19, 2025—Liam woke early, the VIP ticket still on his nightstand like a golden promise.
Before heading out, he sat at his desk with his laptop open, searching forums, league promo videos, and old fan contest clips to figure out exactly how big the precision slot would be.
After half an hour of scrolling and note-taking, he pieced together that it was a single small rectangular cutout in a board over the net—roughly 18 inches wide by 8 inches high, centered low between where a goalie’s legs would be. Tough, but doable with practice.
He closed the laptop and headed downstairs. His dad was in the kitchen, sipping coffee.
“Hey, Dad… think you could help me build something to practice that precision shot? Like a board with the slot cut out to mount on the old net at the pond?”
His dad’s eyes lit up immediately. “Absolutely. Let’s hit the shed.”
They rummaged through stacks of plywood, finding a sheet big enough to match a regulation goal face—6 feet wide by 4 feet high.
With measuring tape, pencil marks, and the jigsaw, his dad carefully cut out the small precision slot right in the center bottom while Liam held the wood steady.
After about half an hour of sawdust and final tweaks, they rigged simple brackets to mount it securely over the old pond net.
Liam hauled the finished board out to the frozen pond alone, the cold air biting as he wrestled it into place, lashing it tight to the goal frame.
He stepped back, stick in hand, staring at that tiny slot. Game on.
For the next nine days, Liam’s routine revolved around that frozen pond and the plywood target.
Every morning after breakfast, he’d bundle up—knee pads, elbow pads, helmet—and haul his stick and a bucket of pucks out to the ice.
He’d start with warm-up laps, stickhandling through imaginary defenders, then line up at center ice and fire shot after shot at the narrow slot.
Some days the puck clanged off the board’s edge and skittered away; other days it threaded clean through with a satisfying thunk into the net behind.
He kept count in a little notebook: fifty shots, seventy-five, a hundred. By afternoon his wrists burned and his legs ached, but he kept going, breath fogging the cold air, replaying highlight reels of Cat Kowalski in his head—her booming slap shots, her bruising hits.
Evenings, he’d come back inside red-cheeked and exhausted, eat dinner in a daze, then crash early just to do it all again the next day.
December 28, 2025 dawned cold and clear, the sky a sharp winter blue before the sun had even fully risen.
Liam was out the door as early as possible, thermos of hot chocolate in one hand, stick and bucket of pucks in the other, boots crunching through fresh overnight snow on the way to the pond.
The ice waited for him, smooth and unmarked, the plywood target already mounted on the net from the night before.
He dropped the bucket with a clatter, took a long swig from the thermos, and stepped onto the ice without wasting a second.
Today wasn’t about volume. It was about perfection—making the shot on demand, every single time.
He lined up at center ice, exactly the distance he’d measured to match the arena’s halftime setup.
Deep breath. Stick on the puck. Eyes locked on the narrow slot.
The first wrist shot snapped clean through with a sharp thunk.
He skated over, retrieved it, lined up again. Again. Again.
Hours blurred together—shot, retrieve, reset. The cold numbed his fingers, burned his lungs, but he didn’t stop.
By midday the bucket was half empty and every puck had found the slot at least twice.
He kept going, whispering to himself with every release: “For Cat.”
He wasn’t leaving until the shot felt automatic. Until he knew, without doubt, that he’d thread it in front of twenty thousand people—and in front of her.
Liam settled into a rhythm, the cold forgotten as focus took over.
Shot. The puck snapped off his blade, arrowing straight through the slot with a clean thunk into the net.
He skated forward, scooped it up, glided back to center ice.
Shot again. Made it again—dead center, no rim.
And again. And again.
Each release felt smoother, the puck leaving his stick exactly where he pictured it. His wrists loosened, his weight transfer perfect, eyes never leaving that narrow rectangle.
He lost count for a while, just repeating the motion—line up, breathe, fire, retrieve.
When the bucket finally sat empty beside him, he realized he’d gone through all fifty pucks without a single miss.
Every one had threaded the slot clean.
Liam stood there on the ice, chest heaving, steam rising from his hoodie, a slow grin spreading across his frost-numbed face.
He was ready.
Liam stomped the snow off his boots at the back door, cheeks flushed and fingers tingling as he stepped into the warm house.
His parents were waiting in the kitchen, his mom hanging up the phone just as he walked in.
“That was the arena,” his dad said, leaning against the counter. “They called to confirm everything for tonight. They want to make sure you bring your own skates, stick, helmet—whatever gear you need for the challenge.”
His mom added, “If you’re missing anything, they’ll have stuff there to loan you, but better to bring your own if it fits right.”
Liam nodded, still catching his breath. “Got it. My skates are good, stick’s ready.”
“They said the game starts at seven,” his dad continued, “but you need to be at the bus pickup in town by four. It’s a charter shuttle for contest winners and VIPs—takes you straight into the city, drops you at the arena with plenty of time.”
His mom reached into her pocket and pulled out a small fold of bills, pressing it into his hand. “Here—some cash for dinner, snacks, whatever you might need tonight. Just in case.”
Liam looked down at the money, then back up at them, throat tight. “Thanks, guys. Seriously.”
His dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Go get cleaned up and packed. Big night ahead.”
Liam headed upstairs, the adrenaline from practice still buzzing under his skin.
He stripped down and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pound over his shoulders and wash away the sweat and cold from hours on the pond.
After toweling off, he stood at the sink, running the razor carefully over his jaw—clean-shaven, wanting to look sharp, not like some scruffy kid.
He swiped on deodorant, then a couple light sprays of the cologne he saved for special occasions, the crisp scent settling over him.
In his room, he pulled out his college hockey jersey—deep blue with white lettering, his number 18 proudly on the back—and slipped it on. It felt right, like he was representing.
Finally, he grabbed the fitted hat for the NHL team that shared colors and city with Cat’s PWHL squad, tugging it low over his freshly combed hair.
He checked himself in the mirror one last time—jersey crisp, hat tilted just enough, nerves hidden behind a small, determined grin.
Gear bag packed with skates, stick, helmet, gloves. Ticket and cash in his pocket.
He was as ready as he’d ever be.
Liam slung his gear bag over one shoulder and shuffled downstairs, the straps of his skates dangling against his leg with each step.
He hit the landing and paused, catching his parents watching from the living room doorway—his mom with her phone already up, recording, his dad leaning against the frame with a proud grin.
“Looking sharp, kid,” his dad said, eyeing the college jersey and the team hat. “She’s gonna know you’re the real deal.”
His mom lowered the phone for a second, eyes a little glassy. “You ready for this?”
Liam adjusted his hat, forcing a confident nod even as his stomach flipped. “Yeah. As ready as I’ll ever be.”
His dad pushed off the doorframe and pulled him into a quick, firm hug. “Go make that shot. And have the time of your life.”
His mom stepped in next, squeezing tighter. “Text us when you get there, okay? We’ll be watching the game on the stream.”
Liam swallowed hard, hugged them both back, then grabbed his stick from the corner.
He took one last deep breath, flashed them a grin, and headed for the door.
Liam stepped out into the crisp evening air, the snow crunching softly under his boots as he started the twenty-minute walk from his quiet suburban street into the heart of the city.
Everything wore a thick blanket of white—rooftops, parked cars, the sidewalks—all typical for a Canadian December, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the fresh powder that still drifted lazily from the gray sky.
His gear bag bounced lightly against his hip with each step, stick gripped in his gloved hand, breath fogging in front of him as he cut through familiar shortcuts and past holiday-lit houses.
By the time he reached the bus pickup spot downtown—a small cleared plaza near the train station—his cheeks were flushed from the cold, snowflakes melting on his hat and jersey.
A handful of other fans and contest winners milled around, stomping feet and checking phones, everyone bundled up and buzzing with pre-game energy.
Liam joined the small cluster, leaning his stick against his leg as he waited, heart thumping a little faster now that the night was really here.
Some time later, right on schedule, a sleek black charter shuttle pulled up with a low hiss of brakes, the PWHL logo and team decals glowing under the streetlights.
The doors swung open, warm air spilling out with the driver’s welcoming nod.
Liam took a steadying breath, grabbed his gear, and stepped aboard.
Liam climbed the steps into the shuttle, the warm air hitting him like a wave after the biting cold outside.
He nodded politely to the driver, scanned the half-full rows—mostly excited fans in team jerseys, a couple other young guys—and picked a window seat about halfway back.
He stowed his bag in the overhead rack, propped his stick beside him, and dropped into the plush seat, letting out a slow breath as he settled in.
The cushion was soft, the hum of the engine low and steady, holiday lights from the city streets flickering through the tinted windows as the last few passengers boarded.
He pulled out his phone for a second—texted his parents a quick “On the bus, heading out”—then tucked it away, leaning his head against the cool glass.
The shuttle lurched gently forward, pulling away from the curb and turning toward the highway that would take them into the heart of the city.
Liam watched the snow-covered neighborhoods slide by, arena lights already visible in the distance like a beacon.
Forty minutes to go. Then the game. Then the shot.
His fingers drummed lightly on his thigh, nerves and excitement twisting together as the miles ticked down.
The shuttle hummed along the highway for a while, city lights growing brighter as downtown approached.
Liam gazed out the window, the snow-dusted streets giving way to taller buildings and packed parking lots.
Soon the traffic thickened—brake lights flaring red in long chains, fans in jerseys streaming across crosswalks, police directing cars around the arena district.
The shuttle slowed to a crawl, inching forward with the congested flow as the massive arena loomed ahead, its curved roof glowing under floodlights, banners for tonight’s game whipping in the wind.
Excited chatter picked up inside the bus—people craning to see, phones out filming the growing crowds and pre-game tailgates in the lots.
Liam’s pulse quickened again, the reality sinking in deeper with every stalled minute.
They were almost there.
The shuttle eased out of the snarled traffic, turning sharply onto a narrow gated path marked with a discreet VIP sign half-buried in snow.
A security guard in a reflective jacket waved them through, sliding the heavy gate aside just enough for the bus to slip past.
Suddenly the congestion vanished. The shuttle glided smoothly down a private executive lane flanked by high fences and plowed snowbanks, bypassing the endless lines of cars still crawling toward the public lots.
Liam pressed closer to the window, watching the arena’s massive backside grow larger—the loading docks, service entrances, and a sleek covered unloading area lit by soft floodlights.
The bus rolled to a gentle stop at a glass-door dock marked “VIP & Contest Entry,” warm light spilling out onto the cleared concrete.
The driver killed the engine and stood. “Alright, everyone—this is your stop. Grab your gear and head inside. Staff’ll be waiting to check you in.”
Liam’s stomach flipped as he stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and gripping his stick.
The doors hissed open, letting in a rush of cold air scented with ice and concession food.
He stepped off the shuttle with the others, boots hitting the ground in the shadowed, exclusive back entrance of the arena—closer to the action than he’d ever dreamed.
Liam hung toward the back of the small group as they filed through the glass doors into the arena’s VIP corridor, his gear bag slung over his shoulder and stick in hand.
Warm air enveloped him immediately, carrying the faint chill of ice mixed with the buttery scent of popcorn from somewhere deeper in the building.
He couldn’t help but look around, eyes wide as he took it all in: polished concrete floors, framed action shots of PWHL stars lining the walls, a massive banner overhead celebrating the league’s latest championship.
Staff in black polos with gold league logos greeted them with clipboards and smiles, directing the group past restricted doors marked “Players Only” and “Media.”
Every few steps echoed differently—closer to the rink now, the distant roar of the crowd already building as early fans filled the stands above.
Liam’s pulse thrummed in his ears, the reality of being backstage at a professional game sinking in deeper with every new sight.
He stayed quiet, just absorbing it all, sticking close to the others as a staff member up front began explaining where to check in gear and where the contest participants would wait until halftime.
The group shuffled into a small lounge area with leather couches and a table of snacks, where more staff waited with tablets and lanyards.
One by one, they scanned tickets and divided the VIPs—some directed toward premium seats, others to meet-and-greets or autograph sessions.
When Liam handed over his sleek black ticket, the staff member’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Halftime Goal Challenge winner,” she said into her headset, then smiled at him. “You’re the only one tonight. Come with me.”
The others glanced over with quick looks of envy or curiosity as Liam was gently pulled aside.
A young personal staff member—mid-twenties, ponytail, black polo with the arena logo—stepped forward and extended a hand.
“Hi, Liam. I’m Jess. I’ll be with you the whole night. Gear check, warm-up time, and getting you out for the challenge at halftime.”
She handed him a special lanyard with an all-access badge that glinted under the lights.
“Follow me. We’ll get your stuff stored securely and take you down closer to ice level. You’ll have a prime seat for the first period, then we’ll get you ready.”
Liam nodded, heart hammering as he fell in step behind her, the roar of the gathering crowd growing louder with every turn down the corridor.
Liam followed Jess down a quieter hallway, past locked doors and rolling equipment carts, until they reached a small, secure gear room marked “Contestant Storage.”
She swiped her badge and held the door open. Inside were neat rows of labeled lockers and shelves.
“Drop everything here except what you need on you,” Jess said, pointing to an empty locker with his name already taped on it. “Phone, wallet, keys, lanyard—keep those. We’ll bring your full gear out to ice level right before the challenge.”
Liam unzipped his bag, pulling out his skates and carefully setting them on the shelf beside his stick, helmet, and gloves. He double-checked the laces were tied together so they wouldn’t get lost.
Once the locker clicked shut, Jess tapped a few things on her tablet, scrolling through a checklist.
“Good—gear secured,” she murmured, then looked up with a friendly smile. “Quick question while we’ve got a minute. When they announce you for the halftime challenge and you skate out, do you have a particular song you’d like pumped over the speakers? Some people pick hype stuff, others go with something personal. Totally up to you.”
Liam blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t even thought about it.
“Uh… I hadn’t really…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anything high-energy is fine, I guess. Whatever the usual is?”
Jess tilted her head, stylus poised. “We can do better than usual. Throw me a song or artist—something that’ll get the crowd going and pump you up.”
Liam shifted his weight, glancing around the gear room as he thought for a second.
“Uh… ‘The Man’ by The Killers,” he said finally. “That one always gets me hyped.”
Jess tapped at her tablet, brow furrowing slightly as she searched the title.
“The Man… by The Killers,” she repeated slowly, scrolling. “Hmm, not ringing a bell right away, but I’m sure it’s in the system.”
She found it after a moment, added it to the cue list, and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Got it locked in. When they call your name and you step onto the ice, that track’s gonna hit hard. Crowd’ll love it.”
She pocketed the stylus and gestured toward the door.
“Alright, let’s get you to your seat. First period’s about to start, and you’ve got one of the best views in the house—right behind the players’ bench.”
Liam followed her out, pulse already climbing at the thought of the arena lights, the roar, and soon—his moment on the ice.
Liam followed Jess through a final set of double doors, the noise hitting him like a wall as they emerged into the lower bowl of the arena.
