superstitious seventeen aka cate upgrades her routine with one filthy good-luck charm tw: girlcock, g!p cate, hockey player!cate, pregame rituals, superstitions, semi-public sex, good-luck charm, oral sex, blowjob, vaginal sex, dickriding, creampie, established relationship, etc. 3k+ words
author's note: for this lovely anon,🫀anon, 🏒anon, and the wonderful @iridescent-bloom for fueling my creative fire...and for anyone else who goes a little crazy over the idea of hockey player!cate! please enjoy hehe<3
also very inspired by @arejayhyun's art which was inspired by @yameoto's bot so special thanks to them both for the brain worms!<3
The rink always smelled like adrenaline pretending to be citrus. Cate loved it—the cold bite of freon air, the rubbery scuff of mats under skates, the sweet ghost of stale orange slices and bitter energy drink that clung to everything no matter how often the trainers bleached the benches. It was her church and her boxing ring, the place she knew exactly who she was even when the rest of the world felt like a trick mirror.
Her jersey hung from the peg above her stall. Her stick leaned close enough to touch her knee, the tape on the knob neat: twelve wraps clockwise, always clockwise, cut clean with the same boxcutter she’d been using since freshman year. Left sock first. Laces double-crossed. She tucked the mouthguard into her cheek while she rolled her shoulders, listening to the locker room hum—the rip of someone’s tape, a laugh ricocheting too loud and a coach barking it down to a simmer, the low whoosh of the dryer in the next room.
Division rivals tonight. The kind of game that made the cold feel like champagne bubbles under her skin.
Her phone buzzed once on the shelf above her stall. She didn’t check it—part of the ritual, no screens before warmups—but the second buzz was harder to ignore. She risked a glance, a small sin.
You in your temple?
Cate’s mouth went dry, then sweet all at once. She didn’t text back. She never did when it was you. It had started as superstition and calcified into a form of worship. If you wanted in, you found a way in.
Cate pulled on her compression shorts and pads, then stilled. The buzzing quieted into the white noise of the room. A door opened somewhere to her right and a draft swept under her stall like a question. She didn’t turn. She could feel the gravity shift the way the team always did when you crossed a threshold—like someone had tilted the world five degrees and every metal surface remembered it was magnetic.
“—holy shit,” someone down the line breathed.
Cate bit back a smile.
You didn’t belong in any one place. You were slippery in the way smoke is. But you looked obscene and perfectly right in a hockey locker room—boots planted, socks rolled, jacket thrown over the shoulder of the jersey you were wearing. Cate’s jersey. Seventeen draped over you like a claim.
“Hey, superstar,” you said, casual as if you hadn’t just shifted the temperature of the whole building. Your voice was smoke and asphalt and something that sounded like trouble.
Cate turned slowly, like that would somehow tame her wild pulse. “You’re…not supposed to be back here,” she said—ritual protest only, because you both knew resistance didn’t stand a chance against you.
“Yeah?” You canted your head, smiling with your eyes and the corner of your mouth in that way that always made Cate feel like she’d been singled out by a very indulgent god. “I’m a donor.” You didn’t specify donor of what. You never did.
A couple of teammates muttered greetings. You didn’t pay them any mind, which was rude in theory but very you in practice: you could be calm and lethal with focus in the same breath. Your attention slid to Cate and stayed there like it had been magnetized in your bones at birth.
“I brought you some luck,” you said.
Cate swallowed. She knew what that meant. Though, she hadn’t realized she knew it until last time—when you had pressed her into the kitchen island an hour before puck drop and taken her apart with slow, mean patience. When Cate had skated like she’d been given a second spine and they’d annihilated their rivals so hard their coach didn’t even pretend to be furious in the post-game. It had been sex, yes, because with you everything was. But it had also felt like chalk on a doorframe, like something old and clever that said: this house is protected, this house is claimed.
“I have to—” Cate started, throat tight.
Your brows arched. “Left sock first. You did. Tape’s done. You’ve already chewed your lucky gum, mint, not cinnamon. C’mon,” you said, like this was yours to command. “We’ve got ten.”
