Going For The Goalie

This story is written for Literotica author Chanson Bleu. It is in payment for a friendly bet we had on the outcome of this year's Stanley Cup Playoffs, won by her beloved Colorado Avalanche. CB provided the synopsis for the story, an erotic fantasy of hers, as per the bet. Additionally, she helped me with information on Denver, the French language, and helped edit and name the story. I should lose more bets this way. Thanks CB, and enjoy.

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"The winner of the Conn Smythe trophy, for the third time, Patrick Roy!" The National Hockey League's commissioner's voice echoed through the Pepsi Center in Denver. The Colorado Avalanche had just come back from a three game to two deficit in the Stanley Cup Finals to win the seventh and deciding game against the reigning Stanley Cup champions, the New Jersey Devils. The series had been one of momentum changes, both teams dominating for a time. But in the end, Colorado had won their second Stanley Cup, an award emblematic of professional hockey supremacy.

The Conn Smythe trophy, donated by the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey club back in 1967, was named after the crusty original owner of the Leafs. The trophy is presented to the most valuable player in the Stanley Cup playoffs. The latter represent the post season of hockey, and the most important games to be played. Winners advance by winning four games in a best four out seven game series. In all there are four grueling rounds where players become battered and bruised, injuries are not disclosed, and all sacrifice themselves for the glory of winning the Cup.

The MVP winner this year was Patrick Roy, veteran goaltender for the Avalanche. Goaltenders are a strange breed. They play the entire game and face a barrage of pucks , propelled at speeds of over 100 miles per hour. Although covered from head to toe with padding, goaltenders often are bruised by the sheer force of the pucks hitting them. Their job is purely defensive, keep the puck out of their net. Roy, as he typically is, was brilliant. With a defiant icy stare and skilled athleticism, he denied the Devil shooters when it counted the most, and the trophy was his again, as it had been two times before.

The Avalanche players frequently party at the restaurant where I work, the Denver ChopHouse and Brewery. As Events Director at the restaurant I book, plan, and oversee all special functions. No party had been booked tonight because no one wanted to jinx the team, but I had deliberately not booked The Caboose, our largest banquet room at the back of the restaurant. Sure, there would be a parade, a municipal reception, perhaps even an invitation to the White House. Before all that though, the players would party together as a team. I smiled at the thought of some of them showing up in uniform. Rumor has it that there is an element of superstition involved in not taking off the winning uniforms for at least twenty-four hours after the final game. I wondered if it were true.

And the Stanley Cup itself would be with them. The Cup was donated years ago by Lord Stanley of Preston, the Queen of England's representative to Canada at the time. The Lord left Canada shortly thereafter and neither he nor his heirs have ever seen a Stanley Cup game. The Cup travels with the players of the winning team, each of them getting an allotted period of time with it. In the beginning it was mostly Canadian players taking the Cup back to their hometowns to a reception reminiscent of those for a conquering hero. In more recent times, the Cup has found its way from Time Square in New York to Red Square in Moscow, along with international cities throughout Europe such as Helsinki, Stockholm, and Prague. The Cup has had some adventures, having been forgotten on trains, left on buses or in hotel rooms, and in one bizarre incident, unceremoniously dumped into the Rideau Canal in Ottawa, Canada. Miraculously, it keeps turning up and has grown into one of the most recognizable trophies in sports.

I was excited about the impending party. I had met most of the Avalanche players over the past year and enjoyed flirting with them. Georgie as they called me, short for Georgina, took care of them. Hockey players are always going somewhere, either travelling, playing, or practicing, and I ensured the time they spent at the restaurant was fun and relaxing. Perhaps because the Avalanche as a team had originally played in Quebec City, located in the heart of French speaking Canada, they had a tradition of having several players who spoke French as their first language. The latter found me interesting in that I could converse with them in fluent French, having studied the language as my major in college. It was highly unusual for them to meet an American woman who could speak their language.

In my late thirties, I have a pretty face, innocent looking, yet subtly seductive. I am fit, poised, and sexy. The younger players would occasionally hit on me, mistaking my teasing and good nature for a green light. I sometimes took them up on it. Why should the groupies have all the fun? I am at my sexual peak and one of these virile, athletic young men can literally fuck all night long. Exhausted, and sometimes more than just a little sore the next morning, I would promise myself never to do it again…but never is a very long time.