The ice gleamed under the bright lights, already freshly resurfaced, the players’ benches empty but ready. The crowd was filling in fast—thousands of voices blending into a constant, electric hum, team chants starting to ripple through the sections.
Jess led him down a private aisle, past security, to a single row of padded seats tucked right behind the home team’s bench—close enough that he could see the scuff marks on the boards and smell the sharp tang of ice.
“Your spot for the first period and most of the second,” she said, pointing to the seat dead center, a small reserved sign clipped to the armrest with his name on it. “Best view in the building. You’ll be able to watch warm-ups from here, too.”
Liam slid into the seat, the cushion still cool, the glass directly in front of him giving an unobstructed look at the entire rink.
He set his phone and lanyard on the small ledge, hands resting on his knees as he took it all in—the massive jumbotron cycling highlights, the banners hanging from the rafters, the spotlights sweeping over the ice.
Jess gave his shoulder a light pat. “I’ll come grab you about five minutes before the end of the second. Until then, enjoy the game. Need anything—drink, food—just flag one of the ushers.”
She headed back up the steps, leaving him alone in the roar.
Liam leaned forward slightly, elbows on the railing, eyes already scanning for any sign of the players emerging for warm-ups.
Especially for her.
Liam sank deeper into his seat, letting the electric atmosphere of the arena wash over him completely.
The lights dimmed slightly as the PA announcer’s deep voice boomed through the speakers, welcoming the crowd and hyping the matchup, every word met with rising cheers that vibrated through the glass and into his chest.
Down on the ice, both teams spilled out for warm-ups—sticks tapping pucks, players stretching along the boards, goalies flapping pads in sharp butterfly slides.
Liam’s eyes darted across the home team’s side, searching, until he spotted her.
Cat Kowalski.
She was impossible to miss—tallest on the blue line, dark hair tied back under her helmet, moving with that effortless power as she fired warm-up slap shots that exploded off her blade and thudded into the net like cannon fire.
The crowd around him erupted in scattered chants of “Cat! Cat! Cat!” whenever she touched the puck, jerseys with her number everywhere he looked.
Liam couldn’t take his eyes off her—watching the way her skates carved deep edges, the flex in her legs on every shot, the easy confidence as she joked with teammates between drills.
He leaned forward, elbows on the railing, completely consumed—the roar of the fans, the sharp scrape of blades, the cold mist rising off the ice, all of it blending into one pulsing moment.
This was real. She was right there.
And soon, she’d be watching him.
Warm-ups wrapped up with a final flurry of shots and stretches, players tapping sticks on the ice in appreciation as they skated off to the tunnels.
The lights dimmed dramatically, spotlights sweeping across the crowd as the PA announcer’s voice thundered over the speakers, welcoming everyone to the game and running through sponsor shout-outs while the ice crew zipped out for a quick resurface.
The arena went dark for a moment, then a single spotlight hit center ice where a young local singer stood with a microphone, the opening notes of “O Canada” filling the building.
Every fan rose to their feet—Liam included, hand over his heart—voices joining in a swelling chorus that echoed off the rafters, proud and loud, the anthem’s final line met with roaring applause and sticks banging on the boards from the benches.
Lights flared back up as the visiting team was announced first, each player skating out to polite cheers and a few boos.
Then the home team.
One by one, the starters burst through the tunnel to exploding music and strobing lights—names boomed over the PA, crowd chanting last names in rhythm.
When Catalina Kowalski’s name hit—“Defenseman, number 27, CAT-A-LI-NA KOW-AL-SKI!”—the arena erupted louder than for anyone else.
She exploded onto the ice, fists pumping, circling once with that signature snarl-grin before lining up on the blue line, helmet off now, dark hair loose and damp, eyes locked forward as the crowd chanted “Cat! Cat! Cat!”
Liam watched from his seat right behind the bench, close enough to see the intensity in her stare, the way her chest rose and fell under her jersey.
The puck drop was seconds away.
The visiting team’s starters filtered off the ice first, leaving only their first line on the surface.
Then the home team’s top line stayed out, the rest of the players streaming into the bench right in front of Liam.
As they filed in, several of them—grinning, sweat already beading under their helmets—spotted the kid in the college jersey sitting alone in the prime seat.
A couple of forwards banged their gloved fists against the glass in front of him, quick nods and waves, a silent “hey” that made Liam’s face heat up as he lifted a hand back.
One of them even pointed at his jersey and gave a thumbs-up before dropping onto the bench, turning to face the ice.
The energy in the building spiked again as the referees skated into position.
At center ice, the two centers crouched, sticks poised, eyes locked on the linesman holding the puck.
Out on the right defensive side, Cat Kowalski dug her skates in, body low and coiled, helmet visor up just enough to show the fierce focus in her dark eyes.
She tapped her stick once on the ice, scanning the neutral zone, every muscle ready to explode the second the puck dropped.
The arena lights caught the sharp lines of her jaw, the number 27 bold on her sleeves.
Liam couldn’t look anywhere else.
The linesman’s arm rose.
The crowd noise swelled to a peak.
Puck down.
The puck dropped, sticks clashed, and the home center kicked it cleanly back to the defense.
It slid right to Cat’s tape.
She scooped it in one fluid motion, head up, and exploded forward—skates digging deep grooves as she crossed the red line with terrifying speed, shoulders squared like a freight train.
The visiting forwards backpedaled fast, but Cat was already in the zone, carrying the puck deep along the right boards, her long strides eating ice.
Her teammates flowed into formation around her—left winger high slot, right winger low circle, center crashing the net, the second defenseman trailing for support.
Cat faked a shot at the top of the circle, drawing the defender’s stick, then cut hard inside, shielding the puck with her big frame as she powered toward the hash marks.
The crowd rose as one, the chant starting low and building—“Cat! Cat! Cat!”—the arena vibrating with it.
Liam gripped the railing in front of him, eyes locked on her, barely breathing as she coiled for whatever came next.
Cat hit the brakes at the hash marks, drawing the defender’s stick high as the goalie slid across to challenge her angle.
With the entire zone collapsing on her, she flicked her wrists in one smooth, effortless motion—a no-look saucer pass that floated perfectly over a sprawling stick and landed flat on the tape of her center crashing the back door.
The center was already redirecting, stick down in perfect position, tipping the puck mid-stride as it knuckled past the goalie’s blocker and into the top corner.
The lamp lit red.
The arena detonated—horn blaring, crowd leaping to their feet in a thunderous roar as the goal song kicked in.
Cat threw her head back with a fierce grin, fist pumping once before skating over to bump gloves with her linemates, the center pointing back at her in appreciation for the perfect feed.
From his seat right behind the bench, Liam was on his feet too, heart slamming against his ribs, eyes glued to her as she circled back to her position—sweat flying off her hair, that raw power and precision on full display.
Less than two minutes into the game, and she’d already made magic.
He couldn’t wait for halftime.
The horn still blared as the first line skated toward the bench, gloves bumping in quick celebration after the early goal.
Cat reached the gate first, popping it open with her hip and stepping onto the rubber mat, her skates clanging lightly as she shuffled sideways along the narrow space behind the seated players.
As she passed directly in front of Liam—barely three feet away, separated only by the glass—she flicked her dark eyes toward him for half a second.
Just long enough for their gazes to lock.
Her expression didn’t change much—still that post-goal intensity, lips curled in a faint, satisfied smirk—but she lifted her elbow casually and thumped the glass once with the padded part of her arm, a quick, firm tap right at his eye level.
She didn’t turn her head fully, didn’t slow her stride, just kept moving down the bench to her spot while facing the ice.
But that single elbow bump—confident, almost playful—felt like it was meant only for him.
Liam’s heart slammed harder than the goal horn had. He sat frozen for a beat, then lifted his hand and tapped the glass back, a small, stunned grin spreading across his face.
Cat dropped onto the bench with the others, grabbing her water bottle and squirting a stream into her mouth, eyes already back on the rink as her line prepared to hop out again.
But Liam could barely focus on the game now.
She’d seen him.
She’d acknowledged him.
And halftime was still coming.
Liam’s eyes stayed glued to the bench, the action on the ice blurring into background noise.
Cat sat diagonally from him now, just a few spots down, helmet off, dark hair damp and loose around her shoulders as she leaned back against the boards, legs stretched out in front of her.
For a while she was animated—laughing at something a teammate said, her deep voice carrying just enough for him to catch the rumble of it, head thrown back as she elbowed the player next to her playfully.
Then, suddenly, the mood shifted.
The forward to her left wrinkled her nose and waved a gloved hand in front of her face, coughing dramatically.
The defenseman on her right leaned away, fanning the air with exaggerated flaps and muttering something that made the whole row crack up.
Cat just grinned wider—that same fierce, unapologetic smirk she wore on the ice—then casually stood up.
She lifted one hand and gave a lazy wave behind her broad, padded ass, like she was shooing away a fly, the motion slow and deliberate.
The players around her groaned louder, laughing and shoving at each other, one of them yelling “Jesus, Cat!” through her giggles.
Liam sat frozen in his seat, heat rushing to his face as realization hit.
She’d ripped one. Right there on the bench. A bad one, from the reactions.
And she didn’t care at all—just owned it with that casual wave, dropping back into her seat like nothing happened, still chuckling as her teammates kept ribbing her.
His heart pounded harder than it had during the goal, eyes locked on her, the secret thrill twisting low in his stomach.
The game went on, but Liam barely noticed.
Liam’s gaze never left Cat, even as the play shifted up and down the rink, the minutes ticking by in a haze.
Her line hopped back out for their next shift—Cat vaulting the boards smoothly as the tired defenseman came off for the change, her skates hitting the ice with purpose.
She didn’t glide or circle. She exploded straight ahead, zeroing in on the visiting forward who’d just corralled a loose puck along the half-wall.
Cat closed the gap in two powerful strides, shoulders low, timing perfect.
The crunch echoed through the arena as she drove the opponent hard into the boards—clean, thunderous, textbook body check that sent the puck squirting free and the forward’s helmet rattling.
The crowd erupted, a deafening wave of cheers and “Cat!” chants crashing down as the jumbotron replayed the hit in slow motion.
Cat didn’t celebrate, didn’t even look back at the player sliding down the glass.
She scooped the loose puck in one motion, head up, and fired a crisp outlet pass all the way down the ice—perfect tape-to-tape to her streaking winger, flipping the zone in an instant.
She circled back to her position, breathing hard, a faint satisfied curl at the corner of her mouth as her teammates banged sticks on the ice in approval.
Liam sat gripping the railing, pulse racing, completely hooked on every second of her.
The play settled deep in the offensive zone, Cat’s teammates cycling the puck low behind the net and along the half-walls.
Cat drifted back to the blue line, planting herself firmly along the right boards like a sentinel—legs wide, stick flat on the ice, body angled to cut off any clear attempt up the wall.
Her eyes tracked the puck constantly, head on a swivel as the visiting defenders scrambled to cover the cycling forwards.
When an opponent finally poked it free and tried to chip it hard up the right wall for a breakout, Cat was already there—stepping into the lane, absorbing the puck off her skate with perfect control, then calmly settling it down with her stick.
No panic, no rush. She pivoted smoothly, scanned the zone, and fired a sharp rim pass around the boards to her winger below the goal line, keeping possession pinned deep.
The crowd murmured approval at the heads-up keep-in, a few “Cat!” chants starting up again.
She stayed posted at the point, coiled and ready, big frame clogging the lane as the cycle continued—every inch of that blue line hers to defend.
From his seat, Liam watched every small movement, the way her pads shifted when she leaned into the boards, the subtle flex in her thighs as she held position.
He couldn’t look away.
The cycle continued low in the zone, the puck whipping around the boards as the home team hunted for a better shooting lane.
Cat, still manning the right point, started to creep inward—slow, deliberate edges carrying her toward the high slot, shrinking the gap between her and the net.
Her stick stayed active on the ice, blade open and begging for a pass, eyes locked on the puck carrier down low.
The visiting defenders shifted nervously, sticks reaching to disrupt, but Cat’s big frame screened their vision as she posted up just inside the blue line, waiting like a loaded cannon.
Her winger below the goal line spotted the movement, faked a wraparound, then snapped a hard, low pass across the royal road—right onto Cat’s tape in the slot.
She settled it instantly, weight already transferred, the crowd rising in anticipation as her massive slap shot wound up.
Liam leaned forward in his seat, breath caught, watching her coil that powerful frame—thighs flexing under the pads, hips twisting—for the bomb everyone knew was coming.
Cat’s weight shifted back, hips twisting as her stick flexed deep under the heavy load.
The slap shot unleashed—a sharp, explosive crack that echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
The puck rocketed off her blade, a low, screaming blur that Liam couldn’t even track once it left the tape.
It knifed straight through the goalie’s five-hole, threading between the pads before she could even close them, ripping into the net with a vicious thud against the twine.
Red light.
The horn blasted again, the crowd exploding into a frenzy—louder this time, feet stomping the stands as the goal song thumped over the speakers.
Cat threw both fists up for a split second, a raw, triumphant roar escaping her as her linemates mobbed her, gloves slapping her back and helmet.
She skated a tight circle near the boards, sweat flying, that fierce grin wide and unfiltered under the lights.
From his seat, Liam was already standing, hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles went white.
He hadn’t even seen the puck after release—just the goalie’s desperate lunge and the net bulging.
Cat glanced toward the bench as she coasted back, eyes flicking past her celebrating teammates.
For a brief moment, they landed on Liam again—holding just long enough for a small, knowing nod before she vaulted the boards.
His stomach flipped, heat flooding him as she dropped into her spot on the bench, squirting water and laughing with the others.
Two points already. And the first period wasn’t even over.
The clock ticked down the final seconds of the first period, the home team firmly in control at 2-0—both goals with Cat’s name on the scoresheet.
The visiting team iced the puck with ten seconds left, the whistle blowing for a faceoff deep in their zone.
Cat’s line hopped out for one last short shift, winning the draw clean and dumping the puck deep before the horn sounded.
The players coasted to their benches as the ice crew rolled out for the intermission resurface, the crowd buzzing and applauding the strong period.
Cat vaulted the boards last, helmet tucked under her arm now, face flushed and glistening with sweat as she dropped heavily into her spot on the bench—diagonal from Liam again, close enough that he could see the rise and fall of her chest as she caught her breath.
She grabbed her water bottle, tilted her head back, and took a long drink, throat working as the stream poured in.
A teammate leaned over, saying something that made her laugh—that low, rough sound carrying just over the bench chatter.
Liam sat there, barely blinking, the score glowing on the jumbotron overhead but meaning nothing compared to the sight of her right there, real and radiating heat from the period’s effort.
Intermission had started.
Halftime—and his moment—was only twenty minutes away.
Cat pushed herself up from the bench during the lull in intermission activity, rolling her shoulders as she turned to face the glass.