“Ten minutes!” one of the assistants called from the hall, like the gods had a sense of humor.
Your grin sharpened. “Less,” you corrected under your breath, and crooked two fingers.
The equipment closet you’d ducked into wasn’t big. Shelves stacked with pucks in mesh bags, boxes of laces, rainbow towers of stick tape, spray bottles lined up like obedient soldiers, a rolling bin full of practice jerseys that someone had half-heartedly folded. It smelled like rubber and wood shavings and whatever industrial detergent the laundry room worshiped. The light hummed a white noise halo overhead. The door clicked shut, and the tiny slice of the world became just you two.
Your back hit the door. You didn’t kiss Cate first. You tugged, brisk and efficient, at the waistband of Cate’s compression shorts, thumb slipping under elastic, knuckles scraping a V across hipbone. Cate’s breath stuttered. Her cock, already interested the second you had texted, went from half-hard to intent so fast she swayed.
“Baby—” Cate’s voice came out hoarse. “We—”
“I’m your luck,” you said, and sank to your knees.
For a beat Cate lost her name, then it rushed back with the heat in her blood. Your grip mapped her thighs—rough, certain, sacrilegious in all the right ways—the heel of your palm pressing down like you wanted to pin Cate’s twitching cock under your thumb just to watch it fight. Your fingers slid back under the waistband, tugging the shorts down, and Cate’s cock sprang up against the cold air, flushed and aching, before your mouth swallowed the shock, sealing over her in one hungry pull. The seventeen on your back made a bright, possessive bracket as you worked. You looked up. Cate had never met anyone whose gaze could close around your throat and squeeze in fondness.
Your mouth was heat and velvet and a little cruel. You liked to set a pace and then break it, liked the way Cate’s hips jerked when you swallowed down and hollowed your cheeks to drag up slow. Your fingers dug into the hinge of Cate’s thighs, urging them wider, greedy for leverage. The mouthguard bit at Cate’s molars. She let it drop with a wet clack into her palm and then put her fist between her teeth instead.
“Fuck,” Cate muttered when you pulled off with a pop. “Fuck, baby, please—”
“That’s right.” Your smile was lazy and wrecked. You stroked your tongue along the vein at the underside like you were tasting victory already. “Be quiet for me, superstar.”
Cate nodded, helpless. She felt ridiculous and enormous and perfectly, perfectly tuned to the woman on her knees. The hum of the light, the faint music of blades ringing two rooms over, the smell of detergent and rubber all dimmed under the wet slide of your mouth and the low, content sound you made when Cate’s head fell back.
“Baby,” Cate warned, ragged. “Gonna—”
You pulled back, breath a little ragged yourself, lips shiny. “Not yet.” You leaned back a little and kissed the tip, obscene and affectionate. “That goes in me.” You stood in one clean motion and tugged the jersey up just enough to flash the sharp cut of your hips and the waistband of your track pants. Then you hooked your thumbs, peeling them down along with your panties, and kicked off your boots in two swift knocks against the rubber mat—bare, unabashed, seventeen still draped over you like a dare. You never did anything halfway.
Cate’s hands went to your hips on instinct.
“Uh-uh,” you said, catching Cate’s hips instead and walking her backward, step by unsteady step, mouth grazing her jaw like punctuation. Cate’s calves bumped the bench and she dropped onto it with a soft, helpless sound. You crowded in, the jersey falling back into place as you climbed over Cate’s lap—owning the space, forcing Cate to rely entirely on the unholy mercy of the woman with her number against her skin, before you took what you came for.
You took Cate in your fist and guided, tip pressing slick against the slicker heat of you. You teased yourself with it, rubbed up and down until Cate’s eyes fluttered and her mouth fell open, until the little gasps falling from her mouth were the only percussion in the room.
“Look at me,” you said, soft as a blade.
Cate did. She always did.
