Good Luck Charm
MINORS DNI! dividers by @cafekitsune
pairing: dean di laurentis x coachsdaughter!reader synopsis: admittedly, dating a hockey player your father is coaching was not one of your best ideas. but you love him and he loves you. he loves you so much he can't help but beat up a player from the other team when he dares comment about you... in front of your dad.
words: 4k+ disclaimer: english is not my first language! warnings: brief smut (fingering, p in v, shower sex). forbidden relationship trope. hockey talk. fighting, blood mentioned! romantic!dean, yearner!dean, fluff, angst. second person, no use of Y/N, the images are purely for aesthetic purposes, no explicit description of the reader. not proofread!
chye's corner: based on a comment by @lightdragonrayne left on no hockey boys! this can be considered as a follow-up of this and bounce on it, but it can absolutely be read as a stand alone!! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist) requests are open!
You stood under the spray of the shower in the empty locker room, warm water cascading over your bare skin as steam curled around you both. The rest of the team wouldn’t arrive for another half hour, giving you this stolen pocket of time. Dean had you pressed against the tiled wall, his tall, muscular body caging you in, water sluicing down his broad shoulders and carved abs. His hockey shorts lay discarded on the wet floor, and his thick, heavy cock jutted between you, veins pulsing, the flushed head already glistening with precum that mixed with the shower water.
You smiled up at him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you teased, voice soft and breathy. “You’re really breaking the rules for me, huh? No sex before a game. No distractions, right?”
Dean’s blue eyes locked onto yours, intense and full of heat, but there was something deeper there, raw need and affection that made your chest tighten. “Fuck the rules,” he murmured, voice low and rough, but his thumb gently stroked your cheek. “I need you, baby. Not just your body… I need this. Us. You make me feel alive before I step on that ice.”
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, hungry kiss that was equal parts desperate and tender. His tongue slid against yours as one large hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer. When he broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling in the steamy air.
Your hand wrapped around his thick shaft, stroking him slowly from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein throb under your fingers. “Then take me, Dean. I’m yours.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest. With one swift motion, he lifted your leg, hooking it over his hip and opening you to him. His fingers slid through your slick folds, parting your swollen pussy lips. “So fucking wet already,” he whispered reverently, circling your clit with his thumb while two thick fingers pushed inside you. He curled them deep, stroking that sensitive spot until your walls clenched and fluttered around him, your arousal coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, washed away by the shower.
You moaned his name, hips rocking against his hand. “Dean… please. I need you inside me.”
He pulled his fingers out and replaced them with the blunt, girthy head of his cock. Eyes never leaving yours, he pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch as he stretched your tight pussy open. The delicious burn of his thickness filling you made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he breathed, voice strained with pleasure and emotion. “So hot… so tight around me. Like you were made for my cock, baby. I love you. God, I love being buried inside you like this.”
Once he was fully seated, balls-deep, his heavy sack pressed against you, he paused, forehead still against yours, sharing the moment. Water streamed over your joined bodies. Then he started to move, deep, rolling thrusts that ground his pelvis against your clit with every stroke. His cock dragged along your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot over and over. The wet, obscene sounds of your pussy sucking him in mixed with the spray of the shower.
You clung to him, leg wrapped tighter around his waist as he fucked you against the wall. Each powerful thrust lifted you slightly, your breasts bouncing, nipples hard against his chest. “I love you too,” you gasped between moans. “Only you, Dean. Always.”
His pace quickened, hips snapping harder, driving his thick cock into you with relentless need. The explicit slap of wet skin echoed, his heavy balls smacking against your ass, your creamy arousal coating his shaft and leaking out around him with every withdrawal. He reached between you, thumb rubbing tight circles on your swollen clit while he pounded deeper, stretching you wide.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly. Your eyes met, and the intimacy of him watching every flicker of pleasure on your face as he fucked you sent you spiraling. Your orgasm crashed over you hard. Your pussy spasmed violently around his cock, milking him in rhythmic waves as you cried out, soaking his length with fresh gushes of your release.