She scanned the lower bowl for a moment, dark eyes sweeping over the cheering sections, a faint smile playing on her lips as fans waved signs and jerseys in her direction.
Then her gaze dropped lower—directly to Liam in his prime seat right behind the bench.
She stepped closer to the boards, her big frame filling his view, sweat still glistening on her neck and jawline under the arena lights.
Without a word, she lifted her gloved right hand, curling it into a tight fist, and pressed it firmly against the glass—exactly at Liam’s eye level, the padding thumping softly as it made contact.
Liam’s heart slammed into his ribs. He stood up instinctively, leaning in, and raised his own fist to mirror hers.
He bumped the glass right where her glove rested—once, solid, matching her pressure.
For a few seconds they stayed like that—fists touching through the barrier, her dark eyes locked on his, that intense, playful smirk deepening just a fraction.
Then she gave a small nod, pulled her fist back, and turned to drop onto the bench again, grabbing her helmet as the intermission clock ticked down.
Liam sank slowly into his seat, hand still tingling from the phantom contact, face burning, a stupid grin he couldn’t wipe off spreading wide.
The second period was about to start.
But all he could think about was halftime.
The second period picked up right where the first left off—the home team dominating possession, Cat’s line setting the tone from the opening faceoff.
They trapped the visitors deep in their zone early, cycling the puck with sharp, crisp passes that pulled defenders out of position.
Cat hovered at the point again, keeping pucks in twice with hard stick checks on attempted clears, her big body clogging lanes like a wall.
Then it happened: a quick give-and-go at the blue line, Cat taking a return pass in stride, stepping into the high slot, and unleashing another absolute rocket—one-timer that beat the goalie clean over the glove for her second goal of the night.
The arena shook with the horn and cheers, the jumbotron flashing “KOWALSKI – HAT TRICK WATCH?”
Officially now: two goals, one assist. Pure dominance.
Her line stayed out for one more short shift before heading to the bench, Cat vaulting the boards with that same explosive leap and dropping heavily into her spot—once again diagonal from Liam, closer than ever.
Sweat poured down her face, soaking the collar of her jersey; her chest heaved as she squirted water into her mouth, laughing breathlessly at something her teammate shouted.
She peeled off her helmet, shaking out her damp hair, then leaned back against the boards—legs spread wide in that relaxed, owning-the-space way, eyes flicking occasionally to the ice as the next lines took over.
Liam couldn’t move, couldn’t think about anything except how close she was, how real, how the faint heat radiating off her after three high-energy periods seemed to cut through the glass.
Halftime was minutes away now.
And she was right there.
The second period wore on, Cat’s line catching a well-earned rest on the bench after her second goal.
She sat sprawled out, helmet off, towel draped around her neck, chatting quietly with the player beside her as she watched the play.
Suddenly the visitors broke the other way—a quick turnover at center ice, their speedy forward slipping past the defense on a clean breakaway.
The crowd noise shifted from confident buzz to tense hush as the forward deked once, pulled the goalie out of position, then snapped a quick wrist shot stick-side high.
The puck rang off the post and in—red light for the visitors.
The away bench erupted, their small section of traveling fans roaring while the home crowd groaned in frustration.
Score now 3-1.
Cat leaned forward on the bench, elbows on her knees, staring out at the ice with narrowed eyes—no anger, just cold focus.
She tapped her stick once on the floor, muttered something to her teammate that made the other woman nod sharply.
The shift bell rang seconds later; Cat was first over the boards, leaping onto the ice with renewed fire, ready to answer back.
Liam watched her charge out, that intense determination etched on her face, and felt the whole arena shift with her.
The game was far from over.
Nothing changed when she was on the ice—the same relentless domination that defined every second she played.
She was the pillar, the unstoppable force holding the blue line and driving the play forward, barking short commands to her teammates as they forechecked hard and collapsed on every puck.
The visitors barely crossed center ice before Cat stripped a forward clean at the red line, pivoted, and fired a perfect breakout pass that sprang her winger on a two-on-one.
Moments later, deep in the offensive zone again, Cat controlled the puck at the point—faking a shot, drawing two defenders toward her—then slid a pinpoint cross-ice pass through traffic to her teammate wide open in the left circle.
One-timer. Top corner. Goal.
The horn blared, the crowd exploding as the score jumped back to 4-1.
Cat raised one glove in a quick point to her teammate, then skated a tight circle, sweat flying, that fierce grin flashing as sticks banged the ice around her.
She was everywhere—blocking shots, breaking up plays, setting up goals—like the game bent to her will whenever she touched the surface.
As her shift ended, she vaulted the boards, dropping heavily onto the bench, chest heaving, water bottle already to her lips.
The clock wound down the final minutes of the second period.
Halftime was next.
Liam’s moment was coming.
The clock on the jumbotron ticked under three minutes left in the second period, the home team still pressing hard at 4-1.
Liam was still locked in a daze, eyes flicking between the ice and Cat on the bench—watching the way she leaned forward during plays, the subtle shifts in her padded shoulders, the occasional laugh that rumbled out of her.
A light tap on his shoulder snapped him out of it.
Jess stood beside his seat, tablet tucked under one arm, a warm smile on her face.
“Hey, Liam—almost showtime,” she said quietly over the crowd noise. “With about two minutes left, I’ll take you down to get geared up. We’ll head to ice level right when the horn sounds so you’re ready the second they finish resurfacing.”
She glanced at the scoreboard, then back at him. “Nervous? Excited? Both?”
Liam swallowed, managing a nod as adrenaline started surging fresh. “Yeah. Both. Definitely.”
Jess gave an encouraging grin. “You’ll be great. Just follow my lead when the period ends. Deep breaths.”
She lingered for a second, making sure he was good, then stepped back up the aisle to wait nearby.
On the ice, the play raged on—Cat’s line out again, dominating as always.
Liam’s hands tightened on the railing.
Two minutes.
Then it was his turn.
Cat vaulted the boards one final time as the clock dipped under a minute, her shift wrapping up just as Jess appeared again at Liam’s side.
She dropped heavily onto the bench, legs splayed wide, pulling off her helmet and shaking out her sweat-soaked hair while grabbing her water bottle. Liam stole one last long look—he didn’t want to miss a second of her on the ice, because every time she was out there something electric happened.
But Jess was already motioning him up.
“Alright, Liam—this is it,” she whispered over the crowd noise. “Horn’s coming any second. Let’s go get you geared up.”
Liam stood on shaky legs, giving Cat one final glance—she was laughing at something a teammate said, head tilted back, throat exposed as she downed water—then turned to follow Jess up the steps and through the secure door behind the bench.
They moved fast down the familiar corridor to the gear room, Jess swiping her badge and pushing the door open.
“Your locker,” she said, pointing. “Everything’s right where you left it. Take your time lacing up—we’ve got about fifteen minutes with the resurface. I’ll be right outside when you’re ready.”
Liam nodded, heart hammering as he pulled his skates from the shelf, sitting down to slide them on—fingers fumbling slightly with the laces, the reality of what was about to happen crashing over him.
In minutes, he’d be on that ice.
With her watching.
Liam sat on the bench in the gear room, the distant roar of the crowd filtering through the walls like a muffled heartbeat.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself—inhaling slow, exhaling through his mouth, just like he did every time before hitting the frozen pond.
Superstition, maybe, but it worked there. It had to work here.
He laced his skates the exact same way: left foot first, bottom to top, skipping the last hook for that perfect flex, pulling tight until the leather creaked just right.
Helmet next—straps buckled in sequence, top one snug but not choking, visor wiped clean with his thumb even though it was spotless.
Then the stick: he grabbed it from the locker, twirling it once in his hand like always, feeling the tape under his fingers, the familiar weight that said "this is mine."
He tucked the stick under his armpit, the blade pointing up, and slipped his gloves on—left first, fingers flexing inside the leather, then right.
Fully geared now—jersey tucked in, pads adjusted, everything in place.
He stood, rolling his shoulders, the clack of his skates on the floor echoing in the small room.
Ready. As ready as he could be.
Jess poked her head in from the doorway. “Looking good, Liam. Ice is almost resurfaced. Let’s get you to the tunnel.”
Liam followed Jess down the narrow tunnel toward ice level, the clack of his skates echoing off the concrete walls.
The muffled roar of the crowd grew sharper with every step, the cold air hitting him harder as they neared the gate.
Over the arena speakers, the PA announcer’s voice boomed—deep and excited—cutting through the post-period buzz.
“Ladies and gentlemen… it’s time for everyone’s favorite halftime tradition—the Precision Goal Challenge!”
The crowd responded with a rolling wave of cheers and applause, the sound vibrating through the tunnel and into Liam’s chest.
Jess stopped just short of the open gate, turning to him with an encouraging grin.
“That’s your cue in about thirty seconds,” she whispered. “They’ll call your name, the song kicks in, and you skate straight out to center ice. Puck’s already waiting. One shot. You got this.”
Liam nodded, gripping his stick tighter, the blade tapping nervously against his leg.
He could see the bright ice through the gate now, the lights blinding white, the fresh Zamboni tracks gleaming.
The announcer continued: “Tonight’s challenger is an eighteen-year-old hockey player from right here in our community… please welcome… LIAM!”
The opening guitar riff of “The Man” by The Killers blasted through the arena speakers, the bass thumping hard as spotlights swept across the ice.
The crowd roared louder.
Jess gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. “Go.”
Liam pushed off, gliding out through the gate and onto the slick surface, the cold air rushing past his face, thousands of eyes suddenly on him—and somewhere, very close, hers.
Liam pushed off with a few strong strides, the bright arena lights flashing off his visor as “The Man” thumped through the speakers—cocky guitars and that swaggering beat filling the building.
Then the inner show-off took over.
He lifted one skate high, balancing on a single edge as he glided toward center ice, arm extended to point dramatically at the roaring crowd—fingers spread wide like he owned the place.
The fans ate it up, cheers swelling louder as he dropped the leg and fell into the rhythm he’d rehearsed a thousand times alone on the frozen pond: pretending the empty snowbanks were packed stands screaming his name.
He carved hard along the boards, picking up speed down the away side, stick taped low and loose in one hand.
At the far end he swung wide behind the empty net in a smooth, flowing arc, snow spraying from his edges, then accelerated up the home side wall—close enough to the glass that kids and fans pressed forward, palms out.
Liam grinned under his helmet, shifting his stick to his left hand and raising his right—glove open—as he glided the length of the home bench.
One by one, the players leaned over the boards, big grins on their faces, slapping his glove in rapid high-fives—sharp thwacks echoing over the music.
Cat was right in the middle.
She stood up fully, towering at the boards, her padded arm extended far over the glass.
Their gloves met with a solid, satisfying smack—her grip firm for a split second longer than the others, dark eyes locked on his through both visors, that fierce smirk flashing as she gave him an approving nod.
The crowd roared even louder at the team’s endorsement, the music hitting the chorus perfectly as Liam finished the lap and pulled up at center ice—puck already waiting on the dot, spotlight blazing down.
He settled the puck with his blade, took one deep breath, and lined up the shot.
Twenty thousand people on their feet.
Cat watching from the bench.
This was it.
Liam settled over the puck at center ice, the spotlight hot on his back, the cocky beat of “The Man” still thumping as it faded out.
He rolled the puck back and forth on his tape a few times—slow, deliberate, feeling the familiar lie of the blade—just like on the pond.
One last deep breath.
Then the shot he’d perfected: weight transfer smooth, wrists snapping clean, the puck rocketing off his stick low and hard from center ice.
The arena fell eerily silent as twenty thousand people watched the black dot streak toward the net, slicing through the air toward the tiny precision cutout in the challenge board.
Liam felt it the instant it left his blade—perfect weight, perfect line. He knew.
He didn’t wait to watch.
He spun away, turning his back to the net, both arms shooting skyward—one hand still gripping his stick high in victory—as the unmistakable thunk of puck meeting net echoed behind him.
The crowd detonated—cheers crashing like a wave, horns blaring, feet stomping the stands.
Liam glided a slow circle, feeding off the roar, then dropped into the celebration he’d always done alone on the frozen pond when he nailed a tough shot.
He grabbed his stick low in one gloved hand, blade down near the ice, and leaned in dramatically—pressing his helmeted forehead close before tilting the stick up and planting a slow, exaggerated kiss on the tip of the taped blade, like he was gently kissing a girl he had wrapped in one arm.
The jumbotron caught every second of it, replaying the kiss in slow motion as the crowd laughed and cheered even louder, loving the flair.
From the bench, the entire home team was on their feet banging sticks on the boards—Cat loudest of all, her deep laugh carrying as she clapped her gloves together, dark eyes fixed on him with unmistakable approval.
Liam straightened up, grinning wide under his helmet, chest heaving, soaking in the moment he’d dreamed about for days.
He’d done it.
And now the real prize was coming.
The opening riff of “The Man” kicked back in over the speakers, the arena DJ giving Liam the perfect send-off as the crowd kept roaring.
He pushed up from his kiss-the-blade celebration, rising slow and deliberate, then spread both arms wide like he owned the building—stick dangling from one hand—as he started a lazy spin on his skates.
The spotlight followed him, the jumbotron zooming in on his grinning face under the helmet while he turned a full, unhurried circle—taking in every section of the screaming fans, letting the noise wash over him like he’d earned every decibel.
From the bench, the entire home team was still on their feet, banging sticks on the boards in rhythm, Cat right in the middle—arms folded over the glass, that fierce, approving smirk fixed on him the whole time.
Liam finished the spin and began a slow backward glide toward the open gate in the boards near the bench, arms still outstretched, soaking it in.
The door swung wider as he approached, staff ready on the other side.
He gave the crowd one last triumphant point—finger guns with both hands—then pivoted forward, taking a few crisp strides before stepping off the ice and disappearing down the tunnel, the cheers still echoing behind him.
The gate closed.
The music faded.
And just like that, Liam was gone from sight—but the arena wouldn’t forget him anytime soon.
Liam stepped off the ice and into the tunnel, the gate clanging shut behind him as the crowd’s roar faded to a muffled thrum.
His skates echoed on the rubber matting, each stride lighter than the last, the adrenaline still surging so hard he felt like he could float.
He was grinning wide under his helmet—couldn’t stop if he tried—chest puffed out, stick swinging loose at his side.
A million bucks? Try a billion.
He’d just buried the shot in front of twenty thousand people, celebrated like a rock star, got high-fives from the entire team—including her—and walked off that ice like he belonged there.
Jess was waiting farther down the hall, clapping as he approached, her smile huge.
“That was incredible,” she said, falling in step beside him. “The kiss-the-blade thing? Crowd lost it. Social media’s already blowing up.”
Liam laughed breathlessly, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his sweat-damp hair.
“Thanks… I don’t even know how I didn’t fall on my face out there.”
Jess led him back toward the gear room, but slowed as another staff member appeared at the end of the corridor—whispering something into her earpiece.
