The Zamboni had just finished its last pass when the man in the John Carlson jersey checked his phone again—third time in ten minutes. He had the distracted air of someone who didn’t realize he was sitting next to a minor celebrity. Vera Dijkmans crossed her legs slowly, the denim of her jeans pulling taut against her thigh. She didn’t look at him. Not yet.
Lucky Ass hovered a few seats behind her, phone angled just right to capture the way the arena lights caught the curve of her ass through the fabric. His tongue darted out to wet his lips unconsciously. The game hadn’t even started, and he was already imagining the salt-sweet tang of her skin, the way her breath would hitch if he dragged his teeth over that perfect, hidden dip at the base of her spine.
Vera shifted again, this time letting her knee brush deliberately against Carlson Jersey’s thigh. The man startled, finally glancing up—first at her face, then, predictably, lower. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he took in the way her top clung. “You’re, uh, a Kings fan?” he managed, voice cracking like a rookie’s first shift.
Behind them, Lucky Ass zoomed in as Vera leaned forward, elbows on knees, the strain of denim at its limit. The tear came with a sound like a puck hitting mesh—a whisper of fabric giving way just above the waistband. Vera gasped, but it wasn’t surprise. It was performance. The rip exposed a crescent of skin, the shadow of her cleft teasing like an unmarked penalty box. Lucky Ass’s phone trembled. He could already taste the heat of her.
Carlson Jersey’s knuckles whitened around his beer. “Your, uh—” He gestured vaguely at her back, then swallowed hard. Vera arched an eyebrow, slow and practiced. “Something wrong?” she asked, though she knew. She’d picked these jeans for a reason. The man stammered, but his gaze kept flicking down, drawn like a magnet to the frayed edge of denim, the promise beneath. The Jumbotron flashed overhead, but neither of them noticed the replay.
Lucky Ass edged closer, his breath ragged against his phone mic. The tear wasn’t large—not yet—just enough to frame the swell of her left cheek like a museum exhibit. He could see the faintest sheen of sweat where fabric met skin, the way her thong strap bit just slightly into the flesh. His free hand dug into his own thigh, nails leaving crescents. If he leaned forward another inch, he could—
Vera exhaled sharply through her nose, shifting her weight to arch her back. The rip groaned, stitches surrendering another quarter-inch. Carlson Jersey’s beer sloshed onto his lap, but he didn’t react. His pupils were blown wide, tracking the slow reveal of skin like a power play unfolding in slow motion. “Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. Vera’s smirk was a blade. She rotated her shoulders, letting the motion ripple down to her hips. The sound of stretching denim was obscenely loud in their little pocket of the stands.
Lucky Ass wasn’t filming anymore. His phone dangled from limp fingers, the screen dark. Saliva pooled under his tongue as he stared at the precise point where Vera’s thong vanished between her cheeks. The tear had crept downward, revealing the faintest suggestion of pink—just a hint, like the first stripe of dawn. His jeans strained against his erection. He could smell her now—vanilla body wash undercut with something muskier, something that made his molars ache.
Carlson Jersey’s beer can crumpled in his grip. “You should—” he started, then choked when Vera turned fully toward him, the movement peeling the denim wider. His nostrils flared. Up close, she could see the pulse hammering in his throat, the way his knuckles dug into his own thighs like he was holding himself back. She wet her lips deliberately. “Should what?” The arena noise faded to a dull roar, muffled by the blood rushing in their ears.
Behind her, Lucky Ass made a sound like a dying animal. His fingers twitched toward the tear, hovering an inch from her skin—close enough to feel the heat radiating off her. Vera didn’t look back, but she pressed her hips forward just slightly, the denim gaping further. Lucky Ass’s breath hitched. The tip of his tongue glistened, darting out to trace the air where her sweat had begun to bead along the exposed curve.
Carlson Jersey’s knee jittered against hers, his grip on the armrest tightening until the plastic creaked. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. The Jumbotron flashed again, catching the sweat at his temple. Vera tilted her head, letting her hair slip off one shoulder. “You like hockey, huh?” she murmured, dragging a fingernail down his forearm. His throat worked soundlessly.