You sank down in one slow, gasping slide that punched all the air out of both of you. Cate swore, head knocking the shelf, vision blurring white around the edges. You breathed a sound that wasn’t a word, just Cate’s name broken by pleasure. The hand you didn’t have wrapped around Cate’s base braced on Cate’s shoulder, fingers digging into the strap of her pads.
“Fuck me steady,” you said, breath hitching, the rhythm of the syllables syncing for a second with the hum of the light, with Cate’s pulse in her ears. “I want to feel you the whole game.”
Cate bucked by instinct and then tamped it down, held herself there—buried, deep and hot and perfect—and only then set a pace that felt like worship. Long strokes with the control of a surgeon and the hunger of a sinner. The shelf rattled behind her, a roll of white tape fell and bounced against her shoulder. You didn’t notice. You rode like you had an audience only you could see, the number seventeen flashing when the jersey lifted with each rise and fall, knees planted wide, thighs burning under Cate’s palms where they clamped down to hold.
“You’re so good,” you said, like it was a truth of the world. “My lucky thing. My big game changer.” You rocked down harder. Cate groaned, helpless. “You gonna give me a hat trick, baby?”
Cate would have promised you the moon if you had asked. She managed: “As many as you—oh, God—tell me how you want it.”
You bit your lower lip, eyes going glassy with pleasure before the sharpness knifed back in. “I want you to fill me like you mean it. I want to sit in your jersey and heckle their goalie with your cum between my legs.” A huff of laughter, wrecked and dangerous. “And then I want you to see me in the front row and know exactly what I’m keeping warm for you.”
Cate’s eyes stung. It wasn’t the lights. It was the way you could thread I love you into threats and superstition and obscene promises and make it sound like fate. Cate’s thighs trembled. She bore down on the rhythm again, steadier, deeper, the kind of stroke that made your jaw falter and a sound rip out of you that Cate would be thinking about long after her ears stopped ringing from the crowd.
“Quiet,” you breathed, and reached up to shove two fingers into Cate’s mouth. Cate moaned around them. You leaned in and kissed her cheek, almost tender, offset by the ruthless way you snapped your hips down to meet Cate’s next stroke.
The world narrowed to friction and heat, to the ridiculous slide-and-catch of fabric and pads and skin, to a rhythm that Cate knew in her body as well as any play she’d drilled a hundred times. Your nails bit into the meat of Cate’s shoulder beneath the pads, a bite that grounded her. Sweat trickled down behind Cate’s ear. You licked it clean, then laughed against her skin when Cate shivered.
“Yeah,” you breathed, eyes going soft and wild in tandem. “That’s my girl. Give it to me. Give it to me deep.”
Cate’s body took the command like a puck to the mesh. She slammed in deep and stilled, groan low and helpless as heat unspooled and broke. The orgasm hit like a clean check, rattling her bones and lighting her vision from the inside. You were already there, hips grinding down to milk it, head tilting back, mouth open on a soundless cry. Cate felt the squeeze, the clutch, the greed of it, the way your body took everything without flinching. It was incandescent and obscene, sacred the way sacrilege is when you do it with your whole heart.
Together you stayed tangled for a second that felt stretched thin. Cate’s breath sawed. Your lashes fluttered, a flush spread over your chest, peeking from the collar of the jersey.
Above the door, someone banged something heavy against the wall. “Warmups in two!” The assistant’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
You exhaled a laughing curse and leaned forward, forehead pressing to Cate’s temple. “You’re so good,” you murmured, and then—because you’re you, because you can’t help but be a menace even when you’re tender—you rolled your hips very lightly, reminding Cate where your bodies were still joined, reminding Cate that her luck was warm and full and not going anywhere.
“Don’t.” Cate’s voice cracked into a laugh. “Please. I have to skate.”
“Mm.” You slid carefully off, the flare of your nostrils and the little jerk of your thighs saying you felt every millimeter. When you were free you stayed braced for a second, head tipped down, hand on the shelf behind Cate, like gravity had just gotten funny. Then you straightened with an obscene little roll of hips, as if sealing something. “Good girl.”