Dean groaned your name like a prayer, his thrusts growing erratic. “That’s it, baby… come all over me. Let me feel you.” A few more deep, punishing strokes and he buried himself to the hilt, his cock swelling and pulsing inside your clenching heat. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your pussy, filling you until it overflowed and dripped down your thighs, mixing with the shower water.
He didn’t pull out right away. Instead, he held you close, still buried deep, kissing you tenderly, slow and loving, while the water rained down on you both. His hand stroked your hair, his breath warm against your ear.
“You’re my good luck charm,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I wish you could wear my number out there. Fuck, I’d give anything to see you in my jersey, number 66 across your back, everyone knowing you’re mine.”
The words hit you with a bittersweet ache, deepening the intimacy between you. You slid your fingers into his wet hair, pulling him closer as you kissed him softly, tasting the water on his lips. “I know,” you murmured against his mouth, your voice breathy and full of love. “I wish I could too. I’d wear it proudly… let everyone see who I belong to. But this, us, right here, is enough. It has to be.”
Dean’s eyes darkened with a mix of frustration and raw possession. He rolled his hips slowly, still half-hard inside your cum-filled pussy, pushing his load deeper as it leaked out around his thick shaft and down your thighs. “Doesn’t stop me from wanting it. Doesn’t stop me from fucking you like I own you anyway.” He winked.
He kissed you harder this time, tongue claiming your mouth while his hand slid down to grip your ass, holding you tight against the tiled wall. Even after coming, he stayed buried inside you for a long moment, savoring the slick, messy heat of your joined bodies. The water continued to rain over you both, washing away the evidence of what you had just done, but not the connection.
Finally, he pulled out with a low groan. A thick trickle of his cum immediately spilled from your swollen, well-fucked pussy. He watched it for a second, thumb gently spreading it over your clit, before lifting his gaze back to yours. “Tonight, after the game,” he promised, voice low and intense, “you’re wearing nothing but my jersey. Just us. No rules. No hiding.”
You smiled, legs still shaky as you leaned into him. “Deal, Di Laurentis. Now go win that game for me.”
The arena was electric, the crowd roaring as the teams battled it out on the ice. You sat right behind the bench, close enough to hear the shouts from the players and the sharp scrape of skates. Your dad paced along the boards just a few feet away, clipboard in hand, barking orders. Every time Dean flew past, his eyes flicked toward you for a split second, that intense blue gaze locking on yours like a promise.
He played like a man possessed. Number 66 cut through the opposition with powerful strides, shoulders checking bodies out of the way, stick handling the puck like it was an extension of himself. You could still feel the ghost of him inside you from the shower, pussy still tender and slick with his cum, thighs pressed tight together under your coat as you watched him dominate the ice.
The first period was brutal, but in the second, Dean stole the puck in the neutral zone. He deked left, exploded past a defender, and fired a perfect pass to a teammate. The puck whipped back to him on the rush. Dean wound up and rocketed a slapshot from the blue line. The goalie barely had time to react before the net bulged.
The arena erupted.
Your dad threw his arms in the air in celebration, then turned and yanked you into a crushing hug right there against the glass. “Hell yeah!” he laughed, squeezing you tight, beaming with pure pride. “That’s how we do it!” You hugged him back, smiling into his shoulder as the team piled onto Dean on the ice. It was innocent, just a coach celebrating a big goal with his daughter in the stands.
As your dad finally released you and turned back toward the bench to shout instructions at the players, you glanced out onto the ice. Dean skated out of the celebration huddle, helmet still on, breathing hard. His eyes scanned the stands until they locked directly on you. For a brief second, when your father’s back was turned, Dean’s intense blue gaze softened with heat and affection. The corner of his mouth curled into a quick, cocky wink meant only for you, a silent reminder of the shower, of his cum still inside you, of everything filthy and secret between you.
