Ondrej shut the door behind him, his head hung low. HIs hair was still wet from the post-game shower and his eyebrows were knit together in a frown. He looked up at me, that one curly lock of hair falling onto his forehead.

“Hi.”

His voice was husky, as if he hadn’t used it in days. I set down the pot I’d been drying and draped the towel over my shoulder. I gave him a small smile. “Ahoj” (hi).

A little smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, he always loved when I spoke Czech. “Did you see game?”

“Yes love, I watched. You were-” I started to reassure him, but his big hand came up saying stop. Ondrej’s eyes were closed, he shook his head.

“No, don’t want to talk about game. Maybe my fault, maybe not. Just want you.” He opened his eyes again, and held out his hand to me. I give him the towel with a cheeky smile.

“Alright. First I want to finish these dishes, okay?” Ondrej seemed grateful to have something to do; he set down his bag and joined me in the kitchen. We walked about little things while we worked - my sister’s wedding in a few months, whether he wanted to meet our friends for breakfast tomorrow or postpone. We’d been together almost 4 years now; we met when he came along with the former Atlanta Thrasher back to Winnipeg. We started dating...a bit later.

* * * * * * *
It was a crazy summer here in Winnipeg back in 2011. In June came the news we’d get a franchise back and hockey fans (which is to say, all of Manitoba) were jubilant. When the players started moving in, real estate agents weren’t the only ones salivating. Lots of puck bunnies dusted off their stilettos and began skulking around bars. Me? I was 20 years old, navigating my first real job in the big city and not at all interested in romance. Sex, I liked.

A few coworkers and I had gone out to the King’s Head for some drinks after work and a nice curry. It was impossible to miss the table of hockey players - even plains people aren’t huge like pro hockey players are. They were keeping to themselves, we were relieved to see, and enjoying quite a spread of the signature English-Indian mashup of food with many beer pitchers. We giggled a little, mocked their hulking conversation and resumed our usual ritual of bitching and moaning.

After a few beers (a few too many, perhaps), I caught myself looking over too often at the hockey table. At one player in particular, actually - a European, I guessed, since he was wearing a suit jacket in a pub. His eyebrows were like brown fuzzy caterpillars above icy blue eyes. I kept telling myself he was surely stupid; chiseled jaw or no, he was not that good looking, I was just drunk. The girls noticed my staring, started goading me to go over and talk to him. As if!

I tried to keep them distracted, but the taps were still open and my resolve waned. They helped me think of a witty opener, supplied me another glass of lager and sent me in the direction of the hockey table. I lurched up to him, and he turned to me and smiled.

Dear god, his smile was like the sun coming out after a blizzard. Or something else magical and beautiful. Perfect white teeth, but a smile just crooked enough to be devastating. He smiled and all rational thought went out of my head. But I was standing there, beer in hand, in a pair of jeans a loose t-shirt. I couldn’t just turn around and walk away - even I’m not that awkward. The first thing that came to mind was, “Mind if I join you guys?”

They all agreed, one reached around to pull a chair from an empty table and I found myself sitting amongst the six of them, with the Adonis across the table from me. I heard my coworkers laughing, but refused to look over at them. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I just started talking -asking them what positions they played, how long they were with the Thrashers before the franchise came back North, where are they from. I thought I saw some impressed looks being traded back and forth, the ‘this isn’t your average puck bunny’ looks you get if you know who Teemu Selanne is.

I’m sure all of them answered my questions, but all I could remember was him. He was a goalie, he signed with the Thrashers in 2007, he was from the Czech Republic and had the sexiest accent I’d ever heard. I tried not to stare at him, but I felt like I was. Whenever he’d meet my eyes he’d smile. And I’d quiver a little internally.

My friends left around 11, calling out from the doorway and waving garishly. I dreaded what they’d say tomorrow, but I was having too much fun joking with the boys. I always found it easy to hang out with hockey players back in school, and I was discovering NHL players weren’t much different at all. We played drinking games, I showed them up at Winnipeg hockey history trivia, we played more drinking games, and Adonis’s English got worse and worse, and I got more and more aroused.

The guys called him Pavs, but I couldn’t tell if that was his first name - Pavel, like Datsyuk? Was that a Czech name? - or his last name. A couple of the guys went up to the bar for refills. I’d stopped drinking in earnest a while before, only sipping when they were guzzling. I know my limits, as a lady must.

But I was still drunk enough to be foolishly brave; I jumped into the seat next to Adonis and just asked outright, “So what, exactly, is your actual name?”

That smile again. Damn. “Ondrej,” he purred. All long sounds, through his beautiful smile, with a bit of a roll, or was is it a growl?, on the ‘r’. I was done.

“Alright, Ondrej. My apartment is just a few blocks away by the museum. Do you like coffee?” I could almost see the translation gears turning in his head. My drunk self decided miming drinking coffee would be the best solution. One of his teammates had a better idea, and leaned over to him.

“She wants you to go to her house,” the one called Wheels said, and winked at me. I roll my eyes.