She turned to Liam, eyes lighting up.
“Okay, change of plans. Cat wants to meet you before the third period—locker room hallway. Just you and her for a few minutes.”
Liam froze mid-step, heart slamming all over again.
Jess grinned wider.
“Come on, superstar. Follow me.”
Liam’s swagger evaporated the second Jess delivered the news.
One minute he was riding the high of the shot, the celebration, the crowd—feeling untouchable. The next, his stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Cat. Catalina Kowalski. Cat Attack, as his friends always called her—half in awe, half in terror—of her ferocious, board-rattling style.
He was about to meet her. Alone.
His shoulders curled inward, the cocky grin wiped clean off his face as he trailed behind Jess down the hallway.
Helmet tucked under his arm, stick suddenly feeling too big in his hand, he shrunk with every step—eighteen years old again, just some kid who’d gotten lucky with a puck.
Jess glanced back, amused. “You okay back there? You look like you’re walking to the principal’s office.”
Liam managed a weak laugh, voice cracking a little. “Yeah… just… didn’t expect this part so soon.”
She softened. “She asked for you specifically. Said the kid who kissed his stick deserves a proper congrats. Relax—she’s excited to meet you.”
They rounded a corner into the quieter locker room hallway—team banners on the walls, the faint echo of music and voices from the room ahead.
Jess stopped at a side door marked “Private,” knocked once, then pushed it open a crack.
“Cat? Your winner’s here.”
From inside, that familiar deep voice rumbled back—playful, warm, and a little rough from the game.
“Send him in. I don’t bite… much.”
Jess stepped aside, giving Liam a gentle nudge.
He took a shaky breath, squared his shoulders as best he could, and stepped through the door.
Liam stepped into the small private room, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.
There she was—Catalina Kowalski, leaning casually against the wall, still in full gear minus the helmet, her dark hair damp and messy from the game, pads making her look even bigger up close.
She towered over him, all broad shoulders and thick legs, sweat glistening on her sharp jawline as she wiped her face with a towel.
Her dark eyes locked onto his immediately, that familiar smirk curling her lips as she pushed off the wall and took a step closer.
“Well, eh? Look at you,” she said, voice low and rough, thick with that Northern Ontario drawl—every vowel stretched, every “eh” natural as breathing.
“Nice shot out there, kid. And that little kiss at the end? Real smooth. Crowd ate it up.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, pads creaking, head tilting as she looked him up and down—like she was sizing up an opponent, but with amusement in her eyes.
Liam stood frozen in the doorway, helmet dangling from his fingers, mouth dry.
He couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
Cat was right there. Talking to him. Teasing him.
And she smelled faintly of ice, sweat, and something sharp—like the rink itself had soaked into her.
She raised an eyebrow, smirk deepening.
“Cat got yer tongue, eh?”
Liam stood there, throat tight, her thick Northern Ontario accent wrapping around him like the cold arena air—exactly like he’d heard in post-game interviews, that rough, drawn-out “eh” and the rolled vowels making everything she said feel heavier.
Cat tilted her head, waiting a beat for him to answer her “cat got yer tongue” tease, but when he just stared, mouth half-open, she chuckled low and pushed on.
“Listen, bud, I gotta get back out there soon—third period’s comin’ up quick,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the door. “But that celebration ya did… kissin’ the blade like that? Real cocky. I like it.”
She stepped a little closer, towering over him in her full gear, the faint scent of sweat and ice stronger now.
“Mind if I steal it sometime? If I pot one tonight, might have to give the stick a little smooch for ya. Give the crowd a good show, eh?”
Her dark eyes glinted with playful challenge, that smirk pulling wider as she waited for his reaction—clearly enjoying how flustered he already was.
Liam’s brain scrambled for words, face burning hotter than the arena lights.
Finally he managed a nod, voice coming out smaller than he wanted.
“Y-yeah… go for it. I mean… it’s yours now if you want.”
Cat barked a short, satisfied laugh, reaching out to thump his shoulder pad with her gloved hand—firm enough to rock him back half a step.
“Good kid,” she rumbled. “See ya after we close this one out. Full day tomorrow—just you and me, eh?”
She winked, then turned toward the door, already pulling her helmet back on.
Cat reached the door, one gloved hand on the handle, when she suddenly paused—hips shifting slightly as her padded ass clenched under the hockey shorts.
A deep, wet, absolutely vile fart ripped out of her—long and bubbling, the kind that echoed off the walls in the small room, thick with the damp strain of two periods’ worth of hustle.
The sound was obscene: cheeks gripping so tight that the built-up sweat seemed to spritz against the seat of her compression shorts underneath, a faint misty hiss beneath the rumble.
She didn’t even flinch.
Instead, Cat glanced back over her shoulder, that smirk widening into something downright wicked as the heavy, warm stench bloomed instantly in the confined space—musky, sharp, unmistakably her.
“Better appreciate that one, eh?” she rumbled, voice thick with amusement. “Not many people get a whiff of the number one female hockey player’s farts. Consider it a sneak preview for tomorrow.”
She gave her ass a casual little pat with her free hand—like sealing the gift—then pulled the door open and stepped out.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Liam alone in the small room, helmet dangling from his fingers, face burning crimson as the lingering cloud of her scent hung thick in the air around him.
He inhaled before he could stop himself—deep, automatic—and the raw, intimate heat of it flooded his lungs.
His knees felt weak.
Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.
Liam stood rooted to the spot in the small private room, the door firmly shut behind Cat.
The air was thick—heavy with the raw, wet heat of her fart, a pungent cloud that hung like fog, refusing to dissipate in the confined space.
He was at ground zero.
The stench slammed into him full force: sharp, musky, earthy, with that unmistakable tang of sweat-soaked gear and two periods of brutal effort all rolled into one vile, intimate blast.
It coated the back of his throat on the first involuntary breath, warm and humid, clinging to his lungs like it belonged there.
His eyes watered slightly, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of it—overwhelming, suffocating, inescapable.
And yet he didn’t step back. Didn’t wave it away. Didn’t even try to breathe shallow.
He inhaled again—deeper this time—letting it fill him completely, the forbidden thrill twisting low in his gut as the scent of her, the real her, surrounded him like a secret embrace.
His face burned crimson, knees weak, cock already straining against his gear as he stood there suffocating in Cat Kowalski’s gift.
Liam stood frozen in the middle of the lingering cloud, eyes wide, lungs still full of Cat’s thick, pungent gift.
A sudden knock rattled the door—sharp and close.
“Liam? You still in there?” Jess’s voice came through, muffled but concerned. “Everything okay?”
He jolted, heart slamming into his throat as the reality of the situation crashed back in.
For a second he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak—panic flashing that she might open the door and smell what was hanging heavy in the air.
Then he forced his voice out, higher and shakier than he wanted.
“Y-yeah! I’m here. Just… just coming.”
He swallowed hard, face still burning, and took one last deliberate breath of the warm, musky haze before forcing his legs to move toward the door.
His hand hesitated on the handle, the faint wet echo of Cat’s fart still ringing in his ears.
He pulled the door open a crack, slipping out fast and pulling it shut behind him before the stench could escape.
Jess stood there, eyebrow raised slightly, but if she caught any trace of it she didn’t say.
“You good?” she asked, glancing past him at the closed door.
Liam nodded too quickly, forcing a weak grin.
“Yeah. Never better.”
Jess tilted her head, nose wrinkling slightly as the faint, lingering trace that had clung to Liam’s gear finally reached her.
She looked at him for a long second, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.
“Whoa… that you?” she asked, half-laughing already.
Liam froze, face going nuclear red.
He could’ve thrown Cat under the bus—said it was her, easy out.
But something twisted in his gut at the thought. No way. He wasn’t snitching on Cat. Not ever.
So he swallowed hard and nodded, forcing the lie out.
“Yeah… uh, sorry. Nerves, I guess.”
Jess burst out laughing, waving a hand like it was nothing.
“Oh thank God,” she said, grinning wide. “I’ve been holding one in since the first period. If you broke the barrier, I’m not gonna suffer anymore.”
She turned halfway down the empty hallway, planted her feet, and let it rip.
What came out of Jess was apocalyptic—a deep, rolling monster that started low and wet, then built into a thunderous, bubbly roar that echoed off the concrete walls for a full five seconds.
It was warm, heavy, and absolutely nuclear—way beyond what Cat had unleashed.
The stench hit like a wall: thick, sour, cheesy, with a ripe edge that made Liam’s eyes water instantly and the air feel ten pounds heavier.
Jess sighed in pure relief, fanning behind her with one hand as she glanced back at him, still laughing.
“Whew. Been brewing that one all game."
She gave him a playful nudge on the arm and kept walking like she’d just unloaded the weight of the world.
Liam followed in the wake of it, dazed, secretly relieved he’d protected Cat’s secret—and quietly blown away that Jess had just eclipsed the number one player in the world without even trying.
The hallway smelled like a biohazard zone.
Jess started walking down the hallway again, casual as ever, chatting about getting him back to his seat for the third period.
But then it happened—her earlier monster must’ve loosened something up, because with her next step a new fart slipped out, long and singing.
It started as a low, resonant note, vibrating deep as it escaped, then warped and fluttered with every stride she took—the flex and release of her asscheeks under her slacks changing the pitch like fingers on a flute.
One step: a deep, brassy hum.
Next step: higher, reedy, squeaking through the tight crease of her asscrack as the cheeks clenched and spread.
Another step: it dropped low again, wet and bubbly, fighting its way out in a warped, fluctuating tone that echoed off the concrete walls.
The sound danced—rising, falling, twisting with her gait—until it finally tapered off into a soft, hissing finish.
The stench followed immediately, even thicker and more ripe than before, blooming warm and heavy in the narrow hallway.
Jess didn’t break stride, didn’t even glance back—just kept walking with a satisfied little sigh.
“Excuse me,” she said lightly, waving a hand behind her. “Better out than in, right?”
Liam trailed behind, eyes wide, the warped song of her fart still ringing in his ears, the air around him absolutely saturated.
He nodded mutely, face on fire, secretly reeling from the raw, unapologetic display.
And somewhere deep down, already wondering what tomorrow with Cat would bring that could possibly top this night.
Jess kept walking down the hallway, one hand sliding casually to her belly as she rubbed slow circles over it, squeezing gently like she was working out a cramp.
A low, private laugh escaped her, shaking her shoulders as she glanced sideways at Liam.
“Man,” she said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial chuckle. “Once I get you settled back in your seat, I’m gonna have to go drop the kids off at the pool, eh?”
She patted her stomach firmly, the universal code crystal clear, then burst into another quiet laugh at her own bluntness.
“All that holding it in during the game… your little icebreaker just set off the chain reaction. That last one was just the warning shot.”
She gave her belly one more playful squeeze, the hallway still thick with the aftermath of her earlier assaults, then picked up the pace toward the arena bowl.
“Come on, superstar,” she said over her shoulder, grinning. “Let’s get you parked before I have a real emergency on my hands.”
Liam trailed behind, face still flaming, the image of Jess on a locker-room toilet somehow searing itself into his brain right alongside everything Cat had already done to him tonight.
This evening kept finding new ways to escalate.
They stepped back into the lower bowl, the third-period warm-up already underway, the crowd buzzing as the players skated lazy circles.
Jess walked Liam right to his seat behind the home bench and waited while he dropped into it, still half-dazed.
“Need anything?” she asked, hands on her hips. “Snack, another water…?”
Liam shook his head, managing a weak “I’m good.”
She reached into her pocket anyway, pulled out a cold bottle of water, and set it in the cupholder beside him.
“Good man.”
Then she turned to leave, took two steps, and stopped, knees bending slightly like she just remembered something.
A soft, muffled puff slipped out, quiet enough that the arena noise swallowed the sound completely, but the way her shoulders relaxed told the whole story.
Jess spun back around, eyes sparkling with mischief, and gave a quick little wave of her hand behind her ass, fanning the fresh pocket of warmth straight toward Liam.
She laughed under her breath, cheeks pink but totally unashamed.
“Parting gift,” she whispered, winking. “See you near the end of the game, superstar. Enjoy the third.”
With that she was gone, disappearing up the steps just as the referee’s whistle blew to start the final period.
Liam sat there gripping the water bottle, the faint new trace of Jess drifting across him, the ice gleaming bright in front of him, and Cat already hopping the boards for her first shift of the third.
He took a long drink, trying to steady himself.
The night was nowhere close to over.
Liam slouched low in his seat, the faint, warm remnants of Jess’s parting gift still drifting around him like a private cloud.
He inhaled slowly, discreetly, letting it settle as he tried to focus on the ice—but really just basking in the lingering heat, a secret little high that kept his cheeks flushed and his mind half elsewhere.
Play raged on in the third, the home team pressing hard to protect their 4-1 lead.
An away forward circled behind her own net with the puck, looking for an outlet.
One of the home defenders charged in, swinging her stick hard in a desperate poke-check—blade connecting with a sharp crack.
The puck jumped off the tape, rocketing upward in a high arc, sailing clean over the glass and into the lower bowl.
Liam blinked, tracking it lazily at first.
Huh. That puck seems to be coming toward me.
It kept rising—too high to just reach.
Realization hit a split second before impact.
He shot upright, leaping from his seat, arms stretched high as he jumped backward over the armrest.
His gloved hand closed around the hard rubber just as gravity took over.
He tumbled backward, legs flipping over his head, crashing awkwardly into the aisle behind his row—sprawled on the concrete steps with the puck clutched triumphantly to his chest.
The arena cameras swung instantly to the commotion, the jumbotron zooming in on the empty seat and the scramble below, hunting for the fan who’d made the grab.
Laughter rippled through the crowd first—then recognition.
A few people nearby pointed, shouting “It’s the halftime guy!” “That’s the kid who kissed the stick!”
Liam scrambled to his feet, hair wild, cheeks burning brighter than ever, holding the puck high above his head with both hands like a trophy.
The crowd erupted—laughter turning to cheers, whistles, and applause as the jumbotron flashed his face in giant detail: “THE MAN” from halftime, back for an encore.
From the bench, the entire home team was losing it—sticks banging the boards, players doubled over laughing.
Cat stood at the glass, helmet off, grinning wide as she pointed right at him and pumped her fist once in approval, mouthing something that looked a lot like “Nice hands, eh!”
Liam waved the puck sheepishly, laughing despite himself, the arena chanting “Kiss the puck! Kiss the puck!”
He glanced at it, shrugged with a grin, and planted a quick dramatic smooch on the rubber before holding it up again.
The place went wild.
And somewhere in the chaos, Liam realized this night was never going to be topped.
Liam stood in the aisle, puck raised high, the arena still buzzing with laughter and cheers from his tumble.
His eyes scanned the nearby sections, soaking in the waving signs and phone cameras, until they landed on a young girl a few rows up—maybe ten or eleven, drowning in an oversized Cat Kowalski jersey, dark hair in pigtails, eyes wide as she jumped up and down clapping for him.
