Sweet Charity

I recently took my girlfriend to a charity event hosted by professional hockey players. To be honest up front, I am not sure yet if I was more excited about the prospect of being surrounded by these mysterious men without their protective clothing, or if I was honing in on the possibility of closing the deal on my tall, auburn-haired girlfriend.

Becky, you see, has been flirting with me incessantly for the past three months. I knew she was interested, but I was not quite sure if she was bi-sexual or just curious. She'd been going to enough hockey games and sitting between me and the penalty box to know just how I felt about this sport. She also caught me masturbating when Derek Tely took a 4-minute misconduct in the box beside me. Unfortunately, Derek didn't catch me. The man was oblivious. A story for another time.

Anyway, Becky and I were sharing a suite at the posh ocean hotel, and we pulled out all the stops to make sure our night would be memorable. Our donation allowed us to participate in the closed event as a couple - after all, no one said it had to be a male/female couple.

Becky looked stunning in her tight black dress, her hair pulled up into a tight clip, just a few strands hanging down. In her heels she towered over me, and actually looked more menacing than I felt.

We got ready, together, in the room before the event was to start in one of the lower level ballrooms. We were already drinking (ok, I admit, I was trying to get her drunk). Finlandia, actually, which ended up not agreeing with me at all. I'm a Stoli girl at heart.

I wore a more simple, elegant dress, not quite as revealing but enough on the low cut side to attract attention.

In the hotel, on the way down to the ballroom just shy of the start of the event, we were alone, giggling slightly, our fingers touching, almost holding hands. She has this great smile, Becky, the kind that makes you wonder if she is married to a dentist.

The elevator took a pit stop, much to our dismay (we were in a hurry) on the twelfth floor. In walked this stunning creature, a man that I dare say lit up the elevator more than even Becky.

We immediately stopped giggling and looked at him. He gave us a courtesy smile, more of a cheerful little smirk, and turned around so his back was to us as the elevator doors closed.

Immediately I leaned over to her and said, "Maybe we find out where HE is going instead of doing the hockey thing."

She snickered and dug her fingers into my hand. He turned his head slightly, almost looking over his shoulder, but not.

That's when I saw the bruise that was just shy of his jawline.

**

I guess I was a little embarrassed. How was I supposed to recognize him, though? Certainly I had been to over fifteen games in the last few months, but unless a man has a number and a name plastered on his back, I'm hopeless.

The bruise was what gave it away, because our man Brady was a fighter. I'd watched with glee about a half dozen times that Brady was shoved into the box, sometimes I'd even heard the insults he chose to hurl at the refs.

Brady was passionate and angry and pissed off most of the time, he had a permanent scowl on his face when he was on the ice, and he was dangerous.

He sauntered past us and into the ballroom of the hotel, then Becky and I stayed back to strategize. "I should have brought flash cards," I whispered to her. "Because I have no idea who any of these people are."

It was a formal affair, so the men who brought dates were as equally dressed up as the hockey players that had donated their time in the name of charity. Certainly, I had not been prepared for the number of groupies or autograph seekers.

In fact, I was a bit surprised they allowed that sort of thing. In almost everyone's hands I saw a hockey stick, a puck, a neck brace (go figure), a game program. All scribbled on in black signature ink, all immediately being shoved in front of the next spied victim.

And then, there was the flashing.

No, I'm not talking about the kind of flashing I usually refer to in hockey (that is, the desire to press my naked body up against the glass when someone like Brady is pinned from behind by an opponent, stuck and wriggling to get free right in front of my eyes, his face down with a grimace as he kicks and fidgets to get the puck out from under him because some goon has his arm and stick neutralized above his head -- Hey, at least it would give him something to look at while getting the hell pounded out of him from behind).

The flashing, unfortunately, was the flashing of cameras. Again, a surprise to me. For the amount of money people paid to attend this event, I thought the mood would be very low key, very intimate, and very non-fanatical. Certainly there'd be a few weirdos like me who have a penalty box fetish lurking around, but not a full line of people, even middle aged, having hockey trading cards signed.

Becky and I got our drinks at the bar, tried to sort out who was who, and commented that everyone seemed to have really nice teeth. We figured it out, at that point. The guys with the great teeth are the hockey players. Of course.

By the time we had our drinks in hand (back to the Stoli for me, fortunately), the crowd had indeed settled in. Most of the attention was focussed on the team's two star players, which left us a good handful of men to torment.

Mind you, I didn't go to that thing with any intent of doing anything to anyone (well, except Becky, but she doesn't count). I went there for one thing.