Cate swore she could feel that praise in her ribs.
With almost comical care, you bent over and tugged Cate’s compression shorts up, patting her cock through the fabric like a benediction. “Stay sharp for me,” you murmured. You effortlessly scooped the discarded panties off the floor and tucked them neatly into Cate’s waistband like a love note. “Souvenir,” you said, smug.
From the pocket of your jacket you fished a clean pair. You hauled them up and then, with a wicked little hitch of your hips, snugged the fabric tight, like you wanted the pressure. The jersey fell back over everything, turning filthy into something almost demure. You flashed Cate a grin that said you knew exactly what you were carrying out there.
“I’m gonna sit front row,” you said, as if Cate had any doubt. “Every time you come by the bench you’re going to remember exactly what you did in here.”
Cate was a professional at controlling her face. She still felt heat climb up her neck like a blush she couldn’t swallow. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m effective.” You reached out and straightened Cate’s shoulder pads, a ridiculous gesture of domesticity dressed in filth. You thumbed a smear of something off the edge of Cate’s jaw and then licked your thumb clean, just to be insufferable. “Mouthguard.”
Cate blinked. “What—”
You picked it up off the shelf where it had ended up, popping it against Cate’s lip like you were feeding her a strawberry. Cate took it, meek, ridiculous. Your smile went soft and vicious at once.
“Skate for me,” you said. “Score for me. And if someone tries to fight you, remember I’m wearing your number and I will climb the glass and ruin a man’s life.”
Cate choked out a laugh that wasn’t entirely joking. “Yes, ma’am.”
Footsteps thudded past the door. Someone shouted something near the tunnel, the rink sound swelled—organ warming up, PA system crackle, the metallic cheer of blades on ice. You cracked the door an inch, peered, then slipped out into the hall with a backward glance that felt like a promise and a threat wrapped tightly with a bow.
Cate stood alone for three heartbeats in the humming light, breathing like she’d sprinted stairs. She adjusted herself carefully, hands steady now that she had weight back under her ribs, the same way she steadied her hands to tape a stick: this is ritual, this is real. She washed in the little basin, fast and efficient, ran wet fingers through her hair, and caught her reflection in a warped bit of stainless panel. Number Seventeen stared back, flushed and grinning and a little bit dangerous.
“Let’s go,” she told herself, and stepped back into the river of her team.
The tunnel was a throat of noise, the cold ripping past her cheeks like applause. She touched the edge of the doorway with her glove—another ritual—and stepped onto the ice with the precise little hop that meant her blades were exactly where she wanted them. The first push into open space was always a high. Now it felt like she’d swallowed a comet. She glided, turned, dug into the fresh sheet and listened to the edges sing.
She didn’t look for you. She didn’t have to. She could feel you—the slick reminder between your thighs like a secret you would both carry for three periods, the gravity of you in the front row tightening Cate’s orbit, the stolen panties tucked between the band of Cate’s compression shorts, trapped against her hip like a wicked good-luck charm. Still, when she let herself glance, just once, there you were: one foot propped up, lean and loose and ferociously attentive, Seventeen draped on you like a claim, mouth quirked in a you’re trouble and I’m so proud of you line that hit Cate like a body check.
You didn’t blow a kiss. You pressed two fingers low against the hem of the jersey, over the fullness you were keeping, and lifted your eyebrows like: focus, superstar. Bring me their heads.
Cate laughed around her mouthguard, swore she tasted citrus and sin and something distinctly you, and joined the first line at center ice. The rival captain skated past, muttered something about last game and luck. Cate rolled her shoulders and didn’t answer. Luck wasn’t a thing you talked about in the open. It was an altar behind a closed door, a warm palm, a woman in your jersey promising to sit in your cum like a throne.
The puck dropped. Cate read the first pass, exploded into the lane, and took it on her tape so clean it felt like it belonged there.Hat trick, she promised silently, a contract written in heat and breath and the echo of your mouth. And then she let the ritual take her, and the game swallowed everything except the straight, bright path to the back of the net.