Most of the veteran players were married, had young families, and were more polished and professional. They realized that the season was long, the travel tiring, and spending the night fucking wasn't going to make it any easier. But they were great to party with. My favorite was Patrick Roy. He would look at me with those incredible icy blue eyes of his and I would feel my pussy getting wet, tingling with excitement. He was supremely confident, patient, and had a serene aura around him. Patrick was Quebecois, from Canada's French speaking province, and 'Roy' means king. He was true to his name.

I had spoken with Patrick only once, the last time he was in the restaurant. He was celebrating becoming the all time leader in games won for a goaltender, surpassing the venerable Terry Sawchuk. I had flirted with him a bit in the past, as part of a group, but this time I actually had a chance to talk with him. "Patrick, you have won the Cup, all the individual goalie trophies, you have most of the goalie records, what challenges are left?" I had asked with some seriousness.

"Georgie, I love the game, I love the fans…especially the beautiful ones," he grinned and winked at me as he said it. I turned a not so pale shade of red, momentarily caught off guard. There was a pause as I recovered. I looked up and those eyes were locked on me, too long to be accidental. I looked away and began to fidget.

'He couldn't be,' I thought. Patrick kept staring. 'He could.' Patrick looked away finally. 'Nah, he's not.' For a moment I thought he was coming on to me and, as the moment passed, I was regretting not being more receptive.

After that thoughts of Patrick began to surface regularly. I would find myself listening to sports reports more attentively, for any news that might be about him. I wasn't obsessive about it, but I had this tinge of anxiety inside. The question of what might have been kept haunting me. At first I wanted to find out, but as time passed, I needed to find out. The next time I see him I promised myself. And Patrick was sure to be here tonight. I just wasn't sure what I was going to do about it.

A quick phone call from my boss confirmed the arrangements. "Good work Georgie, I knew you would have something ready for them," he said. "Tell the staff to stay as long as they can, there will be a bonus. We'll keep the restaurant open past regular closing."

It took six of us to prepare for the Avalanche. The Caboose had its own bar area and should have enough room for all that showed. We chilled down two cases of champagne and prepared an extensive buffet with our best dishes. After the tension of the last few games, the players probably hadn't eaten much and were sure to be hungry! I instructed a small pedestal be placed in the middle of the room where they could put the Cup on display although I had a feeling it wouldn't stay in one place too long. Kevin, our head brewer, surprised me. He had prepared something special, Lord Stanley's Ale he called it, just for the occasion.

News travels fast and the restaurant began to fill with patrons awaiting the arrival of their Stanley Cup champions. The mood was jovial and upbeat but the crowd, though boisterous, was well behaved. The parking lot was completely filled with cars. The players, we were told, would arrive by limousine, and the drivers would park around the back of the restaurant next to the railway tracks.

It was shortly after 11 p.m. when the first players showed up. Outside the front of the restaurant a drop area was cordoned off to allow the players to get into the restaurant. The Caboose was already half full with non-playing members of the team, the league, and the media. A feeling of relief was evident. The playoffs were finally over. Some of these men and women had been away from home for over two months constantly travelling. It would soon be time to go home. But for now, it was party time.

I laughed when I saw about a half dozen of the players still in their jerseys and hockey pants. The rest of the pads were gone but enough of the uniform remained to comply with tradition. 'These hockey players are a superstitious lot' I thought to myself. Wives, girlfriends, close relatives, and in a couple of cases, parents of the players began filing into The Caboose. The room held 150, but I could see we were going to have more than that.

The feeling of excitement and anticipation rose as everyone eagerly awaited the arrival of the Stanley Cup. Ray Bourque, one the Avalanche's many all-star players, arrived with it, carrying it triumphantly over his head. When it came time, he appeared almost reluctant to put it on the pedestal in the middle of the room. I was not prepared for the emotion I saw on Ray's face, and those of his fellow players. It struck me that these players had dreamt, as little boys barely able to stand up on skates, of this moment of glory. I wondered whether any night of celebration could live up to the feelings evoked from those dreams.