Conversation.

**

I'll be honest - Ever since the Bryan in the Box story which set this all off, I have been fascinated with the mindframe of these hockey players. What kinds of things do they think about? Are they that intense in normal conversation? Are they generally educated, or are they stereotypical athletes? And what's the deal with the teeth?

Brady sauntered past Becky and I again, and this time, I just figured he'd be as good a victim as any to start with. He actually looked bored. No one was talking to him, and he was striking up conversation with the hired help.

I took Becky by the hand and we sifted through a little mini mob that had gathered around one of the players who looked like he was ready to shoot himself. I saw a distinct line of people, all hanging onto gear to be signed that I was sure was just hours away from being on EBAY. And then picture after picture after picture - he must have felt like Santa Claus, only he was the one ready to cry, not the kids forced to sit on his lap.

(No, no one was sitting on his lap. Although I saw a few girls that looked like they wanted to).

Becky and I found our way to Brady, and he turned to me, with a black sharpie in his hand (for you non-Americans, a sharpie is a permanent pen that you can actually get high off of if you smell it), fingers ready to grab whatever it was we were going to ask him to sign.

When he saw we had nothing in our hands, he opened up his arms, thinking we were going to ask him for a picture. One on each side. Predictable.

Neither of us moved.

"I don't want an autograph," I said simply. "I don't want a picture," I added. "I just want to know about the penalty box."

**

Granted, his response was not what I had hoped for. Not in a million years.

"You wanna know about the what?" he asked, leaning over to hear me. It was quite loud in the room. I was a little mortified - what if he didn't speak English? Did I pick a fighter, but one from Russia who didn't know any English? I was scrambling in my head, trying to pull up my hockey trivia, trying to remember, who was that young kid that didn't speak any English? Was this HIM?

Becky stepped in for the save. "Penalty Box," she said flatly. Staring right at him, holding her glass confidently. She stared right through him, actually. I am sure he felt interrogated. Neither of us were laughing or smiling about it, we had just asked the question and were waiting for the answer.

Right then, a spotty 20something kid shoved a program under Brady's nose. The hockey player just looked at us as he spun the black pen around in big, dramatic circles on the glossy surface of the paper. Ironically, I noticed that he signed right over the two existing signatures of his teammates. And he took up half of the page. If that didn't say anything about his personality, I don't know what did.

"The penalty box?" he confirmed as the kid went away (I was worried the kid might start asking him about what he thought his chances were of getting into the playoffs, god forbid).

Becky and I stood firm, watching him for an answer. He looked pretty serious as he put the cap back on the sharpie, his eyes switching back and forth on both of us, as if waiting for one of us to say "Just kidding".

Finally I couldn't take it anymore. "Is it classified? You can't talk about it?"

Brady laughed. He threw his head back just a little, was shuffling his feet back and forth (lots of energy). I noted to myself that he seemed extremely pleasant. Almost too calm. Not the Brady I was used to seeing beat the shit out of people.

"It's not classified," he said. "What is it that you wanted to know?"

Oh, the horror. He threw the damn question right back at me. I was almost wishing the spotty kid would come back and ask about the playoffs; at least I'd have a good shot at seeing Brady lose his temper and hurl the twerp over the appetizer table (if his temper was anything like it was on the ice).

"She wants to know what it feels like to be trapped inside of there," Becky volunteered.

I was mortified. I grabbed her hand and dug my nails into her palm, non verbally telling her that I felt maybe, perhaps, she was coming on a little too strong with my whole penalty box infatuation.

Brady raised his eyebrows and turned his attention to me. "You want to know about that?"

Again, hurling the question back at me. It occurred to me, right then, that he was shy and intimidated. Two re-directed questions in a row. The man was actually shy. He was a shy little boy underneath it all, and he was swaying a little on both feet, using a distracting smile to keep us at bay. I assumed he'd mastered that skill. Just smile, smile, smile and the world will go away.

It was just a second or two, but I could tell he was hoping someone would come up and ask him to sign something, rather than be the center of attention of two young women (granted, we still had a few years on him, the young pup).

He laughed, and said, as he signed something for someone (I think he actually stopped the older woman as she went by, as if to make sure she didn't forget him on her hockey stick that would be on Ebay in the morning), "It's not the funnest place."

Neither of us said anything. I wanted more of an answer than that. I wasn't going to leave until I got one. I was also not aware that I was still holding Becky's hand. So at that point, we probably looked like lesbians, because we were well past the age of young girls that held hands because they were giggling and being coy.