Something warm twisted in his chest.
He’d already gotten more than he ever dreamed—Cat’s attention, the shot, the private moment, the fart-scented promise of tomorrow.
This puck? It belonged to someone who needed the magic more.
Without thinking twice, Liam started moving—vaulting over the armrest into the next row, hopping seat backs like stairs, excusing himself as fans laughed and parted for the halftime hero on a mission.
The jumbotron cameras tracked him instantly, his determined climb flashing huge on the screens, the crowd noise shifting to excited murmurs and then cheers as they realized what he was doing.
Halfway up, his skate boot caught on a seat edge—he pitched forward with a yelp, arms windmilling, before catching himself and dropping to hands and knees.
The arena roared with good-natured laughter.
Liam just grinned, crawling the last two seats on all fours until he popped up right in front of the girl.
She was staring at him, mouth open, hands clasped under her chin, the too-big Cat jersey slipping off one shoulder.
He held out the puck, warm from his grip, the official game logo still scuffed from the ice.
“For you,” he said, loud enough for her to hear over the noise. “Future Cat Attack right here.”
The girl’s eyes went huge. She reached out with both trembling hands, taking the puck like it was made of gold.
Then she launched herself at him, wrapping him in a fierce hug around the waist.
The jumbotron zoomed in tight—Liam laughing as he hugged her back, the girl holding the puck high for the whole arena to see.
From the bench, Cat looked up at the screen, saw the whole thing, and shook her head with that wide, approving grin—banging her stick once on the boards in salute.
The crowd gave them a standing ovation as Liam carefully climbed back down, waving to the girl one last time.
He dropped into his seat again, chest heaving, face sore from smiling.
Best night of his life.
And tomorrow was still coming.
Liam dropped back into his seat, cheeks still burning from the ovation, the puck now in the hands of a beaming little fan a few rows up.
The arena had claimed him tonight—strangers high-fiving him as they passed, kids pointing, phones filming from every angle.
He’d become the night’s makeshift mascot, the halftime hero turned puck-snagging legend.
Overhead, the jumbotron shifted from the live action on the ice to a highlight reel package.
First came the halftime challenge: his cocky lap around the rink, the high-fives with the team, the perfect shot threading the slot, the dramatic kiss-the-blade celebration—slowed down for maximum flair, “The Man” by The Killers thumping under the replay.
The crowd cheered all over again, louder when the clip ended on his triumphant arms-raised spin.
Then the screen cut live to a camera zoomed right on him in his seat—his flushed face filling the massive screens, the college jersey and team hat unmistakable.
Giant white text flashed across the bottom: “LIAM — ‘THE MAN’”
The arena exploded—chants starting up in scattered sections: “The Man! The Man! The Man!”
A few fans nearby stood and pointed at him, pumping fists, turning it into a wave that rippled through the lower bowl.
From the bench, the home players banged their sticks on the boards in rhythm with the chant, Cat leading the charge—grinning wide as she looked right up at the screen, then directly at him, mouthing the words “The Man” with exaggerated emphasis before giving him a big thumbs-up.
Liam sank a little lower in his seat, laughing helplessly, waving awkwardly to the sea of phones and cheering strangers.
He was officially “The Man” now.
And every time the nickname echoed through the arena for the rest of the night, his stomach flipped with the same electric thrill.
Tomorrow with Cat was going to have a lot to live up to.
The referee dropped the puck for the faceoff, play resuming amid the lingering cheers and scattered “The Man!” chants that rippled through the crowd every few seconds.
Phones were still up, eyes still flicking toward Liam’s seat, but the intensity on the ice quickly pulled focus back—the away team desperate to claw their way into the game, forechecking like mad, while the home side dug in deep to protect the 4-1 lead.
Hits flew harder, battles along the boards turned vicious, sticks slashing and bodies slamming as the clock ticked down.
With just over four minutes left, the away goalie raced to the bench, the extra attacker leaping on for a desperate 6-on-5 push.
The home team collapsed low, blocking lanes, clearing pucks any way they could—rims up the glass, chips into the corners, anything to kill time.
Then disaster struck for the defense: one of the home blueliners snapped a skate blade on a hard pivot, the steel shearing clean off.
She hobbled immediately, hugging the boards all the way down the ice, one skate scraping uselessly as she fought to get to the bench without costing a too-many-men penalty.
The second she reached the gate and tumbled over the boards, Cat was already vaulting on—fresh legs, eyes locked on the play like a missile.
She hit the ice at full speed, head up, stick down, heat-seeking straight for the loose puck in the neutral zone.
The crowd rose as one, sensing blood—Cat in open ice with the extra attacker scrambling to cover.
She closed the gap in three explosive strides, big frame low and coiled, ready to swallow the puck and end the threat herself.
Liam leaned forward in his seat, gripping the railing, heart pounding as Cat charged into the fray—her game, her ice, her moment.
Cat exploded into the fray, her stick flashing low as she poked the puck cleanly off the attacker’s tape just inside the blue line.
The loose biscuit squirted toward the boards, both Cat and an opposing forward racing for it full tilt.
Cat juked hard left at the last second, shoulder dipping as she blew past the lunging opponent, leaving her grasping at air.
She caught up to the puck in two powerful strides, leaning hard into the curve of the boards, hips low, skates carving deep as she rounded the corner at full speed.
Three away players collapsed on her instantly—sticks reaching, bodies converging—desperate to strip the puck with their empty net gaping at the far end.
Cat didn’t flinch.
She hammered the puck off the wall in a sharp self-pass, the rubber bouncing perfectly around the first checker and landing back on her tape as she pivoted sideways.
The second defender crashed in hard—shoulder to shoulder—and Cat met her full force, turning her broad frame at impact and absolutely laying the girl out with a thunderous check that sent her sprawling to the ice in a tangle of limbs and stick.
The crowd detonated, “Cat! Cat! Cat!” shaking the rafters.
Cat popped back up without missing a beat, digging her blades deep, thighs burning as she exploded up-ice again—chasing her own bounce pass, closing fast on the empty net with two attackers still scrambling to recover behind her.
Liam was on his feet behind the bench, fists clenched on the railing, screaming along with the entire arena as Cat bore down on the greatest empty-net chance of the night.
Cat dug in deep, thighs burning as she exploded up the ice, the puck glued to her tape.
Her size—those powerful, tree-trunk legs that made her a bruiser—slowed her top-end speed compared to the lighter forwards chasing desperately behind her, sticks reaching, skates flying.
But she protected the puck perfectly, stick out front and away from lunging pokes, body shielding it like a fortress as the empty net loomed larger and larger.
Ten feet from the goal line, the two recovering attackers dove in tandem—sticks slashing, bodies launching to stop the inevitable.
Cat sprawled out first, diving forward in a full Superman extension—stick stretched as far as it would go, pushing the puck ahead of her.
The black disc glided lazily across the goal line, kissing the twine with a soft thud just as Cat crashed hard into the net, dislodging it from its moorings.
The two forwards piled in right behind her, a tangle of bodies and equipment slamming the crossbar and posts in a chaotic heap.
The red light exploded anyway.
Hat trick.
The arena detonated—hats raining down from the upper decks in a storm of caps and toques, the horn blaring over and over as the jumbotron flashed “CAT KOWALSKI—CAT TRICK!” in massive letters.
Cat untangled herself slowly from the pile-up, pushing up on one knee, chest heaving, sweat pouring down her face as she looked back at the net and the puck sitting innocently inside.
She raised both fists high, head tilted back in a raw, triumphant roar that the entire building echoed back.
Her teammates mobbed the zone, sticks banging the ice, screaming her name as they swarmed her.
From his seat behind the bench, Liam was on his feet screaming too, hands cupped around his mouth, heart slamming as hats bounced off the glass in front of him.
Cat glanced toward the bench as she skated back—eyes scanning until they locked on him.
She pointed right at him, then slowly brought her gloved hand up, pressed the tip of her blade to her lips, and kissed it—deliberate, exaggerated, just like he’d done at halftime.
The crowd caught it on the jumbotron and went absolutely feral.
She winked at Liam, that wicked smirk wide, then turned to join her celebrating teammates.
The game was sealed.
The ice crew zipped out in their matching jackets, shovels and bins ready, scooping up the storm of hats that had rained down for Cat’s hat trick—hundreds of toques, caps, and beanies collected with grins and waves to the crowd, destined for local charities.
The final minutes ticked away in a blur. The away team threw everything they had at the net—shots from everywhere, crashes, desperate pulls of the goalie again—but the momentum was unbreakable.
When the final horn sounded, the scoreboard read 5-1. Home victory sealed.
The arena exploded into full celebration: the goal song blared, lights flashed, the crowd roared on their feet.
The jumbotron cut straight to the hat-trick highlight reel—slow-motion of Cat’s sprawling empty-netter, the crash into the net, her triumphant roar—then flashed huge pink letters across the screen: “CAT-TRICK!”
The home team lined up at center ice, sticks raised in salute to the fans, Cat front and center, helmet off, hair soaked, pumping her fist as the chants of her name shook the building.
In the chaos, Jess appeared beside Liam’s seat again, leaning in close over the noise.
“Hey, superstar,” she shouted with a grin. “Some people wanna meet you upstairs. Management’s orders.”
Liam’s eyes went wide, but he nodded, still buzzing from everything.
He stood and watched the last of the on-ice celebration—the team tapping gloves with the opponents in the handshake line, Cat towering over most as she bumped fists and offered quick nods—until the home players finally skated off to thunderous applause, disappearing down the tunnel.
Jess motioned him up the steps.
“Come on. Follow me.”
Liam grabbed his gear bag—already retrieved and waiting nearby—and fell in behind her, heart racing again as they wound through staff-only corridors, up a private elevator, and toward a set of frosted glass doors marked “Executive Offices.”
He had no idea who was waiting, but after tonight, he was ready for anything.
Almost.
Jess pushed open the frosted glass door and held it for Liam, giving him a quick, encouraging nod as he slipped past her into the room.
Inside was a sleek conference room—long polished table, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the darkened arena bowl below, team logos etched subtly into the walls.
A handful of men in sharp suits stood or sat around the table: a few older executives with graying hair and experienced eyes, one younger guy in his thirties—lean, calculated, already sizing Liam up with a measured smile.
One of the older men, silver-haired and authoritative, gestured warmly toward an empty chair at the end of the table.
“Come on in, Liam. Set your bag down anywhere—make yourself comfortable.”
Liam dropped his gear bag against the wall and slid into the offered seat, hands on his knees, trying not to look as overwhelmed as he felt.
Jess stayed standing by the door, arms folded casually, like she was there for support but not part of the conversation.
The silver-haired man sat at the head of the table, leaning forward with an easy grin.
“Liam, first off—outstanding job tonight. That shot, the celebration, catching the puck, giving it away to that little girl… you’ve got the whole building talking. Social media’s on fire. They’re calling you ‘The Man’ everywhere.”
The younger suited man nodded, tapping a tablet that showed trending clips and fan posts.
“We’ve never seen a contest winner connect with the crowd like this,” he said, voice calm and precise. “The energy you brought—pure, organic excitement. It’s exactly what we want more of in this league.”
The silver-haired exec leaned in closer.
“We’re not gonna beat around the bush. We want you to be part of the organization. Not just tonight—ongoing. Brand ambassador, fan engagement, social content, appearances… whatever feels right. Paid, of course. Full partnership. You’ve got something special, kid. The way you lit this place up? We’d be idiots not to bring you into the family.”
He slid a sleek folder across the table—embossed with the team and league logos, thick with paperwork and a branded pen on top.
Liam stared at it, then at the men, then at Jess—who gave him a small, knowing smile from the door.
His mouth went dry.
From halftime hero to… this.
In one night.
Liam sat frozen for a moment, the sleek folder sitting heavy in front of him, the weight of the offer pressing down like the arena lights had earlier.
The executives waited patiently, smiles encouraging, but the room suddenly felt too quiet after the roar of the crowd.
He swallowed hard, hands clenching on his knees under the table.
“I… uh…” he started, voice cracking a little. “This is huge. I’m not… I’m not ready to decide this right now. Can I—can I make a call? Talk to my parents real quick?”
The silver-haired exec chuckled warmly, leaning back in his chair and waving a hand.
“Of course, kid. Take all the time you need. This isn’t a pressure thing—we want you comfortable. Step out in the hall if you want privacy, or right here, whatever works.”
The younger calculated one nodded, sliding the folder a little closer but not pushy.
“No rush. Call whoever you need. We’re not going anywhere.”
Jess, still by the door, gave Liam a quick thumbs-up and pulled it open for him.
“Hallway’s quiet,” she said softly. “I’ll stand guard.”
Liam pushed up from the chair, legs shaky, pulling his phone from his pocket as he headed for the door.
He stepped into the empty hallway, the muffled echo of post-game cleanup drifting from far below, and dialed home—heart pounding harder than it had during the halftime shot.
The line rang once… twice…
Liam leaned against the hallway wall, phone pressed to his ear, the muffled thump of post-game music drifting from somewhere deep in the arena.
The line clicked—his dad’s voice came through, tired but alert.
“Hello? Liam? You okay, bud?”
Liam exhaled shakily.
“Yeah, Dad. I’m fine. More than fine. But… something huge just happened.”
He glanced down the empty hall, lowering his voice even though no one was around.
“After the game, they took me upstairs. Management. Like, suits and everything. They want to offer me a job—brand ambassador or something for the team and league. Paid. Ongoing thing because of tonight.”
Silence on the other end for a beat.
His dad let out a low whistle.
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. They’ve got a folder and everything. Contracts. I’m staring at it right now. I… I don’t know what to do. I told them I needed to call you guys.”
Another pause, then his dad’s voice—calmer, steadier.
“Okay. First—breathe. Second—tell me exactly what they said. All of it. Don’t leave anything out.”
Liam started talking, pacing a slow line down the hall as he recounted the meeting word for word—the compliments, the offer, the “we want you in the family” line.
His dad listened without interrupting, only the occasional “mm-hmm” or “go on.”
When Liam finished, his dad was quiet again for a long second.
“Alright,” he said finally. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re not signing anything tonight. Tell them thank you, you’re honored, and you need time to review it with us and maybe a lawyer. Polite but firm. They’ll respect that.”
Liam nodded even though his dad couldn’t see.
“Yeah. Okay.”
His dad’s voice softened.
“You did good calling us, Li. Proud of you. Whatever you decide, we’ve got your back. Just get through tonight, enjoy whatever’s left, and we’ll talk it all out tomorrow morning. Deal?”
“Deal,” Liam said, a little of the weight lifting off his chest.
His dad chuckled.
“Now go be eighteen for a few more hours. We’ll see you when you get home.”
Liam smiled despite himself.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He hung up, pocketed the phone, and took one more deep breath before heading back toward the conference room door.