I looked around but didn't see Patrick. The goalie was always first on and off the ice, but I guess parties were different. Most of the players were hungry, helping themselves to huge portions from the buffet table. One could barely hear above the talking and the music in the background. The younger players had a greater influence in the music, and bands such as Limp Bizkit, Depeche Mode, and Stone Temple Pilots were among their choices. The champagne remained on ice, since we wanted all the players to arrive before formally starting the celebration. However, the beer was flowing; Lord Stanley's Ale was going over well, disappearing as fast as tickets had for tonight's game.

Finally I spotted Patrick. He arrived via the side door of the Caboose, his limousine dropping him off along with the Conn Smythe Trophy. As others noticed his arrival they began clapping, all present giving him an enthusiastic ovation. Patrick made his way into the room. "Ce n'est fait rien," I heard him say in French to one of his teammates. In English it would mean, "it is nothing." Patrick seemed to absorb the adulation and reveled in it. We broke open the champagne, as he was the last of the players to arrive. It was time to officially start the celebration.

As is the tradition the champagne is poured right into the top, the Cup portion, of the large trophy. Players first, then team officials, and then anyone else could drink from it. I had never seen the Caboose more alive as they passed the Cup among them, spilling, spurting, and swilling the bubbly contents. I was invited to drink and though it was impossible to avoid spilling, I wasn't about to turn down the opportunity. I love champagne, the dry sweet taste and effervescence, always went down easy and tonight was no exception. Predictably, and with a little help from a few of the players, the front of my blouse got absolutely soaked. Fortunately, I had worn a very sexy, three-quarter, lace bra. It was impossible to not show it off along with the ample cleavage of my breasts. Of course, I scolded the players, but secretly was not unhappy about it at all.

When I turned around from my drink from the Cup I noticed Patrick watching me…intently. 'Perhaps he remembers our last meeting' I thought. The atmosphere in the room and the effect of the champagne were subduing my inhibitions. I kept looking at Patrick, as he talked to friends, signed the odd autograph. Every so often he would look in my direction, those incredible icy blue eyes staring at me. I felt like he was undressing me, my nipples grew hard and my breath short as I gazed back at him. He was so cool, so confident, so sexy. I returned his stare and our eyes locked for what seemed to be an eternity. In reality, it was just a few moments, but long enough to convince me to act. I wouldn't miss my chance with Patrick this time.

Quietly I slipped to the side of The Caboose and made my way out the side entrance. The restaurant backed onto an old rail spur line and the parking area was not well lit; however, it was a clear night and a half moon bathed the area in a wan glow. I approached a small line of limousines. Most were in darkness, their drivers in the restaurant. But some of the drivers never leave their vehicles. I approached the very last one, knowing it would likely be Patrick's. The driver, a young man, in his mid-twenties, was still in his seat, reading Maxim, a softer and arguably more hip men's magazine than Playboy or Penthouse.

"Excuse me, is this Mr. Roy's limo?" I inquired. I leaned toward the window and noticed him move the magazine down to cover a sizable bulge in his crotch.

"Yes ma'am," the driver said politely with a slight southern drawl.

"Why aren't you in the restaurant…partying?"

"Don't drink ma'am and not much of hockey fan I guess. Where I come from the only ice we see is out of a machine." We both laughed.

"I'm Georgie, I work at the restaurant, what's your name?"

"Jay, ma'am."

"Well Jay, I have a favor to ask you." I asked him to move the limousine closer to the area beside the old railway spur, where it would be away from the others, then find me in The Caboose and give me the keys.

"I'm sorry ma'am, can't do that. My boss would fire me if he found out."

"Jay, I'm not going to steal your limousine, I just want to get into it…and have a little privacy. No one is going to find out." Jay was shaking his head when I boldly reached in and lifted the magazine from his lap. His arousal was still very apparent. "What if I help you relieve that…I'm sure the Maxim girls won't mind." I said teasingly.

I was gambling on Jay being horny. His eyes were already fixed on my breasts as I leaned forward. He thought for a moment. "So long as you promise not to leave the parking area."