"I'm usually upset about being there, and screaming at whoever put me there," he added, looking at me as the old woman made her way off, thanking him by name but using the wrong name. ("Thanks Doug.")

I nodded. I nodded at Brady because indeed, I had heard him scream insults at people from inside the box. He definitely was a yeller. I wondered if that meant he was loud in bed.

"Does that answer your question?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at me, then looking at Becky. I squeezed her hand when she went to speak, making sure she knew to keep a lid on it.

"Yes," I said. "It does. Thank you for your time," I nodded.

"Sure, no problem," he said, smiling politely, then turning to pose for a picture with twins.

I led Becky away from the golden boy, whispering, "Let's go back to the room for a minute."

**

We escaped the party for a short while, mostly because I wanted to deal with my hair and makeup in the privacy of our suite, not in a public restroom. I also wanted to chastise Becky for announcing to Brady that I was a kinky weirdo, essentially.

"I think he liked it," Becky giggled as we entered the room. I went into the bathroom immediately, grumbling about how my hair was already falling down out of its plastic clip. I let it all down and tried to re-adjust it, but it was useless.

I put a little water in it, touching it up with my fingers, listening to Becky pacing around slowly in the main part of our suite, explaining to me how many times she witnessed some of those players being propositioned just in the short time we were out there.

Then I turned around to dry my hands on the towel that was on the rack of the shower door on the outside.

And I saw it.

**

"Becky, get in here," I said urgently, frozen in my spot. I could not believe I didn't notice it before.

She peered inside, looking at what I was looking at, probably wondering if there was a dead body in the shower or something based on the look on my face.

"It's a shower," she said matter-of-factly.

"It's a penalty box," I corrected her.

She burst out laughing, put both hands to her mouth, and stared at it. "You are crazy, Akasha."

But, I am not exaggerating. This shower was huge - I guess because we were in a suite. The doors were all glass, so it was completely see-through, just like the penalty box. And it had a place to sit on the inside, facing out, right in the middle. It had two shower heads, one on each side (a shower for two? I guess we had the honey moon suite!).

"It's perfect!" I hissed, grabbing her hand.

Of course, my wheels were turning like mad.

He must go in the box.

Brady must go into the box.

**

From that point on, I was a woman with a mission.

Becky and I had a few more drinks, and now and then I would spy Brady across the room. I did catch him looking our way two times. I knew he was curious. I think Becky and I were the only two people in that whole place who did not have cameras and did not want anything signed.

About a dozen people were milling around Brady at one point (what was it, a church group? They were all teenagers), chattering to him, and that's when I saw him really staring at us and that's when I made my move.

A double move, I should say. I made a move on Becky, and I made sure Brady saw.

Her lips were soft. She was startled that I suddenly had leaned in to kiss her, and I knew it had to be quick. Public displays of affection, especially between two women, would surely be frowned upon. (Although, based on the number of men there, they could have charged admission to see it, and raised even more money for charity).

When we parted lips I glanced over, and sure enough he was watching. He waved a warning finger at us, actually, and shook his head, then went back to signing things.

At that point, I knew it was just a matter of time before he took a double minor in our hotel room.

**

Becky and I spent some time small talking with one of the more popular players. He had a pretty thick accent, so without leaning in close to hear over the noise, I knew it was useless. I let Becky talk to him for a few minutes as I just sort of scoped out the rest of the affairs, watching the slightly more tipsy crowd continue with the flashing and signing. In a bit of an alcohol haze, I wondered, logically, how people could still have stuff to sign. Did they have boxes of crap in their car, and they'd go get more and more and come back? Ebay would be busy the next day, I noted.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and peered up a bit, and there he was. That smile again. He nodded to his teammate, who had just said hello to him. "You're talking to the wrong guy if you are still doing your penalty box survey."

True, I noted. Becky's new foreign friend rarely was in any trouble, at least when I had seen him play.

"What do you mean?" came the thick accent, laughing a little and looking at Brady. Oh no, I thought. How are we going to explain this to him. Now it's going to be a whole production.

Becky leaned over and started whispering to the curious player. I heard his distinct laugh, and thick accent when he said, "Really? You're kidding me."

I could only imagine what she was saying. "Hey, my friend writes erotic hockey stories on the internet. She has a fetish for the penalty box. She is trying to get Brady up into her room so she can put him in the shower and pretend it's a penalty box."

Then I heard the accent again, and this time, he said, pointing at Brady, "Then he is the guy for her."