Liam pushed the door open and stepped back into the conference room, the click of it shutting behind him soft in the quiet space.
A stale, muted scent hung in the air—different from the sharp ripeness in the hallway earlier. Thinner, almost flat, like old laundry left too long in a bag.
Jess leaned in close as he passed her, voice a low whisper near his ear.
“Sorry… farted again. Had to let one sneak out while you were gone.”
She pulled back with a sheepish half-grin, like it was no big deal.
Liam nodded once, piecing it together—the earlier urgency, the “dropping the kids off at the pool” comment. This faint staleness was the aftermath, nothing harsh or potent, just a quiet, unoffensive reminder that lingered in the still room.
He walked to his chair and sat down again, folding his hands on the table as the executives looked up expectantly, the folder still waiting in front of him.
The silver-haired man smiled warmly.
“Everything good, Liam?”
Liam took a steadying breath, the faint scent barely registering anymore.
“Yeah,” he said, voice steadier now. “I talked to my dad. I’m really honored—seriously. This is incredible. But I need a little time to go over everything with my family first. Maybe get a lawyer to look at it too. Is that okay?”
The younger exec nodded immediately, sliding the folder closer but not pushing.
“Absolutely,” the silver-haired man said. “Smart move. We’ll get you copies of everything to take home tonight. No pressure, no deadline. When you’re ready, you let us know.”
He extended a hand across the table.
“Either way, kid—tonight you were magic. Thank you.”
Liam reached out and shook it, the grip firm and genuine.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it more than they could know.
Jess gave him a quick wink from the door as the meeting wrapped up—papers gathered, business cards exchanged, promises to follow up soon.
The offer was real.
And now it was his to think about.
The silver-haired exec held up a hand as Liam started to rise again.
“Hang tight for just a second, Liam,” he said, pushing back his chair. “We’ll get those copies made up for you—full packet, contact info, everything. Won’t take long.”
The younger calculated one nodded, gathering the folder and a few additional sheets from a side table.
“Give us five minutes,” he added, already heading for the door. “We’ll print it all fresh and throw in some extra swag for the road.”
The other suits filed out with them, briefcases and tablets in hand, chatting quietly about logistics as the door clicked shut behind the last one.
The room went suddenly still—quiet enough that Liam could hear the low hum of the ventilation and the faint, stale trace of Jess’s earlier fart still hanging in the air.
Jess stayed leaning against the wall by the door, arms loosely crossed, giving him a small smile.
“You handled that like a pro,” she said quietly. “Asking for time, calling your dad—smart. They respect that.”
Liam let out a long breath, slumping back in the chair a little.
“Yeah… just didn’t want to mess it up. It’s a lot.”
Jess nodded, pushing off the wall to grab a bottled water from a side tray and sliding it across the table to him.
“Drink. You’ve earned about a hundred of these tonight.”
He took it gratefully, twisting the cap as they waited in easy silence, the muffled sounds of printers and voices drifting faintly from down the hall.
Five minutes felt longer when the adrenaline was finally starting to ebb.
But the packet was coming.
And so was the rest of whatever this night still had left.
Liam sat back in the conference chair, twisting the cap off the water bottle Jess had given him, the quiet of the empty room settling in as they waited for the execs to return.
A sudden, hollow sound broke the silence—airy at first, then vibrating into a low, bubbly vrrrrrrrbpt that seemed to echo off the polished table.
Jess froze for half a second, eyes widening, then burst into a muffled giggle, hand clapping over her mouth as her shoulders shook.
“Oh man,” she whispered through her fingers, face turning pink. “That one just slipped out. Felt good, though—like, really good.”
She fanned the air behind her discreetly with one hand, still laughing under her breath, the faint stale scent in the room now joined by a fresh, light warmth.
Liam glanced over, cheeks heating again, but he couldn’t help a small laugh too—shaking his head as he took a sip of water.
Jess dropped her hand, grinning wide and unapologetic.
“What? We’re all friends now after tonight. You started it downstairs, remember?”
She leaned back against the wall again, still chuckling softly, the tension of the big offer momentarily forgotten in the ridiculous, human moment.
The hallway outside stayed quiet—no sign of the execs yet.
Just the two of them, the lingering aftermath, and Jess’s satisfied little sigh.
Jess shifted her weight against the wall, rubbing her belly again with a rueful little grin.
“Ugh, those supreme nachos from the staff lounge are not sittin’ right,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Liam to hear. “Should’ve known better than to demolish a whole tray.”
Right on cue, the door opened again—the silver-haired exec stepping back in alone, carrying a sleek black gift bag with gold team logos embossed on the sides and a thick folder tucked inside among neatly folded merch.
He crossed the room and set it on the table in front of Liam with a warm smile.
“Here you go, Liam. Everything you need to take home and review at your own pace.”
He pulled the folder out first, flipping it open to walk through the contents quickly: full contract draft, compensation breakdown, proposed appearance schedule, non-disclosure agreement—everything clearly tabbed and highlighted.
Inside the gift bag: a couple of signed team jerseys (one with Cat’s number), a branded hoodie, hat, some smaller swag, and—slipped into a side pocket—a crisp business card.
Liam glanced at it: Jess’s name, title (Fan Experience Coordinator), phone number, and email, all on official letterhead.
He blinked, a little confused, but the exec was already moving on.
“Whenever you’re ready to talk next steps,” the man said, tapping the card, “just give Jess a call. She’ll be your main point of contact from here on out. No rush.”
He extended his hand across the table, grip firm and sincere as Liam stood and shook it.
“Thank you again for tonight, Liam. You made it one to remember. Stay safe, and we’ll talk soon.”
Liam nodded, clutching the folder and gift bag close.
“Thank you. Really. I’ll be in touch.”
The exec gave a final nod, then headed out, leaving the door open for them.
Jess pushed off the wall, motioning toward the hallway.
“Ready, superstar? I'm driving you home since the shuttle already left.”
Liam stood there for a moment, blinking at Jess as the exec’s footsteps faded down the hall.
“Driving me home?” he echoed, surprise creeping into his voice. “The shuttle’s gone already?”
Jess shrugged with a lopsided grin, already stepping into the hallway.
“Yeah, it pulled out about twenty minutes ago. No big deal—management said to make sure you get home safe, and my car’s right in the staff lot. Easier this way, anyway. No transfers or waiting in the cold.”
She glanced back at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“You coming, superstar, or do I have to carry you?”
Liam snapped out of it, shaking his head with a small laugh as he reached for his gear.
“Yeah—yeah, coming.”
He hoisted his duffle bag onto one shoulder, slung the gift bag over the other, tucked the thick folder under his arm, then grabbed his stick in one hand and scooped up his skates and gloves with the other.
Everything balanced precariously, the signed jerseys in the gift bag shifting as he shuffled toward the door.
Jess watched him juggle it all for a second, amused.
“Need a hand with that load?”
“I got it,” he said, adjusting the stick so it didn’t clatter to the floor. “Barely.”
She snorted softly and led the way down the quiet executive hallway, the distant sounds of the arena cleanup crew echoing faintly below.
They walked in easy silence for a bit, passing locked offices and framed championship photos, until they reached a staff elevator.
Jess swiped her badge and the doors slid open.
“After you,” she said, gesturing grandly.
Liam stepped in, leaning carefully against the wall so nothing slipped.
As the elevator began its descent toward the private parking level, Jess glanced sideways at him, that familiar mischievous glint in her eye.
She leaned against the wall beside him, arms folded casually, and tilted her head.
“You know what I’m about to do, right?”
Liam’s stomach flipped—he already had a pretty good idea. He gave a small, nervous nod, cheeks heating up again.
Jess’s grin widened, slow and wicked.
“My dad always said, ‘Jess, if you ever get someone trapped in an elevator with you, you better make ’em smell it. It’s the family way.’” She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “He’d be real disappointed if I let this golden opportunity go to waste.”
Liam swallowed, eyes flicking to the glowing floor numbers—still dropping.
A few seconds of quiet passed, the hum of the elevator the only sound.
Then it came: a sharp, wet peeling sound as her ass cheeks separated from the damp seal inside her pants, followed by a long, droning vrrrrrmmmmmpt that filled the small space.
The fart rolled out thick and warm, low and vibrating, lingering in the enclosed air like it had nowhere else to go.
Jess sighed in pure relief, fanning the air behind her with one hand while she glanced sideways at him, totally unashamed.
“There we go,” she said, voice light. “Much better."
Liam stood there in the descending elevator, bags balanced precariously, unable to step away or open a window—the enclosed space trapping every bit of Jess’s latest release.
The smell was different from her earlier ones—mellow, less sharp and aggressive than the nacho-fueled monsters she’d been ripping all night.
It was warmer, heavier, almost earthy, with a faint stale undertone that clung softly to the air instead of punching through it.
Not unpleasant, exactly—just present, intimate, inescapable.
He breathed it in shallowly at first, then deeper as the elevator hummed downward, the scent settling over him like a blanket.
Jess watched him from the corner of her eye, that mischievous grin still playing on her lips, clearly enjoying the fact that he had nowhere to go and no choice but to marinate in it.
She shifted her weight again, the bags in Liam’s arms rustling slightly as the elevator slowed.
“Better than the one in the hallway, right?” she said lightly, fanning once more for good measure. “Post-bathroom farts are way more chill.”
Liam managed a weak laugh, face warm, secretly savoring the mellow cloud as it filled his lungs.
The elevator dinged.
Doors slid open to the private parking level—cool underground air rushing in, already starting to dilute the warmth they’d been sharing.
Jess strutted out ahead of him, hips swaying with a confident roll that drew Liam’s eyes straight to her ass—round and firm under her black work slacks, moving with every step like it was daring him to keep staring.
He followed a pace behind, bags weighing him down, but he couldn’t help noticing the pep still in her stride—light, quick, almost bouncy despite the long night of running around the arena, dealing with VIPs, and everything else her job threw at her.
She led him past rows of empty staff spots to the far corner, where the shortest car Liam had ever seen sat waiting—a sleek little red Mazda Miata, barely taller than his waist, looking comically small in the concrete cavern.
Jess thumbed the key fob; the car beeped twice, headlights flashing, and the tiny trunk popped open on its own with a soft hydraulic whir.
“Throw your stuff in here,” she said, waving at the open trunk. “Plenty of room as long as you’re not bringing a hockey net.”
Before he could even move, she reached in quickly and yanked out a pair of flat-soled sneakers, then kicked off her black heels one at a time—tossing them carelessly into the trunk where they clattered against the spare tire.
She slipped into the flats with practiced ease, flexing her toes inside them and letting out a satisfied little sigh.
“Much better,” she muttered, shutting the trunk lid with a firm push once Liam had crammed his duffle, gift bag, stick, and skates inside.
Jess circled to the driver’s side, glancing over the low roof at him with that same playful grin.
“Ever ridden in a Miata before?” she asked, one hand already on the door handle.
Liam shook his head, eyeing the tiny cockpit dubiously. “Nope. First time.”
Jess laughed softly and pulled her door open, folding herself smoothly into the low driver’s seat like she’d done it a thousand times.
Liam mirrored her on the passenger side, opening the door and immediately realizing the challenge. He placed one foot inside, then had to duck low and twist awkwardly, lowering himself inch by inch until his butt finally hit the seat—knees jammed up near the dash, head brushing the soft top.
He wrestled the door shut with a thud, feeling like a giant crammed into a toy car.
Jess glanced over, biting her lip to stifle a laugh at the sight of him folded up like origami.
Without a word, she leaned across the center console—close enough that her hair brushed his shoulder—and reached down between his legs.
Her fingers found the seat adjustment bar under the cushion; she yanked it forward, and the seat shot back with a metallic scrape, giving his long legs sudden blessed room.
She stayed leaned over him for a second longer, head tilted up, eyes meeting his from just inches away, that mischievous spark still dancing.
“Better?” she asked, voice low and teasing.
Liam’s face flushed hot, heart skipping at the proximity and the casual intimacy of her hand having been right there.
“Yeah,” he managed, voice a little rough. “Way better. Thanks.”
Jess lingered one more beat, grin widening like she knew exactly the effect she was having, then straightened up and buckled her seatbelt.
“Good,” she said, clicking the buckle into place. “Maybe you’ll forgive me for this.”
Before Liam could ask what she meant, Jess planted both hands on the seat cushion beside her thighs and lifted her hips clear off the leather.
She hovered there for a split second, eyes locked on his, that wicked spark flashing brighter.
Then she unloaded.
A deep, hissing pressure-release roared out of her—like air escaping a high-pressure gas line—long, forceful, and unrelenting, the sound filling the tiny cockpit as the seat cushion vibrated beneath her.
It went on and on, the warm rush of it flooding the confined space, thick and heavy with that familiar nacho-tinged ripeness, but amplified, raw, and unfiltered.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the hiss tapered into a low bubbly finish.
Jess dropped back onto the seat with a soft thump, chest heaving, a breathless laugh escaping her as she panted.
“Fuck me in the ass and call me Sally.”
She flopped her head back against the rest, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed from the effort and relief, one hand resting on her belly like she’d just exorcised something.
Liam stared at her, mouth parted, completely stunned.
His heart hammered against his ribs, blood rushing south so fast it left him dizzy.
The thick, warm cloud enveloped him completely in the sealed car—no escape, no dilution—just pure, overwhelming Jess.
He shifted in his seat, thighs pressing together instinctively, arousal hitting him like a slap shot to the chest.
Jess turned her head lazily toward him, catching his expression, and her grin returned—slow, knowing, utterly shameless.
“You okay over there, superstar?” she murmured, voice husky from the release. “You look like you just saw God.”
Liam’s brain short-circuited for a second, the thick warmth still settling around them, but he managed to blurt out the first thing that came to mind.
“I don’t think God would subject me to that,” he said, voice cracking halfway through the joke.
Jess threw her head back and laughed—loud, genuine, the sound bouncing around the tiny cabin.
She reached over and swatted his arm lightly, fingers lingering for half a beat on his sleeve.
“Oh, shut up, you love it,” she teased, eyes sparkling as she shifted into reverse.
The Miata rolled backward out of the spot, Jess glancing over her shoulder with practiced ease.
“You’re just gonna have to deal with it anyway,” she added, shifting into first and easing toward the garage exit. “It’s like minus twenty out there—no way I’m cracking the windows tonight. You’re stuck with the full Jess experience till we get you home.”
She flashed him another wicked sideways grin, accelerating gently up the ramp toward the street, the warm, heavy air in the car staying exactly where it was—trapped, intimate, and entirely hers.
Liam sank a little deeper into the seat, pulse racing, the mellow ripeness wrapping around him like a seatbelt he didn’t want to undo.
He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.
After a few minutes of winding through the quiet city streets, Jess merged onto the empty highway, the Miata’s little engine humming as she settled into the fast lane.
