Authors note: This is a cheating erotic fantasy read at your own discretion
Scott woke to the soft glow of morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their Manhattan apartment, the city skyline still hazy with early winter fog. Kip was already up, humming quietly in the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon drifting through the open space. It was the morning after a hard-fought win against Pittsburgh—Scott’s Admirals had pulled off a 4-2 victory, with Scott netting two goals himself—and the ache in his muscles felt good, earned.
He padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, wrapping his arms around Kip from behind as his boyfriend flipped pancakes. Kip leaned back into him, warm and solid, his dark hair tousled from sleep.
“Morning, Captain,” Kip murmured, tilting his head for a kiss. Scott obliged, slow and lingering, tasting toothpaste and the faint sweetness of orange juice on Kip’s lips.
“Morning,” Scott replied, his voice still rough. He rested his chin on Kip’s shoulder, watching the batter bubble in the pan. These moments—the quiet domesticity—were what grounded him amid the chaos of the season.
They ate at the island counter, knees brushing under the stools. Kip’s eyes were bright, excited in that earnest way that always made Scott’s chest tighten.
“So,” Kip said casually, spearing a piece of pancake, “I’ve been thinking about what you said last month. About waiting until the off-season.”
Scott’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He knew what was coming.
Kip set his fork down, reaching across to take Scott’s hand. “I get it—the schedule’s insane, especially with the new guys settling in. But Scott... I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. What if we just... did it? Quietly. City Hall. No big deal.”
His eyes shone with that hopeful, open vulnerability that Scott adored. Kip wasn’t pushing; he never did. But the question hung there, gentle and persistent.
Scott squeezed his hand, forcing a smile. “I love you too. More than anything.” That part was easy—true. “It’s just... the season’s ramping up. Ilya’s trade is still fresh; the team’s chemistry is finally clicking. And the media... you know how they are.”
Kip’s smile faltered for a split second, a flicker of hurt that he quickly masked with understanding. “Yeah, of course. No rush. Whenever you’re ready.”
But Scott could see it—the subtle dimming, the way Kip busied himself clearing plates to hide it. Internally, Scott’s mind churned. It wasn’t just the season. Deep down, after years of hiding his sexuality before coming out, the idea of forever felt... confining. He’d spent so long suppressing urges, denying himself casual encounters, that now, openly gay and idolized, the attention felt intoxicating. Dangerous.
They made love in the bedroom afterward, sunlight striping the sheets. Kip was tender, as always—kissing every scar on Scott’s body, whispering how proud he was, how lucky. Scott took his time, sliding into Kip slowly, their bodies moving in perfect sync. It was loving, intimate, everything a committed relationship should be.
As Kip came undone beneath him, gasping Scott’s name, Scott buried his face in Kip’s neck and thrust deeper, chasing his own release. It was good—great, even. But even as pleasure built, a traitorous thought whispered: Is this enough forever?
Later that night, after another Admirals win—this one a shutout—the team spilled out of the arena into the crisp December air. Fans swarmed the barricades, screaming Scott’s name. He signed jerseys, posed for selfies, the adrenaline still buzzing.
That’s when he noticed them: a cluster of young guys, early twenties, slim and eager, dressed in tight jeans and Admirals hoodies. Twinks, clearly—fans who’d made the pilgrimage. One in particular caught his eye: Jamie, lithe with piercing blue eyes and a shy but bold smile. He pressed forward, slipping a napkin into Scott’s hand as security herded the players toward the bus.
“Amazing game, Captain,” Jamie whispered, voice low and teasing. “You were so... commanding out there.” His fingers brushed Scott’s deliberately. The napkin had a phone number scrawled on it, with “Call me anytime” underneath.
Scott’s dick twitched involuntarily, heat flooding him. He hadn’t felt that raw pull in years—not since before Kip. He pocketed the napkin quickly, guilt twisting in his gut, but the thrill lingered.
In the locker room, the team was rowdy—high-fives, trash talk. Ilya Rozanov, the recent trade acquisition from Boston, lounged against his stall, towel low on his hips, smirking as always. The Russian was a force on the ice: lethal shot, cocky grin, those sharp green eyes that seemed to see everything.
“Great assists tonight, Hunter,” Ilya drawled in his accented English, clapping Scott on the back. His hand lingered a beat too long on Scott’s bare shoulder.
“You too, Rozanov.”
Ilya leaned in closer during the banter, voice dropping. “You see those boys outside? Throwing themselves at you.”
Scott stiffened. “Fans.”