Your cheeks flushed. You bit your lip and gave him the tiniest nod in return before looking away, heart racing.
But across the rink, one of the opposing players, a tall, smug forward who’d been chirping Dean all night, glided to a stop near the boards. His eyes locked on the two of you. The prolonged hug. The way your dad’s arm had stayed wrapped around your shoulders a second longer than necessary. The player’s gaze shifted to Dean, then back to you, and a slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. He tapped his stick twice on the ice before skating away, clearly filing the information away.
Play resumed, and the tension on the ice thickened. Dean was a storm. Faster, meaner, hunting the puck like he had something to prove. But the forward was waiting for his chance.
It happened fast.
Dean barreled into the offensive zone with the puck on his stick, eyes locked on the net. The rival forward came flying in from the side at full speed and slammed him violently into the glass, right in front of the home bench, barely ten feet from where you and your dad stood.
The impact was brutal. The boards shook. Dean’s body crushed against the plexiglass with a loud thud, helmet rattling, right in your direct line of sight.
The opposing player pinned him there for a split second, leaning in close through the glass so only Dean (and you and probably your dad, standing just behind the bench) could hear his filthy words. “Fuck, Di Laurentis… so that’s Coach’s daughter? I bet that little slut lets you wreck her cunt before every game. She looks like she needs a real dick, maybe I should fuck her next and show her what a winner feels like.”
Dean snapped.
Pure, explosive rage took over his face. In one violent motion, he shoved the rival forward off him with enough force to send the guy stumbling backward on his skates. Dean’s gloves hit the ice with a slap, and he dropped his stick, launching himself at the other player like a man possessed.
“You shut your fucking mouth!” Dean roared.
The fight was brutal and immediate. Dean threw the first punch, a hard right that connected solidly with the rival’s jaw, snapping his head back. The other player recovered quickly and swung back, his fist glancing off Dean’s helmet before landing a heavy blow to his ribs. They crashed into the boards again, gloves grabbing jerseys, elbows flying. Dean’s fist connected twice more, once to the cheek, once to the mouth, splitting the guy’s lip open. Blood sprayed across the white ice.
The benches erupted. Players from both teams spilled over the boards as the refs blew their whistles frantically, trying to break up the chaos. Your dad was shouting, face red with confusion and anger, clearly stunned by how viciously Dean had reacted to what he assumed was typical trash talk.
Dean was relentless. Even as Garrett tried to pull him away, he landed one final heavy punch that sent the opposing player sprawling onto the ice. His chest heaved, eyes wild with fury as two of his own teammates finally dragged him back toward the penalty box. Blood trickled from a cut on his lower lip, and his jersey was twisted and torn at the collar.
Through the glass, Dean’s gaze found yours instantly. The possessive fire in his blue eyes burned hotter than ever. He was breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest. A twisted mix of shock, worry, and dark arousal flooded through you. You pressed your thighs together under your coat as you watched him defend you so savagely. No one had ever gone that far for you before. The raw possessiveness made your pussy throb despite the public chaos. At the same time, fear gripped you, your dad was right there, and Dean had just lost control in front of the entire arena.
The refs blew the whistle repeatedly. After a quick conference, the announcement came over the speakers: Dean was ejected from the game for fighting and assessed a game misconduct. He was done for the night.
Your dad was furious. His face turned beet red as he stormed toward the tunnel, yelling at Dean as he was escorted off the ice. “What the hell was that, Di Laurentis?! You cost us your shift for some bullshit chirp?! Get your ass to the locker room and cool the fuck down! We’ll talk about this later!”
You stayed rooted in your seat while he skated towards the locker room, breathing fast, cheeks burning. Your mind raced with worry about what your dad would say later and whether anyone else had caught on. But underneath it all was a powerful wave of emotion for Dean, for how fiercely he had protected you, consequences be damned.