Lucky Ass’s fingers finally made contact—not with skin, but with the frayed edge of denim. He hooked a thumb into the tear, the fabric splitting another half-inch with a sound like Velcro parting. Vera’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she rolled her hips back, pressing the exposed curve of her ass against his knuckles. Lucky Ass moaned openly, his other hand fumbling to unzip his jeans.
Carlson Jersey’s eyes flicked between them, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in rough seas. Vera traced the rim of his ear with her tongue, her voice a whisper against the shell. “Want to know a secret?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve never licked a Stanley Cup.” Her hand slid down his thigh, nails digging into the fabric of his jeans. “But I’d suck the chrome off a Capitals fan’s cock.”
The man shuddered, his grip on the armrest going slack. Lucky Ass seized the moment, his fingers finally breaching the tear in Vera’s jeans, the pad of his thumb dragging wet along the cleft of her ass. Vera arched into the contact, her throaty laugh drowned out by the sudden roar of the crowd as the Kings scored. The Jumbotron exploded with light, but Carlson Jersey’s gaze was locked on Vera’s mouth, her lips parted just enough to show the tip of her tongue.
Her hand found his zipper, tugging it down with practiced ease. The man’s breath came in ragged bursts, his hips lifting instinctively. Beneath the jersey, his cock strained against his boxers, the outline unmistakable. Vera didn’t hesitate—she palmed him through the fabric, her fingers curling around the heat of him. “Fucking—” he choked, his head tipping back against the seat. Lucky Ass groaned behind her, his fingers working deeper, the denim splitting further with every shift of her hips.
The crowd roared again, oblivious. Lucky Ass’s thumb found the damp silk of her thong, pressing insistently against the seam. Vera rocked back against his hand, her breath hitching as the fabric slid aside, exposing her fully to the humid arena air. Carlson Jersey’s hand clamped over hers, forcing her grip tighter around his cock. His teeth sank into his lower lip, his hips jerking under her touch. “You’re not—” he gasped, “you’re not really gonna—”
Vera’s laugh was molten. She dropped to her knees between his legs, the torn denim straining audibly as she spread her thighs wider. The scent of her—warm musk and arousal—hit Carlson Jersey like a slap. His fingers tangled in her hair, trembling. Lucky Ass leaned over her shoulder, his tongue darting out to trace the shell of her ear before trailing down her neck. “Taste her,” he rasped, his free hand gripping Carlson Jersey’s wrist. “She wants it.”
The man’s cock twitched against Vera’s cheek, the damp spot on his boxers growing. She nuzzled him through the fabric, inhaling sharply—sweat, cheap beer, the faint tang of pre-come. Her tongue flicked out, tracing the outline of him through cotton. Carlson Jersey’s hips jerked. “Fuck, fuck—” His thighs tensed, knees clamping around her shoulders as if he could trap her there forever.
Behind her, Lucky Ass’s fingers dug into the meat of her ass, spreading her wider. The rip in her jeans gave another inch, fabric surrendering to reveal the full curve of her right cheek. His thumb circled her asshole, pressing just enough to make Vera whimper against Carlson Jersey’s bulge. The crowd erupted—another goal—but the sound was distant, drowned by the wet click of Lucky Ass’s tongue against his teeth.
Vera didn’t hesitate. She yanked Carlson Jersey’s boxers down with one sharp tug, his cock springing free, hot and thick against her chin. The scent of him—sweat and salt and desperation—flooded her senses. She opened her mouth, letting the tip drag across her lips before taking him in deep, her throat fluttering around him. Carlson Jersey’s groan was ragged, his hips bucking forward instinctively. His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to sting.
Lucky Ass didn’t waste the moment. His tongue replaced his thumb, laving over Vera’s exposed hole with a hunger that bordered on violent. She gasped around Carlson Jersey’s cock, the vibration drawing another broken curse from him. The arena lights flickered overhead, casting their tableau in stark relief—Vera’s cheeks hollowed around his length, Lucky Ass’s face buried between her cheeks, his tongue working in tight, filthy circles. The crowd’s cheers blurred into white noise.