Ilya chuckled, low and knowing. “More than fans. Pretty ones.” He glanced around, ensuring privacy. “I have my own... arrangements. Even with Hollander waiting in Montreal.”
Scott’s eyes widened. Everyone knew Ilya was with Shane Hollander—their rivalry was legendary, but off-ice, they’d gone public as a couple last year. “You’re... cheating on him?”
“Why fight it?” Ilya shrugged, unrepentant. “We’re animals, Hunter. Kings on ice, kings in bed. Hollander doesn’t need to know every detail.”
The words hit Scott like a body check. Charged silence stretched between them, Ilya’s hand still on his shoulder, thumb brushing skin.
Scott pulled away, muttering about needing a shower, but the seed was planted.
The team hit a bar downtown—dim lights, thumping music, players letting loose. Scott nursed a beer, Kip’s goodnight text lighting up his phone: Proud of you tonight. Can’t wait for you to come home. Love you forever. ❤️
Guilt gnawed, but when Ilya sidled up, whispering about a “private celebration,” Scott followed.
Ilya led him to a VIP room upstairs, the door clicking shut behind them with a finality that made Scott’s pulse spike. The space was dimly lit—red leather couches, low tables scattered with empty glasses, a faint bass thump from the bar below vibrating through the floor. Jamie was already there, perched on the edge of a couch, legs crossed, those piercing blue eyes lighting up when he saw Scott. Beside him sat Tyler—blond, slim, a little nervous but clearly eager, chewing his lower lip as he took in the two NHL players filling the doorway.
“Surprise” Ilya purred, voice thick with that Russian rasp, pouring four shots of whiskey like he owned the place. His green eyes glittered as he handed one to Scott, fingers deliberately brushing his. “Thought my captain needed something… tighter than the usual locker-room talk.”
Scott’s throat went tight. He should walk out right now. Kip was probably still awake, curled on the couch in Scott’s old Admirals tee, waiting for a goodnight call. Instead Scott threw back the shot, the burn sliding straight to his cock.
Jamie stood first, slow and deliberate, crossing the room until he was close enough for Scott to feel the heat coming off him. “You were fucking unreal tonight,” Jamie whispered, palms sliding up Scott’s chest. “Always wondered what it’d feel like to have the great Scott Hunter ruin me.”
Tyler hovered, flushed, until Ilya crooked two fingers. “Idi syuda, malysh,” Ilya commanded, voice dropping an octave. Tyler stumbled forward like he was on a leash. Ilya caught him by the hips, yanked him in hard, mouth already on his throat, sucking a mark that would last days. “Takoy neterpelivyy… you want Rozanov’s cock already, da?”
“Yes—please—” Tyler’s voice cracked.
Ilya laughed, low and filthy. “We’ll see how much you can take.” He spun Tyler around, bent him over the arm of the couch, and peeled his jeans down in one rough tug. Tyler’s ass was pale, smooth, already clenching in anticipation. Ilya spat into his palm, slicked his fingers, and pushed two straight in without warning.
Tyler cried out, back arching. “Fuck—!”
“Shh, khoroshiy malchik,” Ilya soothed mockingly, crooking his fingers deep, finding that spot that made Tyler’s knees buckle. “Open up for me. Show Captain Hunter how pretty you look when you’re desperate.”
Scott couldn’t move. His cock was straining against his zipper, aching. He felt Jamie’s hands there, undoing his belt, tugging everything down just enough to free him. Cool air hit hot skin, then Jamie’s mouth—wet, eager, taking him deep on the first try.
Scott groaned, fingers tightening in Jamie’s hair. Across the room Ilya was still working Tyler open, adding a third finger, twisting and scissoring while murmuring Russian filth. “Smotri, … look how he stretches for me. Such a greedy little hole.”
Tyler was babbling now, pushing back shamelessly. “Please, Ilya—need it—need you—”
Ilya pulled his fingers free with a wet sound, rolled on a condom, slicked himself generously. He lined up and sank in with one brutal thrust, bottoming out. Tyler shouted, fingers clawing at the leather.
“Da, vot tak,” Ilya growled, hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm right from the start. “Beri moy chlen, malysh. Take every inch like you were born for it.”
The room filled with the slap of skin, Tyler’s broken moans, Jamie’s wet sucking sounds around Scott’s cock. Scott’s phone buzzed again in his pocket—once, twice, three times. Kip. Sweet, trusting Kip, probably sending another heart emoji, another miss you. The guilt stabbed deep, but it only made Scott’s hips jerk harder into Jamie’s throat.