You couldn’t sit there any longer. The game continued without him, but your focus was entirely on Dean. Heart pounding, you slipped out of your seat as quietly as possible, murmuring a quick excuse to the person beside you about needing some air. You kept your head down, weaving through the crowd and heading toward the restricted hallway that led to the locker room area. Luckily, most of the staff and security knew you as Coach’s daughter, so no one stopped you.
Your footsteps echoed softly in the empty corridor as you broke into a light run, the distant roar of the crowd muffled behind you. When you reached the locker room door, you hesitated for only a second before pushing it open.
Dean sat alone on the wooden bench in front of his locker, elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed. His jersey was still on but torn at the collar, and his face was a mess: a deep split in his lower lip still oozing blood, a bruise already forming along his jaw, and a small cut above his eyebrow. His knuckles were raw and bloodied. He looked exhausted, angry, and wired all at once.
The moment he heard the door, his head snapped up. Those intense blue eyes met yours, and the hard tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt thick with everything that had just happened, the shower, the game, the fight, the secret you both carried. “Dean…” you whispered, stepping closer. Your voice trembled slightly with the rush of emotions. You stopped just in front of him, aching to reach out but unsure how hurt he really was.
He straightened a little, wincing as he did, and looked up at you. The possessiveness and fire from earlier on the ice still burned in his gaze, but there was something softer underneath it now, relief at seeing you, and a quiet vulnerability he rarely showed anyone else.
A tired, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, careful of his split lip. “Well… shit,” he said, voice rough but trying for lightness. “Think your dad’s gonna kill me, or should I start writing my will first?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh despite everything, stepping closer until you stood between his spread knees. Dean reached out slowly, his bloodied knuckles gentle as his fingers brushed against your waist, pulling you in until you were standing right in front of him.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he murmured, the humor fading as his thumb traced a soft circle on your hip. “But when he started talking about you like that… I just lost it. Couldn’t let him say those things about you. Not about my girl.”
Your hand came up instinctively, hovering near his injured face before gently cupping the uninjured side of his jaw. “You scared me,” you admitted quietly, voice thick with emotion. “But… no one’s ever stood up for me like that before. It means everything, Dean. Even if it was reckless.”
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment as if soaking in the comfort. When he opened them again, the softness in his blue eyes made your chest ache. “I’d do it a hundred times over,” he whispered. “You’re worth every penalty, every lecture, every bruise. I know we have to keep this quiet because of your dad… I'm willing to risk it. You’re not just some secret. You’re my reason.”
The tender moment shattered when your dad cleared his throat loudly behind you.
You both froze. Dean’s eyes widened slightly as he shot up from the bench, trying to put some distance between the two of you. The sudden movement made him wince sharply, a low hiss escaping through his teeth as pain flared across his bruised ribs and battered face.
Without thinking, you reached out automatically, your hand gently cupping his uninjured cheek in a soft, instinctive attempt to console him. Your thumb brushed lightly over his skin, worry etched across your face. “Dean, c’mon, be careful…” you started, voice full of concern. Only then did reality crash back in. You snatched your hand away as if burned, turning quickly toward the doorway. Your dad stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of confusion, anger, and something unreadable. His gaze flicked between you and Dean, narrowing slightly.
“What the hell is going on here?” Coach asked, his tone low and heavy with suspicion.
Dean straightened as best he could despite the pain, jaw clenched, trying to look composed even with blood still drying on his lip and chin. You stepped back, heart racing, the weight of almost being caught pressing down on both of you.
“So?” Coach repeated, his voice low and dangerous at first. But as the truth sank in, his face turned a deep, furious red. “And don’t you dare lie to me, Di Laurentis,” he snarled, his voice rising sharply. “I saw the way she was touching you. The way you’re both looking at each other. You’ve been sneaking around with my daughter?!”