I made a mental note to find out what the hell that was all about.

Brady looked at me curiously (I think I was blushing) and I snapped out of it enough to gather my wits and get the ball rolling. Or, puck moving. Whatever.

"There is a penalty box in my room." I said quite clearly.

"Really?" he laughed. "Did you have to pay extra for that, or..?" he chuckled at his own joke, not taking his eyes off me. Oh, I could sense it. He was thinking, clearly - threesome, threesome, threesome. End of the night, gotta make the score. Third period, tie game, gotta get the biscuit in the goal.

"I think I just got lucky," I laughed. I took a sip from my drink, hoping, praying, he would not come back with some cheesy predictable line.

But he didn't. In fact, he seemed to get shy again. He had his hands in his pockets. We both seemed to momentarily not have anything to say, both kind of listening to the conversation between Becky and the star player.

Then the opportunity just fell into my lap, so to speak. It could not have been easier.

Brady overheard his teammate say something that he didn't agree with, he leaned over to counter it, shaking a finger at him, and managed to spill a glass of wine right down the front of my dress.

"Oh shit," he said, grabbing a napkin and nervously trying to hand it to me, almost trying not to laugh, but obviously horrified at what he had done, as people turned to look.

"Clumsy fool!" came his friend's harassment, and Becky was dabbing her napkin down my front as I just stood there.

I looked up slowly and said, with just a tin bit of a smirk, "That's two minutes, Brady."

He laughed. "Two minutes for spilling. I deserve it. I do. Shit. You can send me the dry cleaning bill, please."

Becky turned back to her new European friend, who was already ignoring Brady, discarding him with a wave of the hand. "He is always spilling everything."

Brady reached down and squeezed my hand. I looked at him,

"I'm really sorry," he said.

I leaned up to his ear, and he leaned down a little.

I whispered clearly, "I meant what I said about the box. It's the least you could do. 697." The number, of course, was our room number.

He laughed. It was one of those laughs of no-commitment, of no-comment. I leaned over and took Becky's hand, whispering to her, "Let's go."

Becky begrudgingly said goodbye to her new friend, and as we made our way past the towering golden boy, I heard him say to his friend, "Shit."

**

Of course, I knew he wouldn't show up. Yeah, right. I knew the man wasn't married, but inviting him up to the room sounded like a proposition, to be sure, and he didn't seem like the type to sleep around. He had been flirting with the idea, but it wasn't the type to actually do it; he just wanted to know he COULD do it if he wanted to. He didn't want to actually come up and do us any favors.

Even if he DID ruin my dress.

Becky and I dealt with my dress in the bathroom. I stood there in just my lingerie as she ran cold water over the dress. I looked longingly at the shower. My penalty box. My very own penalty box.

"Maybe we could come back some time," I said. "Just to put a guy in the box."

Becky laughed, continuing to wring and twist at the material. "Let's hang this up. It might be saved." She hung it up on the other side of the door into the bathroom, then took my hand and pulled me into the main room.

Chilled champagne was waiting for us, which I found odd. "Where did this come from?" I asked. Ok, for a minute, I thought he'd done it - to apologize. After all, it was the least he could do. But that quick? Not a chance. It had been there for at least a few hours.

Becky picked up the card next to it. "It comes with the room. Sweetheart special. Does that mean you're my sweetheart?"

"Yes, I am." I said.

And finally, I got my mind off of that damned hockey player. I was about to score with Becky. I could tell, simply, by the way she was smiling at me, and the way she was looking at me standing there in stockings, garters and bra.

**

A half hour later, just past midnight, we were making out on the bed. We'd been drinking the champagne and had put MYSTERY, ALASKA on the TV because it was on the hotel pay-per-view, and I insisted it would turn me on more than anything on the adult channels.

"Isn't that a hockey movie?" I'd said, looking at the menu on the screen. Becky was undressing, shrugging.

We were mid-kiss, nuzzled closely together with the TV blaring in the background, when there was a quick knock on the door.

"Shit," I said, grabbing a towel to cover my half naked body, rushing to the door as Becky rolled over on the bed to grab her champagne glass. I heard her almost purring. It was lovely.

Stupidly, I did not peek out the peep hole. Stupidly, I opened the door just a crack, peering out from behind to see him standing there.

He was smiling. "I have to see this so called penalty box."

**

"Becky," I said, not moving. "We have some company."

She crawled over on the bed, eased down onto her stomach and rested her chin in her hands. "Who is it?"