"I promise Jay, now…unzip for me," I instructed as I opened the limo door and knelt on the edge of the plush carpeting. Jay quickly released his belt and loosened his pants, lowering them to mid thigh. His cock was almost fully erect and was a handsome piece of manhood with a bulbous head fully engorged from his stroking. I gasped when I saw it, he easily had the largest cock I had ever seen. A groan escaped his lips as I first tongued the head, flicking lightly on the sensitive underside. Astonishingly he got harder and longer. I knew I couldn't take him all but could certainly give him cheater's head.

I grasped the base of his cock and let my hand ride up and down the shaft as I sucked on the head. The latter fully filled one side of my cheek as I swirled my tongue around it. He was already leaking precum and not all that far from coming. He put his hand gently on the back of my head, as if concerned I would suddenly withdraw. I worked him skillfully picking up pace as his breathing indicated he was getting close. Suddenly, I felt his body jerk and then a series of spasms projecting thick waves of hot cum into my mouth. He grunted, and involuntarily pulled the head of his cock out of my mouth just in time for the last load of cum to spill over my lips and chin. He sighed deeply and looked at me. I must have been quite a sight, cum smeared around my mouth and dripping from my chin. Recovering quickly, he handed me a box of tissues.

"I'll move the limo for you now ma'am…and ma'am, that was great!" Jay said softly, smiling.

"Call me Georgie, Jay…and Jay, with what you've been blessed with, you can do a lot better than driving a limousine." I said smiling back at him.

"Yes ma…Georgie!" he replied gratefully. Jay was a sweet young man.

I cleaned up as best I could and went back to The Caboose. I knew Jay would be a few minutes so I visited the ladies room to tidy up my make up. He showed up as planned and I had the limo keys secured. I told Jay to wait in the restaurant and I would be back later with the keys and to pick up his bill.

The party was going strong. I was amazed that these players, having fought grueling series after series over the past two and half months, would have anything left to party. Patrick was holding court with a group of the media when he noticed me. I had deliberately avoided going directly to him, I wanted him to approach me. After a few attentive glances Patrick stood up, shook hands with the group, and excused himself from their company. Nonchalantly he started heading in my direction. A shot of adrenaline coursed through me. 'This is it,' I thought.

"Georgie, you look beautiful tonight," Patrick said as he approached.

"Merci, monsieur…for noticing," I answered coyly. Patrick leaned over and kissed me, gently on the lips, and gave me a hug, pulling me into his body. Anywhere else it would have been noticed as out of place, but the party was in full swing.

"This party is fantastic…how did you have time to prepare?" He asked.

"I always take care of my favorite team," I smiled at him, pausing for effect. "But I have something special planned for my favorite player."

"Georgie, am I your favorite?" His eyes brightened, I looked at him intently.

"Patrick, you know you are…" I answered the question with my eyes. He smiled, his eyes met mine and locked, I leaned forward to him, whispering in his ear. Patrick moved back slightly when he heard me, and I think he blushed, although it was difficult to tell in the subdued light of the Caboose.

He stared at me and said finally, "really?" I nodded, smiling at him.

"Meet me outside the side door, five minutes," I said quickly. Then, after giving him the most seductive look I could, I disappeared into the crowd. I went into the ladies room for a moment to lose my panties; they would only get in the way. As I worked my way through the crowd a group of the players called to me. 'Oh shit' I thought, 'bad timing guys'. "Not now guys…taking care of business," I shouted over the noise. "I'll see you later." I waved as I passed them, not stopping to talk, and continued toward the door.

I paused as soon as I got out to the parking lot, catching my breath. My heart was pumping a mile a minute. Now, if only Patrick shows up, I wasn't entirely sure he would. I lingered in the shadows for a few minutes, it seemed like an eternity. Then finally, the silhouette of a man appeared out of the side entrance, glancing in both directions. I stepped toward him.

"Georgie?" Patrick's voice was a whisper.

"Yes, Patrick, follow me," I instructed confidently. If I was to have my fun with Patrick it was going to be on my terms, not necessarily his. I grasped his arm and pulled him along, out across the shadowy parking area to the lone limousine, sitting adjacent to the railway spur. We moved in silence, only the gravel underneath making a crunching sound as we padded across it. Reaching the limousine, I unlocked the side door, opened it, and motioned to Patrick to get in.