There wasn’t much traffic this late—just the occasional semi rumbling past, headlights cutting through the dark December night.
As soon as the road straightened out and the speed stabilized, Jess slouched back into her seat, legs spreading wide until her left knee almost brushed the door and her right pressed against the center console.
Without a hint of self-consciousness, she shoved her right hand deep into the waistband of her black work slacks—fingers disappearing past the belt line, palm flat against her stomach, thumb hooked over the edge like she was holding up an invisible trophy.
Classic Al Bundy pose, full commitment.
She let out a long, satisfied sigh, head lolling against the headrest, eyes half-closed as she cruised.
Liam glanced over, eyes widening for a second before a slow grin tugged at his mouth.
Jess wasn’t like most women he knew.
She was like every dude he’d ever hung out with—unapologetic, zero filter, completely at home in her own skin.
The hand stuffed in her pants, the lingering warmth from her earlier farts still thick in the tiny cabin, the casual swearing, the nacho regrets—it all clicked.
She was one of the guys. Just happened to be a woman.
Jess caught him staring and smirked without moving her hand.
“What? It’s comfortable,” she said, voice lazy. “You try wearing these damn dress pants all night. Gotta let the belly breathe.”
She scratched idly under the waistband, then adjusted slightly, settling deeper into the seat.
Liam shook his head, laughing quietly.
“Yeah… I get it now.”
Jess raised an eyebrow, still grinning.
“Get what?”
“That you’re basically a dude. Just hotter.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, bold from the surreal night.
Jess barked a laugh, hand still firmly in place.
“Damn right,” she said, eyes flicking to him. “And don’t you forget it, superstar.”
The Miata flew down the highway, the two of them sealed in their little bubble of warmth, gas, and zero pretense—Liam stealing glances at her relaxed, legs-spread sprawl, secretly loving every second of how completely, unashamedly herself she was.
Jess giggled to herself, the sound low and private as she kept her hand tucked comfortably in her waistband, fingers idly scratching her stomach while the Miata hummed along the dark highway.
She glanced sideways at him again, that familiar mischief dancing in her eyes under the passing streetlights.
“So,” she said, voice light and teasing, drawing out the word. “How you enjoyin’ the VIP experience so far, superstar?”
She shifted slightly in her seat, spreading her legs a little wider as if to emphasize the complete lack of pretense—the hand still stuffed down her pants, the lingering warmth in the air, the casual crudeness of it all.
“Pretty exclusive treatment, right? Not every contest winner gets a private chauffeur who farts like a frat boy on the ride home.”
Her giggle bubbled up again, soft and unashamed, as she waited for his answer—clearly fishing for his reaction, enjoying how off-balance he still was.
Liam felt his face heat again, but this time a grin tugged at his mouth despite himself.
The whole night had been surreal, and Jess was the cherry on top—raw, ridiculous, and somehow exactly what he didn’t know he needed.
He shifted in his seat, the mellow cloud still wrapped around them, and met her glance.
“It’s… uh… definitely VIP,” he managed, voice dry. “Five stars. Would ride again."
Jess’s eyes lit up with that wicked spark, and she let out a soft, triumphant “Ha!” before shifting in her seat again.
She lifted her hips just enough to hover an inch off the leather, hand still tucked lazily in her waistband, and angled her body slightly—squeezing her asscheeks together in a way that changed everything.
The fart came out slow and deliberate: single, fat bubbles popping one after another in a deep, wet rhythm.
Bluup… bluup… bluup…
Each one rolled out thick and heavy, seven in total, the sound echoing in the tiny cabin like bubbles rising through syrup.
The air grew warmer, richer—the mellow ripeness deepening with each lazy pop until the last one gurgled to a finish.
Jess relaxed back into the seat with a satisfied sigh, dropping her full weight down as she turned her head toward him, eyebrows raised in mock innocence.
“What about now, superstar?” she asked, voice low and teasing. “Still five stars? Or did I just bump it up to six?”
Liam froze for a moment, the warm, bubbly aftermath of Jess’s seven slow pops still settling heavy in the tiny cabin.
His mind raced—say yes and she’d know, without a doubt, that he was into this. That the farts, the smells, the shameless way she owned every rip turned him on hard.
He did have the kink. Badly. Tonight had proven it a hundred times over.
But admitting it out loud? To her? Right now?
The words teetered on his tongue.
Jess watched him from the driver’s seat, hand still lazily tucked in her waistband, eyebrow cocked in patient amusement—like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it anyway.
Liam swallowed, throat dry, pulse thudding in his ears.
Finally he let out a shaky laugh, trying to play it cool even as his face burned.
“Uh… yeah,” he said, voice lower than he meant. “Still five stars. Maybe… five and a half.”
He avoided her eyes, staring out the windshield at the dark highway stretching ahead, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward—giving him away.
Jess’s grin spread slow and triumphant.
“That’s what I thought,” she murmured, shifting the Miata into a higher gear as the engine purred louder.
She didn’t push it further. Didn’t call him out.
Just let the confession hang warm between them, thick as the air in the car, and kept driving—hand still in her pants, legs spread, completely at ease.
Liam sank back into the seat, arousal throbbing, secretly relieved she hadn’t made him say more.
But knowing, deep down, she already knew everything.
After a few minutes of silence—only the soft hum of the Miata’s engine and the occasional whoosh of passing headlights—Jess shifted slightly in her seat, hand still tucked casually in her waistband.
She let out a small, almost thoughtful breath, then spoke without looking at him.
“Gotta fart again,” she said plainly, voice casual, like she was commenting on the weather.
She didn’t move to lift her hips or change position. Just stayed slouched back, legs spread, eyes on the road.
The statement hung there—deliberate, unhurried—waiting for him to react, to say something, to give her any kind of signal.
Liam felt the words settle into his stomach like a spark.
His pulse picked up again, the quiet cabin suddenly feeling smaller, the lingering warmth from her last bubbles still clinging to the air.
He swallowed, mouth dry, debating whether to play it off, joke, or… encourage her.
Jess didn’t push. She just kept driving, one thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel, waiting to see if he’d bite.
The highway stretched dark and empty ahead.
The choice was his.
Jess let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to thicken, then glanced over at him again, her hand still lazily tucked in her waistband.
A slow, teasing smile spread across her face.
“You’re being real quiet over there, superstar,” she said, voice low and playful. “I said I gotta fart again… you want to get your nose down there for it?”
She patted her thigh lightly with her free hand, shifting her hips just enough to make the invitation clear—half joke, half dare, her eyes locked on his in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.
The Miata kept cruising steady down the empty highway, the engine’s soft purr the only other sound as she waited, eyebrow raised, that mischievous glint sharper than ever.
She wasn’t pushing hard—just coaxing, testing the water, giving him the out if he wanted it… but making damn sure he knew the door was wide open if he didn’t.
Liam’s breath caught, the air in the car already warm and heavy, his pulse thudding loud in his ears.
Jess’s grin widened a fraction, like she could hear it.
“No pressure,” she added softly, thumb tracing slow circles on her belly through her shirt. “But offer’s on the table, eh?”
Liam’s mind spun for a few long seconds, the highway lights strobing across the dashboard as the Miata ate up the miles.
Jess wasn’t mocking him or pushing him away—she was luring him in, playful and patient, making the space feel safe even while she teased the edge.
That realization loosened something in his chest, made the arousal feel less like a secret he had to hide and more like something she was openly inviting him to share.
He exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders.
Jess, sensing the shift, started making a soft ticking noise with her tongue against her teeth—tick, tick, tick—like a countdown clock.
She kept her eyes on the road, but her grin curved wider.
“I can’t hold it forever, y’know,” she said, voice sing-song and teasing. “This one’s knockin’ pretty hard. Tick-tock, superstar. You want the premium seat or not?”
She patted her thigh again, the invitation still hanging warm and heavy in the air between them, the car’s cabin already thick with everything she’d shared tonight.
The ticking continued, deliberate and rhythmic, each click pulling the moment tighter.
Liam’s heart hammered, but the fear was fading fast—replaced by a rush he couldn’t deny anymore.
He swallowed once, then let out a shaky breath.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I… I want it.”
Jess’s ticking stopped instantly.
Her grin turned downright triumphant.
“Good boy,” she murmured, slowing the Miata just enough to pull onto the wide, empty shoulder under a streetlight, hazards clicking on as she shifted into park.
She turned toward him fully now, hand sliding out of her waistband to pat her lap twice.
“Come here, then. Nose down. Let’s make this one count.”
Jess turned slightly in her seat, the Miata’s tight cabin making every move feel exaggerated.
With a fluid twist of her hips, she lifted both legs up and back—feet rising above her head in a casual, almost lazy fold that showed off surprising flexibility for the cramped space.
Her knees tucked near her chest, ass lifting clear off the leather seat as she balanced there, flats planted against the soft top roof.
She reached forward and down between her spread legs, one finger extending to press firmly against the seat of her black slacks—right over the spot where her asshole sat beneath the fabric.
“Right here,” she said, voice low and teasing, tapping the fabric twice with her fingertip for emphasis.
Her eyes locked on Liam’s, dark and daring, that wicked grin pulling wider as she held the pose—completely open, completely shameless, the invitation unmistakable.
The warm, heavy air in the car seemed to pulse with anticipation, the faint lingering traces from earlier mixing with the promise of what was coming.
Jess’s finger stayed pressed there, circling slowly now, like she was pointing out exactly where he should aim.
“Come on, superstar,” she murmured, breath hitching just a little. “Nose right here. I’m ready when you are.”
Liam stared, frozen in the passenger seat, eyes locked on Jess’s finger pressing against the seat of her slacks.
He wanted to move—God, he wanted to—but his body wouldn’t cooperate, locked up by the rush of nerves and raw desire crashing together.
Jess saw it, the hesitation in his wide eyes, the shallow breaths.
She softened instantly, voice dropping to a low, soothing murmur—like a mother coaxing a nervous child—gentle and warm, no teasing now.
“Hey… it’s okay, sweetheart,” she whispered, keeping her legs raised and folded back, finger still lightly circling the spot. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen. Just you and me here. No one else.”
She tilted her head slightly, eyes soft and encouraging.
“You don’t have to be scared. I want you to. I’m right here, waiting for you. Come on, baby… lean in for me. Get your nose right here where it belongs.”
Her words wrapped around him, calm and reassuring, melting the last edges of his freeze.
She tapped the fabric once more, slow and deliberate.
“That’s it… nice and easy. I’ve got you.”
Liam began to slowly shift in his seat, heart speeding up as his vision was filled more and more with her ass on display in front of him—lifted high, the black slacks stretched tight over the full curve of her cheeks, the fabric pulled taut right where her finger still pressed.
The cramped Miata made it impossible to look anywhere else; she was folded open for him, legs hooked over her head, that spot marked clearly like a target.
His breath came shallow and fast, hands gripping the edge of the seat as he leaned forward inch by inch—hesitant, but drawn in by her soft, coaxing voice and the promise hanging thick in the warm air.
Jess watched him between her legs, eyes gentle but hungry, finger tapping once more on the fabric.
“That’s it, baby,” she whispered, voice low and soothing. “Slow as you need. Just come closer… put your face right here for me.”
Liam’s knees pressed into the narrow footwell as he twisted toward her, the console digging into his side, but he barely felt it.
His nose was only inches away now, the faint warmth radiating off her body already brushing his skin, the anticipation making his head spin.
Jess’s breath hitched—just slightly—as she felt him closing the distance, her finger sliding away to give him full access.
“Good boy,” she murmured again, voice barely above a whisper. “Right here… I’m all yours.”
Jess reached forward between her legs, her free hand sliding gently to the back of Liam’s head as he hovered inches away.
Her fingers threaded into his hair—slow, reassuring strokes, petting and massaging his scalp in soft circles, nails grazing lightly as she played with the strands.
The touch was tender, guiding but not forcing, easing him the last bit closer until his nose brushed the taut fabric right where she’d marked the spot.
Warmth radiated through the slacks, the faint dampness of the night’s exertion making the material cling just enough to hint at everything underneath.
Jess’s voice dropped to a husky whisper, fingers still petting rhythmically.
“How do I smell, baby?”
She held him there gently, legs still folded back, hips tilted to keep herself perfectly presented—waiting for his answer, for his breath, for whatever came next.
The car was silent except for their breathing and the distant hum of the highway beyond the shoulder.
Liam’s world narrowed to the heat against his nose, the soft pressure of her hand on his head, and the thick, intimate scent already seeping through the fabric—waiting for him to inhale fully and tell her.
Liam leaned in the last inch, his nose brushing the stretched fabric, and took a deliberate, deep sniff.
The scent hit him like a wrecking ball—warm, deeply personal, a thick blend of her body’s natural musk, the faint tang of sweat from the long night, and the ripe, earthy aftermath of everything she’d been holding and releasing.
His whole shell shattered in that instant—the last walls of hesitation, embarrassment, pretense—gone.
A low, involuntary groan escaped his throat as he pressed his nose flat against the seam of her pants, right where her asshole hid beneath, burying himself into the heat radiating through the material.
He inhaled again, harder, deeper, letting it flood his lungs completely, the raw intimacy of it making his head spin and his cock throb painfully against his jeans.
Jess felt the pressure of his face, the desperate way he nuzzled in, and her fingers tightened gently in his hair—petting, encouraging, holding him there.
“That’s it, baby,” she whispered, voice husky and soothing all at once. “Good boy. Smell me. All of me.”
Her legs stayed folded back, body open and steady, giving him full access as he lost himself against her—nose grinding slowly along the seam, breaths coming fast and ragged, every inhale pulling more of her essence into him.
The cramped Miata disappeared.
There was only Jess—her scent, her warmth, her hand in his hair—and Liam finally, completely surrendered to it.
Jess kept her hand cradled gently against the back of his head, fingers stroking through his hair in slow, soothing passes as Liam stayed pressed flat against the seam of her slacks.
She treated him like a young, naive boy—barely eighteen, wide-eyed and inexperienced, stepping into manhood for the first time with trembling legs.
And she was breaking him in, patient and deliberate, like a favorite pair of leather shoes: easing him into the shape she wanted, stretching him gently until he fit perfectly, molding him with warmth and pressure and scent until he learned exactly how good it could feel to yield.
“That’s my good boy,” she whispered again, voice soft and maternal, thumb tracing slow circles at the base of his skull.
“Stay right there. Breathe me in nice and deep. No rush. You’re doing so perfect for me.”
Her legs stayed folded back, body open and steady, the heat from her ass radiating through the fabric straight into his flattened nose.
Liam groaned again, muffled against her, inhaling in long, shuddering pulls—each breath pulling more of her raw, intimate musk into him, breaking down another layer of resistance until there was nothing left but need.
Jess smiled down at him, eyes half-lidded, fingers never stopping their gentle petting.
“There you go,” she cooed. “Just like that. Let it all in. You’re mine right now, sweetheart. And I’m gonna take real good care of you.”