He took a furious step forward, jabbing a finger at Dean’s chest. “I had ONE rule! One goddamn rule for her, stay away from hockey boys! Especially not one of my own players! And you, you piece of shit, you go behind my back and do this anyway? After everything I’ve done for you? I trusted you with my team, with my daughter, and this is how you repay me?!” Your dad’s voice boomed through the locker room, echoing off the walls. He was shaking with rage, his usual controlled coaching demeanor completely shattered.
“You get ejected like some hot-headed idiot, and now I find out you’ve been, what? Defiling my little girl? I should bench you for the rest of the season! Hell, I should cut you from the team right now!”
You felt your stomach drop. Tears stung your eyes as you watched your father’s furious, betrayed expression. Dean’s hand found yours and squeezed it tightly, grounding you even as your heart pounded. “Dad, please…” you started, voice cracking.
But he cut you off, turning his glare on you. “And you! I raised you better than this. I told you what these boys are like. And you still went and fell for one of them anyway?”
Dean stepped forward slightly, wincing in pain but refusing to back down. His voice was steady, though thick with emotion. “Coach, I know I broke your trust. But I love her. This isn’t some fling.”
Your dad let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Love? You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Get your ass out of my sight before I do something I regret, Di Laurentis. And you,”he looked at you, disappointment cutting deeper than the anger, “we are going to have a very long talk when we get home.”
Something inside you snapped.
You stepped forward, eyes blazing as you faced your father. “No. You don’t get to talk to him like that. Or to me. Dean was defending me, Dad. That player was saying disgusting, horrible things about me, and Dean stood up for me when no one else did. He got ejected because he refused to let someone disrespect me. And instead of asking what happened, you’re just screaming at him like he’s the villain here.”
Your voice rose with every word, raw emotion pouring out. “You always say you want me to be happy, but the second I find someone who actually treats me like I matter, who loves me and protects me, you shut it down because of some stupid rule? That’s not fair. You’re being completely unreasonable right now.”
Your dad’s face darkened even further, his jaw tightening as he opened his mouth to argue back, but you kept going. “Dean has been nothing but good to me. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel loved. And you’re acting like he’s some kind of criminal for caring about me. I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad. You don’t get to control who I love.”
The tension in the locker room was thick enough to choke on. Your dad looked stunned for a split second before his anger flared hotter, his voice rising again as he started to argue back.
Dean quickly stepped between you and your father, wincing in pain but raising his hands in a calming gesture. “Coach, please,” he said, voice low and steady even though his split lip was still bleeding. “She’s upset. I’m upset. Let’s all just take a breath before this gets worse than it already is.”
He turned slightly toward you, his eyes soft but pleading. “Baby" he cringed, forgetting to rein himself in front of her father "it’s okay. I can handle this.” Then he looked back at your dad. “Coach, I know you’re angry. I know I broke your trust. But yelling at each other right now isn’t going to fix anything. Let me clean up, and we can talk about this later when everyone’s calmed down.”
Dean’s hand found yours behind his back, giving it a gentle, hidden squeeze, a silent reminder that he had you, even in the middle of the storm. Your dad stared at both of you, chest heaving with barely contained fury, clearly struggling between his anger and the fact that Dean was trying to de-escalate.
“Fine,” he said tightly, voice still edged with anger. “I’m too pissed off to deal with this right now. Di Laurentis… you’re coming over for dinner tomorrow night. We’re going to sit down and talk about this like adults. No more sneaking around. But right now…” he looked at you, tone leaving no room for argument, “you’re leaving with me. Let’s go.”
You nodded, though your heart was still racing. Before turning to leave, you stepped closer to Dean. Rising onto your toes, you gently cupped the uninjured side of his face and pressed a soft, lingering peck to his lips, careful of his split lip. “Take care of those cuts,” you whispered against his mouth. “Clean them up properly and ice your ribs, okay? I love you.”
Dean’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles one last time as he whispered back, “I love you too.”
Your dad made a loud, annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, clearly irritated by the open display of affection. “I’m standing right here. Let’s move it.”