Ilya looked over, sweat already gleaming on his throat, and grinned like a devil. “Look at you, Hunter. Finally letting that big dick do the thinking.” He reached across the space between the couches, gripped Scott’s shoulder hard, pulled him into a messy, biting kiss—teeth clashing, tongues sliding. “Fuck his face,” Ilya muttered against Scott’s lips. “Use him. He wants it rough.”
Scott broke the kiss with a ragged breath and did exactly that—held Jamie’s head still and fucked his mouth in deep, steady strokes. Jamie moaned around him, eyes watering, spit dripping down his chin, but he took it beautifully.
Ilya’s voice rolled over them like thunder. “Now the ass, Hunter. This one’s been dreaming about you.” He gave Tyler’s hip a sharp slap that made the boy yelp. “Tell him, malysh. Tell Captain how bad you want him inside.”
Jamie pulled off Scott’s cock with a gasp, lips swollen and red. He scrambled up, bent himself over the couch right beside Tyler—two perfect asses presented side by side, both already slick and ready. “Please,” Jamie begged, voice hoarse. “Ruin me, Captain. Want to feel you tomorrow when I sit down.”
Scott’s control shattered. He rolled on a condom, lined up behind Jamie, and drove in to the hilt in one thrust. Jamie’s back bowed, a strangled cry tearing out of him as Scott filled him completely.
“Fuck yes—!”
Scott set a brutal pace immediately, hips slamming forward, hands gripping narrow hips hard enough to bruise. Every thrust drove Jamie forward until his cheek pressed against the cushion next to Tyler’s. The two of them were moaning in unison now, wrecked and loving it.
Ilya leaned over Tyler’s back, voice dripping sex. “Look at them, Hunter. Two pretty boys taking NHL cock like champions.” He sped up, pounding Tyler so hard the couch creaked. “Krasivo… so fucking beautiful. You’re made for this, da? Both of you.”
He reached out again, this time sliding a hand down Scott’s sweat-damp back, fingers digging in. “Harder,” Ilya urged, eyes blazing. “Make him scream your name. Show him who owns that hole tonight.”
Scott obeyed, angling his hips to hit Jamie’s prostate on every stroke. Jamie shattered first—came untouched with a broken sob of “Scott—fuck—Captain—”, body clenching rhythmically around Scott’s cock. The pressure dragged Scott over the edge; he buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, pulsing hard inside the condom.
Seconds later Ilya followed, slamming in one last time and grinding deep. “Beri vsyo, malysh—take it all—” he snarled in Russian, hips jerking as he emptied himself.
The room went quiet except for heavy breathing and the distant thump of music. Scott pulled out slowly, legs shaking. Jamie collapsed sideways with a dazed, satisfied smile. Tyler stayed draped over the arm, trembling.
Ilya disposed of the condom, zipped up, then poured three more shots like nothing had happened. He handed one to Scott, clinking glasses. “Not bad for your first taste, Hunter,” he said, voice still rough with satisfaction.
Jamie crawled over on shaky knees, pressed a lazy kiss to Scott’s bare thigh. “Anytime,” he whispered again. “Seriously. Call me.”
Tyler echoed it with a blissed-out nod.
Scott downed the shot, the whiskey doing nothing to quiet the roar in his head. His phone had gone silent now—Kip probably asleep, trusting him, loving him. And Scott had just spent the last twenty minutes balls-deep in a stranger while another NHL star egged him on in Russian.
Ilya clapped him on the back, smirking wide. “We do this again soon, da? Keeps the blood hot.” His hand lingered, thumb brushing the nape of Scott’s neck. “You were born to fuck like that, Hunter. Don’t waste it on waiting.”
Scott didn’t answer. He tucked himself away, adjusted his clothes, every movement mechanical. But the afterglow still burned under his skin—bright, addictive, impossible to ignore.
In the hallway outside, heading to the private bathroom to clean up, he nearly ran straight into Alexei Petrov. The rookie leaned against the wall, towel slung low, dark eyes fixed on Scott’s flushed face, the faint red marks on his neck, the unmistakable scent of sex clinging to him.
“Long night, Captain?” Alexei asked softly, gaze hungry.
Scott swallowed, heart hammering. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Something like that.”
Alexei’s lips curved—just slightly—and he didn’t step aside right away, letting the charged silence stretch.
Scott brushed past him, already knowing, deep down, that Ilya was right.
This wouldn’t be the last time.
Authors Note: Horny AI nonsense after watching Heated Rivalry and reading deranged comments from cuck community, if you hate or maybe even like it, comment and tell me all about it.
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