Jess whimpered softly, the strain of holding the folded position starting to show in her voice—a small, needy sound as her thighs trembled slightly from the effort.
The fart she’d been holding back was pressing harder now, a dull ache building low in her gut.
She shifted her hips just a fraction, trying to ease the pressure, fingers still gently petting the back of Liam’s head where his nose stayed buried flat against the seam.
“I’m gonna let out a little fart, okay?” she whispered, voice breathy and soft, almost apologetic but still laced with that soothing tone.
She didn’t wait for an answer—just gave his hair one more reassuring stroke, then relaxed her clenched muscles ever so slightly.
A warm, muffled puff escaped against the fabric—soft at first, then swelling into a low, wet brrrrrpt that vibrated directly under his pressed nose.
The heat bloomed instantly, thick and ripe, pushing through the slacks and flooding straight into him.
Jess exhaled a shaky little moan of relief, thighs quivering as the ache eased.
“There… just a little one,” she cooed, fingers resuming their gentle massage on his scalp. “You okay down there, baby? Keep breathing me in… good boy.”
Jess kept her fingers threaded gently through Liam’s hair, stroking in slow, rhythmic passes as he stayed pressed hard against the seam of her slacks, breathing her in with desperate, shuddering pulls.
On the surface, she savored the power—the way this brand-new eighteen-year-old, flushed and trembling, had crumbled so completely under her touch, her scent, her voice.
It fed something selfish in her, that rush of control over someone so eager and inexperienced, molding him with every soft word and every warm release.
She liked it. Liked it more than she’d expected when the night started.
But deeper down, under the teasing and the dominance and the genuine enjoyment, was the bonus management had dangled: a nice chunk of cash if she could nudge Liam toward signing that contract before the week was out.
Get him hooked on the VIP treatment, make him feel like part of the family, keep the high going—whatever it took.
And this? This was working better than any scripted meet-and-greet ever could.
She whimpered again softly, thighs starting to burn from holding the folded position, but she didn’t lower her legs yet.
Instead, she tightened her fingers just a little in his hair—possessive, encouraging—and let another small, wet puff slip out against his flattened nose.
The warmth bloomed fresh and thick, and Liam groaned into her, pushing harder, lost completely.
Jess smiled to herself in the dim light of the pulled-over Miata, petting him like a prized pet.
“Good boy,” she whispered again, voice velvet and low. “Stay right there for me.”
The bonus was close.
And so was he.
Jess lowered her legs slowly, carefully unfolding from the extreme position, her thighs trembling just a little from the strain.
She kept them spread wide enough that Liam’s head stayed exactly where she wanted it—nose still pressed flat against the seam of her slacks, trapped in the warm cradle between her legs.
Her feet slid down, flats pressing gently against his lower back, knees bent and bowed outward so her thighs framed his face like soft, unyielding walls.
The new position pinned him perfectly—his cheek resting against one thigh, nose buried deep against the fabric over her asshole, her scent thick and inescapable.
Jess exhaled a long, satisfied sigh, one hand returning to stroke through his hair while the other settled back on her belly.
“There we go,” she murmured, voice soft and warm, toes curling lightly against his jacket. “Much comfier for both of us. You stay right there, baby. Keep breathing me in nice and slow.”
Her legs flexed just a fraction, pulling him a little closer, the heat from her body radiating through the slacks straight into his face.
Liam groaned quietly, muffled against her, hands gripping the edge of the passenger seat as he surrendered completely—lost in the overwhelming warmth, the pressure of her thighs and feet holding him in place, the steady rise and fall of her breathing above him.
Jess smiled down at the top of his head, fingers petting gently, possessively.
“Good boy,” she whispered again. “You’re doing so perfect for me.”
Jess leaned her head back against the driver’s-side door, eyes fluttering shut as she sank into the pose like she was lounging on a beach chair instead of folded open in a tiny sports car.
Her thighs stayed spread wide, knees bowed out, feet pressing lightly into Liam’s lower back to keep him pinned exactly where she wanted—nose flat and deep against the warm seam of her slacks.
A deep, contented sigh escaped her lips, long and slow, as her body relaxed fully.
At the same moment, another muffled fart slipped out—warm and wet, rumbling softly right into Liam’s pressed nose, the vibration buzzing faintly against his skin through the fabric.
The fresh wave of heat bloomed thick and ripe, coating his senses in another layer of her intimate musk, heavier now, more concentrated in the trapped space between her legs.
Jess exhaled the sigh into a soft, pleased moan, eyes still closed, fingers lazily petting the back of his head as if rewarding him for staying put.
“Mmm… perfect,” she murmured, voice drowsy and warm. “Just stay right there and take it all in, baby.”
Her feet flexed gently against his back, toes curling into his jacket, holding him steady as the new warmth settled over him like a blanket.
Liam groaned low and helpless against her, inhaling deeply, letting the fresh release flood him completely—lost in the overwhelming closeness, the gentle pressure of her hand and feet, and the raw, unfiltered intimacy she kept giving him without hesitation.
Jess glanced down at him, eyes half-lidded and lazy, watching the way his nose stayed buried flat against the seam of her slacks, cheeks pressed between her spread thighs.
She gave his hair one more slow, affectionate stroke, fingers lingering at the nape of his neck.
“Whenever you’re done, baby,” she murmured softly, voice warm and unhurried. “Just let me know. No rush.”
With that, she leaned her head back against the door again, eyes drifting shut as she settled in to relax fully.
Her body went limp in the seat—legs still wide and bowed out, feet resting lightly on his lower back, thighs framing his face like a warm cradle.
She let out a long, contented sigh, sinking deeper into the moment, completely at ease as she waited for him to finish on his own time.
The Miata stayed parked on the dark shoulder, hazards ticking quietly, the highway empty and silent around them.
Liam stayed right where he was—nose pressed deep, breathing her in slow and steady, lost in the heat and scent, the gentle weight of her feet holding him there like she’d never let him go.
Jess laid back against the door, eyes half-closed, body relaxed as she pumped small, warm farts into Liam’s nose every now and then—soft, muffled puffs that vibrated gently against his face, each one followed by a quiet sigh of relief from her.
She’d settled into an easy rhythm, enjoying the quiet intimacy of it, the way his steady breathing pulled her scent deeper with every inhale.
After a while, though, she noticed how still he’d gone—no more little groans, no shifting, no nuzzling closer.
Just deep, even breaths.
Jess opened her eyes fully and looked down, nudging his side lightly with her foot.
“Liam? Baby? You still with me?”
No response.
She nudged again, a little firmer, toes pressing into his ribs.
Nothing—just the slow rise and fall of his back under her flats.
A soft laugh escaped her as realization hit.
He’d fallen asleep—passed out cold, face still buried against her, completely overwhelmed and exhausted from the night.
“Poor thing,” she murmured, fondness creeping into her voice as she gazed at the top of his head.
She moved carefully, not wanting to jolt him awake.
First, she eased her legs wider, sliding them gently to either side of his slumped form, giving herself room to maneuver.
Then she reached down, fingers threading into his hair again—this time to cradle the back of his head—and slowly, carefully lifted his face away from the warm seam of her slacks.
The cool air hit her where his nose had been, and she felt the faint dampness he’d left behind.
With steady hands, she guided his head back toward the passenger side, pulling her legs one at a time over the center console until they were both back on her side of the car.
She shifted her weight, leaning across the console to push gently at his shoulder, easing him upright against the passenger door.
His head lolled a little, then settled against the window, mouth slightly open, breathing deep and peaceful.
Jess adjusted him the best she could in the cramped space—seatbelt clicked back into place, body propped so he wouldn’t slump too far forward—until he looked almost normal, just a very tired kid sleeping off the wildest night of his life.
She sat back in her seat, legs tucked under her now, and watched him for a long moment—chest rising and falling, face relaxed, utterly spent.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at her lips.
“Sleep tight, superstar,” she whispered, turning the hazards off and easing the Miata back onto the empty highway.
The drive home continued in quiet, the warm air in the car slowly fading, carrying only the faint, lingering memory of everything they’d shared.
Jess guided the little Miata through the quiet suburban streets, the clock on the dash glowing 1:47 AM as she slowed to a stop in front of the address management had texted her—Liam’s family home, porch light still on, snow blanketing the driveway and lawn in untouched white.
She shifted into park and let the engine idle for a moment, the soft tick of cooling metal the only sound as she glanced over at the sleeping boy slumped against the passenger window.
His face was relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, breath fogging the glass in slow puffs—completely out after the whirlwind night.
Jess reached over and turned the heat down a notch, then gently unclicked her seatbelt.
“Hey, superstar,” she said softly, reaching across the console to brush her fingers lightly along his arm. “Liam… time to wake up, buddy. You’re home.”
No response—just deeper breathing.
She smiled to herself, then leaned closer, giving his shoulder a gentle shake.
“Liam… come on, baby. We’re here. Your bed’s waiting.”
She nudged him again, a little firmer, fingers sliding up to cup the side of his neck and stroke his jaw with her thumb.
His eyelids fluttered, a small confused sound escaping him as he started to stir, head lifting slowly from the window.
Jess kept her touch light, voice low and soothing.
“There you go… easy. Welcome back.”
Liam stirred slowly, eyelids fluttering as Jess’s gentle nudges and soft voice pulled him back from the heavy fog of sleep.
He lifted his head from the cool window, blinking groggily at the familiar sight of his house through the windshield—the porch light glowing, snow blanketing the yard.
For a moment he just stared, piecing together where he was… and who he was with.
Then the memories flooded back in a rush: the arena, the shot, Cat’s wink, the private room, the ride home, Jess’s farts, her thighs framing his face, the overwhelming warmth and scent until everything went black.
He looked over at her slowly, eyes wide and hazy, half-convinced it had all been an intense dream.
A sharp pang of disappointment twisted in his chest at the thought.
Jess caught the look on his face and paused, one eyebrow raised as she studied him for a second.
Without a word, she unbuckled, pushed open her driver’s door, and stepped out into the cold night air.
Liam watched through the windshield as she rounded the low hood of the Miata, her silhouette crisp against the streetlight, shoes crunching softly on the thin layer of snow.
She pulled open his passenger door, letting in a rush of frigid air that snapped him further awake.
Before he could move, Jess slid in sideways, lowering herself directly onto his lap—her weight warm and solid, ass settling firmly against his thighs as she rotated her hips once, then twice, grinding just enough to make sure he felt it.
She swung her legs out the open door, feet dangling above the curb, and twisted her upper body to the right so she could face him fully—close enough that he could see the faint flush on her cheeks from the cold, smell the lingering trace of everything they’d shared still clinging to her clothes.
Her eyes locked on his, playful and knowing.
“So,” she said, voice low and teasing, one hand resting casually on his shoulder. “You gonna call me tomorrow?”
She shifted her weight again slightly, pressing down just a fraction more, making it impossible for him to mistake any of this for a dream.
The disappointment vanished.
This was real.
And Jess was still very much in charge.
Jess grew impatient, her playful grin sharpening as she watched Liam hesitate, still half-dazed and processing.
“You gonna keep a girl waiting?” she teased, voice dropping lower, a hint of mock-scolding in it. “You need a little more motivation, don’t you?”
Before he could answer, Jess bore down hard—hips rocking forward and back on his lap as she unleashed everything she had left.
A massive, roaring fart erupted beneath her, the force of it vibrating through her slacks and straight into his crotch, long and wet and unrelenting, the sound filling the open door like a thunderclap in the quiet night.
She ground down twice with the rhythm of it, rocking his lap firmly, the warm blast flooding the space between them—thick, ripe, and impossible to ignore.
When it finally tapered off into a bubbly finish, Jess exhaled a satisfied moan, thighs flexing as she settled her full weight back down on him, pinning him to the seat.
She turned her head fully to face him again, eyes gleaming, cheeks flushed from the effort.
“There,” she murmured, voice husky. “Motivated yet?”
Her hand slid up to cup his jaw gently, thumb brushing his lower lip as she held his gaze.
“Call me tomorrow, superstar. I’ll be waiting.”
Liam blinked up at her, still dazed from sleep and the massive fart that had rocked his lap, the warmth lingering between them like a heavy blanket.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough and quiet. “I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow. When I wake up. Promise.”
Jess’s smile softened—genuine this time, warm and pleased.
She leaned in close, cupped his jaw gently with one hand, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek—her lips warm against his chilled skin.
“Good boy,” she whispered against his face, then pulled back and stood up from his lap, the cold night air rushing in where her weight had been.
She circled back around the low hood of the Miata, shoes crunching on the snow, and slipped into the driver’s seat again.
The door clicked shut, sealing them in the quiet cabin once more.
Jess buckled up and turned to look at him—Liam still sitting there in the passenger seat, door open, bags in the trunk, staring at her like he wasn’t quite ready to leave the bubble they’d created.
“Well,” she said, voice light and teasing again, “go on and sleep so you can call me.”
She reached across the console and gave his knee a playful squeeze.
“Get inside before you freeze, superstar. I’ll watch you get to the door.”
Liam nodded slowly, a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips.
He climbed out awkwardly, legs stiff from the cramped position, and grabbed his gear from the trunk when Jess popped it open for him.
Bags slung over his shoulder, stick in hand, he paused at the open passenger door one last time—looking back at her.
“Night, Jess.”
“Night, baby,” she replied, blowing him a quick kiss. “Dream of me.”
He shut the door, trudged through the snow to his porch, and fumbled his key into the lock.
Jess waited until the porch light flicked off and the front door closed behind him.
Only then did she pull away from the curb, a satisfied little smile on her face, already looking forward to that call tomorrow.
The Miata disappeared down the quiet street, red taillights fading into the snowy night.
Liam pushed the front door shut behind him with his heel, the click echoing in the quiet house as he dropped his duffle, stick, and gift bag in a careless pile in the entrance hallway.
He didn’t bother turning on more lights—just kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and trudged upstairs in the dim glow of the night-light his mom still left on for him.
His bedroom door creaked open, and he didn’t even flip the switch.
He walked straight to the bed and collapsed face-up onto the mattress, still fully dressed, arms splayed out like he’d been dropped from the ceiling.
The mattress bounced once beneath him.
Liam stared up at the dark ceiling, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths as the night replayed in flashes: the shot, the crowd, Cat’s wink and kiss-the-blade, her fart in the private room, Jess’s relentless teasing, the Miata, her thighs around his face, the overwhelming warmth and scent until he passed out cold.
A slow, disbelieving grin spread across his face.
He let out a quiet, breathless laugh into the empty room.
“Being eighteen,” he whispered to the ceiling, voice hoarse and full of wonder, “is awesome.”
He kept staring upward, grin not fading, until his eyes finally drifted shut and sleep pulled him under again—this time in his own bed, the taste and smell of the wildest night of his life still lingering on his skin.
Tomorrow was going to be insane.