“Yes. That’s-, yes.” I didn’t bother to refute it. I did want to take him home and ruin him for all the other girls. Ondrej’s beautiful eyes caught mine, sparkling in the bar lights. He grinned.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

I tried to offer the other players some money for the drinks, but they were all smiles and elbowing each other. Fine. Boys will be boys. I took Ondrej’s arm and we went outside. We didn’t talk much on the walk, but he did hold my hand whenever we crossed a street. A sweet European hockey player. Bless my soul.

We got to my building, and when we got in the elevator Ondrej caught my eyes and said, “You’re krasny, um, you’re beautiful.”

I swooned, and tried to keep my composure in front of him. “Thank you,” I said, and it would have been composed if the last part hadn’t come out as a giggle. He smiled back at me and the elevator dinged for my floor. I opened the door to the apartment, made sure it was locked and found Ondrej carefully hanging up his jacket. Unbelievable.

“You want coffee?” he asked. Coffee? Oh yes, I had used the old ‘come up for coffee’ line. Way to go, genius.

“No, Ondrej. I want you.” I took a step toward him, and stroked one finger down the side of his face. I leaned up, realized I couldn’t reach him he was so tall, and settled for commanding him. “Kiss me.”

His blue eyes were darker suddenly, and I was aware of his breathing when he murmured “Ano” (I later learned it meant ‘yes’) and bent his head down, capturing my lips in a sweet caress.

I didn’t pick up a strange NHLer from a bar for a sweet caress. I teased around his lips with my tongue, probing; my eyes were still open and I saw his eyebrows raise a little at the boldness. But the lust in his look was convincing enough. I tried again and he opened his lips, his tongue meeting mine. I moaned a little, biting his bottom lip. I ran a hand up his arm, grasping his bicep and pulling him closer. His other arm circled around my waist, pulling me up against him.

I broke off the kiss eventually, and took him by the hand. “Let’s go,” I said and he looked confused. I didn’t explain, just led him to the bedroom. When I glanced back at him, he’d figured it out. He definitely knew what I was up to now.

Once in the bedroom, I shucked my shirt and jeans, and caught him watching. I smiled, then stepped toward him and gestured for him to take off his shirt too. As he did, I started to unbutton his jeans and slide them down but got distracted. The goalies I’d known growing up were usually the slowest kid on the team, the chubby one. Not Ondrej. He was ripped. I ran my fingers along the sharp V of his hip flexors and, involuntarily, licked my lips. His grin reappeared, and he asked “You like?”

“Fuck yes, I like,” I breathed. I pulled his pants and boxers down together, and his erection was free and eager. I kept my hands on his hips as I knelt down in front of him, then moved one to grasp his shaft. I licked the head, tasting the drop of precum that had formed. Ondrej sighed and I saw he’d closed his eyes, so I went for it. I was sucking and slurping and bobbing my head - I knew I was good at this, or least that's what they said. Ondrej’s moans sounded like little ‘o’s and his cock flexed and twitched in my mouth.

“Lie down,” I said, getting to my feet. His eyes opened, icy blue surrounding widened pupils. I pushed his chest playfully toward the bed and he needed no further encouragement. He laid down on his back, stroking himself with a big fist. I retrieved a condom, opened it and put it on him. He tried to get up but I pushed him back; I climbed up and straddled him. Holding the base of his cock with one hand, I swirled my hips so only the tip was touching me, letting him feel how wet I was. His strong hands found my hips and tried to pull me down onto him. After a little more teasing, I let him.

The feeling when I sat down all the way was incredible. I’d noticed his dick curved upward a little, but I hadn’t counted on how amazing that would feel. I ground my hips in little circles, stretching my walls around his girth. His ‘o’ moans started again and now I was whimpering too. After a bit of raising my ass up, dropping down and grinding against him, I leaned down so our chests were touching, and he flipped us over with his powerful legs. I hooked by ankles behind his back and he buried himself inside me. His gaze down on my chest was hot, and his hands roamed from my hips, to my waist and finally to gently squeezing each breast, his thumbs circling the hard nipples. His rhythm never slowed and soon I felt the familiar heat growing behind my belly button.

I knew I was murmuring silly drunken things, “Yes”, and “God,” and “Fuck me,” and his name. Soon he was pounding faster and harder, and my moans escalated - peaking at the same time as my orgasm, shouting his name now. Seconds later he shuddered into me, releasing hot cum inside my walls. We lay there, frozen with him still inside me, basking in the heat - I was breathing heavily, but apparently his muscles were a sign of how in-shape he was since he seemed unfazed by the exercise. The guy was unreal.

Eventually, he got up and disposed of the condom and put on his underwear. I got up and handed him his clothes, putting on just my t-shirt. “I should go?” he asked with an almost irresistibly sweet expression, slightly disappointed. Almost irresistible.

“Yeah… you should go,” I said. I don’t let hookups stay the night - bad form and whatnot. He looked a bit put out, but got dressed. He kissed me, sweetly and softly, before I shut the door behind him.

I only realized I hadn’t even gotten his phone number a few days later when I couldn’t stop thinking about him - not because he was the best lay I’d ever had or something corny like that, but because he was so gentle and beautiful and something else, I don’t know how to describe it but exotic, almost - something rare.

I tried not to think about him, and threw myself back into work. That was a fine solution, until hockey season started. You could see those thick brows and bright eyes through his goalie mask, and I knew I was in trouble.

Notes