Letting him in, wrapping myself up more carefully in my towel, I stepped back so he could enter. Of course, he went into the bathroom, not into the main room, and Becky only saw his shadow.

"Who IS it?" she asked, getting up and walking over. She was also just in her panties and bra at this point, but she wasn't even in a towel. She stood with me at the entrance of the bathroom, looking in.

Brady was standing there, hands in his pockets, shaking his head at the shower. "I'll never be able to see a shower like this in the same way again."

**

Becky was breathing into my ear right behind me, distracting me. Brady was kind of scoping out all angles of the shower, looking around from the outside of it.

"Get in," I said.

He turned and laughed at me, then saw Becky and gave her a nod of hello before saying to me, in response. "Do I need a shower?"

"Get in," I said. I had that tone. The one that said I was serious. Becky heard it, actually. She leaned over me, pointing at the shower with the glass in her hand.

"You should just get in there and get it over with, Brady," Becky said seriously.

He laughed. He sounded a little nervous, but more amused. He was wearing a black jacket and a white dress shirt, and he started to take off his jacket. My heart was pounding - was he going to get totally naked? What was THIS about?

I could hear Becky Mmmming as she sipped her champagne, watching him, and I felt her hand wrapped around me, under the towel I was holding against my body. She was sliding her hand down the front of my panties.

Brady folded his jacket and placed it on the sink, opened the door of the shower and peered inside before stepping forward into it. He was laughing out loud at that point. I guess he wasn't getting naked, I thought to myself, disappointed.

"Would you look at that." Becky said, in a little bit of a surprised tone. "You've got a hockey player in a shower."

Brady took inventory and then looked over expectantly. "What do you want me to do?"

Becky was about to start launching into a list, but I spoke over her. "Just do whatever you do in the box, you have to stay there two minutes. We'll be right back."

As I ushered Becky out of the bathroom, Brady sat down on the white ledge that was inside the shower. He didn't scream obscenities, though.

**

"What are we going to do?" Becky whispered.

"What do you want to do?" I whispered back. She was grabbing more champagne. She reached over, at once, and yanked the towel away from me, so I was standing in lingerie again, just like her.

"First of all, lose the towel," she said. "Second of all, " she smiled, pulling me to her and kissing me. "Give him a misconduct."

**

When Becky and I returned to the bathroom, about thirty seconds later, we both were just in black lingerie. Brady was looking the other way until he heard us enter, then he turned toward us.

Oddly, he did finally look like the same guy I had seen on the ice. He was sitting, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. He went to stand, but I said, "Stay there. You aren't done yet."

He sat back down. He looked serious now. Serious, intense. Curious.

And Becky and I both could see evidence of arousal in his trousers.

She and I started kissing, against the sink a few feet in front of the shower, in plain view of our captured hockey player.

It all unfolded quite smoothly. Becky and I continued to make out, undress each other more, exploring each other's bodies, while poor Brady remained trapped inside, so close, yet unable to do anything. I was loving that.

As I sat on the sink, leaning back against the mirror, legs open and my hands in Becky's hair while she went down on me, I though, oddly, that this was just what it must be like for him in the box. Sheer frustration. Total helplessness. The desire to be involved, but being trapped and removed. That, coupled with Becky's soft lips and capable tongue, was enough to put me nearly over the edge.

I opened my eyes, finally, holding the back of Becky's head as she licked and sucked, dazedly looking at my trapped hockey player. He was watching; oh, he was watching indeed. I could recognize that look in his eyes at once. The horrible torture of arousal, but not being able to do anything. He wanted to masturbate. He was shy, so he was not about to do that.

"You want out, don't you," I smiled.

He stood at once, reaching for the door, as if that was his cue to come out.

"NO," I snapped, and Becky took a break from going down on me to turn her head and look at him from over her shoulder. Naked, down on her knees, I am sure she looked lovely to him.

Brady placed both hands up on the glass. "Come on. Two minutes is up."

I directed Becky's head, using both of my hands, to go back to work on me. I was aching with desire, so close to cumming, and now I was seeing two desperate eyes staring at me from the other side of the glass.

"Take off your clothes," I ordered. "Slowly. Make it entertaining."

Becky stopped again and looked over her shoulder.

"Hey," I tightened my grip in her hair. She looked up at me.

"Don't I get to watch, too?" she asked, pouting at me.

"No," I said. "Not until you finish me off."

Becky took once last glance at Brady, who had his shirt half way unbuttoned, standing there, before she went back to lapping at me hungrily.

I must say, this might have been the single most pleasurable moment of my life. Brady looked tortured and shy, undressing slowly as I watched him like an object. Becky was masterful at licking pussy, and it was obvious she knew what she was doing. And loving every minute of it.

Brady sat down and took off his shoes and socks, placing them at the corner of the inside of the shower, his little cage of sorts. He stood up and unfastened his belt, pulled it from the loops and dropped it to the floor, then unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them.

He was standing there in white briefs. When he slid his thumbs under the waistband, I said, "Stop. Not yet."

He froze.

"You can't come out," I said to him. "Until you make me cum."

"Isn't that her job?" he said, his eyes moving to the back of Becky, who was quite busy at pleasuring me.

I bit my lip. At this point, I was delirious with it all - but I knew what I wanted. I knew it in my head, but I couldn't just go right out and say it. I wanted to capture the next moments forever, provided they met my expectations.

"Sit back down," I ordered between breaths. "And do exactly what you do. Exactly what you do. When you are in that box."

He sighed and looked around. He looked impatient. I could tell he was tiring of the whole penalty box make believe. He just wanted to get on with it.

"Brady," I hissed.

He looked at me.

"Every. Last. Detail." I breathed.

He nodded, ran both hands through his hair, looked around, and was obviously thinking. "Give me one second."

**

I think that's when I found him most endearing. Brady was actually thinking about it before he did it. He wasn't just blowing it off, he was working on it in his head. He was going to make it good. He was going to be serious. He wasn't just doing it to get it over with, he was actually trying to get into the right frame of mind.

It was hard to focus on all of this, of course, while Becky was teasing my pussy, stopping now and then to lightly blow, lick delicately, carefully, cautiously use her lips.

Brady said, "Ok, I'm ready," (not to anyone in particular) and then reached over, turned on the shower, just a tad, so that water came out in a dribble. He caught it in his hands, then ran it all through his hair. Once, then twice, then three times. Then he filled his palms with water and splashed it over his face, shuddering a little at the cold.

Then he turned, sat down on the small bench again, elbows on knees, now dripping wet. He stared straight forward, jaw clenched, and breathed deeply, furiously through clenched teeth.

Unfortunately, I couldn't endure much more than that. I came, and I came so hard, it was one of those times I nearly blacked out.

Damn, I thought, right in the middle of it, I should have at least enjoyed the show a few more minutes before cumming. But I couldn't help it. Not in a million years.

**

Of course, that was just sort of the beginning of what would be a long, erotic night. No one actually had sex with anyone else (at least, the penetration kind). Becky and I ended up using his belt to tie him to the shower head and tease him, his wrists above his head, while hot water flowed down his body (which, while I did not mention it at all in this piece, was amazing).

We finished off the champagne. We took turns with each other while the third watched, and Becky and I shared him quite effectively. Kissing Brady was the most surreal thing, I will admit, and I guess mostly because I was so hyper conscious about his teeth (I mean, are they REAL??). Fortunately, he was such a great kisser, his tongue made me forget about everything.

Around 5 in the morning, the three of us were sprawled out in the bed. Becky was asleep, her head in my lap, and Brady and I were just talking about something ridiculous. Airports, I think.

His hair was a spikey mess, having dried in an odd pattern after our multiple sessions in the shower. I found him to be remarkably eloquent, uniquely soft spoken. Actually, when I listened to him talk, I had a hard time reconciling that he was the guy I saw beat the living hell out of an opposing player just a few weeks ago.

When the sun started coming up he groaned and rubbed his eyes, said he had to go, had practice in a few hours. He kissed me once on the lips, leaned down and kissed Becky on the forehead (she was still basically unconscious).

By then, I was so exhausted, I was almost happy to see him go; I was over stimulated and needed to digest everything.

He collected his things, got dressed, fixed his hair in the bathroom and then came back to tell me again to send him the dry cleaning bill for the dress.

I laughed. "Don't worry about it."

He smiled and was half way to the door when I stopped him.

"Wait," I said, not getting up, because I didn't want to disturb the sleeping Becky. "Just do this for me. Next time you are in the box, think of tonight. Ok?"

He laughed out loud. "Oh great. How can I not, now? You got it."

Then he was gone. I sat there, silent, thinking. Thinking that maybe I should order MYSTERY, ALASKA on pay per view again, because I wasn't about to go to sleep after that. What the hell, another twelve bucks.

Granted, since then, I haven't seen him in the box, so I am not sure he even remembers.

But the next time he is, I'll surely be looking for that look in his eyes.

And I'll know.