Break My Heart: An Enemies-to-Lovers Coach’s Daughter Sports Romance (Western Wildcats Hockey)
Break My Heart: Chapter 6

With my duffel slung over my shoulder, I push through the front door of the two-story Victorian I share with Ryder, Bridger, Maverick, Riggs, and Colby. Scratch that. Colby’s off playing house, married to Britt, a singer-slash-reality star who was once in hiding but is now living her life out in the open.

There’ve been more plot twists and shocking reveals around here than in a freaking soap opera.

Since Colby packed up, Bridger’s cousin Steele moved into the room. The house is still a rotating door of teammates, friends, and, of course, girls.

Tonight is no different.

A group of the younger guys are kicking back in the living room, cold brews in hand, eyes glued to the video game playing out on the high-def 70-inch screen. Half a dozen girls are mixed in, draped over the furniture.

“Hey, Hayes!” A hot brunette perks up as soon as she spots me walk in, raising a hand in greeting.

I give her a chin lift as I head toward the staircase.

“Come party with us!” she calls after me.

Without breaking stride, I shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve got some stuff to do.”

She pouts, batting her lashes. “And here I was hoping to be one of those things.”

A half-amused snort escapes me. “Maybe later.”

Even as I throw out the possibility, I know it’s not going to happen.

Not tonight.

Hell, probably not anytime soon.

It’s been a week since I watched Ava skate, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. I’m not the kind of guy who loses sleep over a chick, but there’s something about her.

Normally, it only takes a wink or compliment from me to get a girl interested. But this one?

She’d rather throat punch me than return a smile.

I probably shouldn’t think that’s hot, but I do.

Once I make it to my room, I shut the door and lock it before pulling off my black Western Wildcats sweatshirt and the T-shirt beneath, tossing them both onto the bed. Barely do I notice the cool air that hits my chest as I fire up my laptop and set everything up.

I’ve done this enough times to have it down to a science.

Once I’m connected and the home screen loads, I enable the camera, making sure only my torso is in the frame. Not my face or any recognizable marks. Nothing that could give me away. Since I don’t have any piercings or tats, I don’t really worry about being identified.

If there’s a lady—or dude for that matter—out there who can recognize my dick, hats off to them.

I shove the chair away from the desk to give myself enough room to maneuver.

I’ve been doing these shows since my sophomore year. By now, I understand what my audience tunes in for.

Sometimes, I’ll stretch out on the bed.

Other times, I sit at the desk.

Once or twice, I’ve tried to get creative with a shower scene, but that gets tricky when you live with a bunch of dudes. It tends to raise questions when you saunter out of the bathroom after a twenty-minute shower with a computer tucked under your arm.

That’s the last thing I need.

I shove the buds in my ears and crank up a little mood music to lose myself in. It’s a trick I picked up early on. It looks way more natural if I forget about the audience tuning in.

All I can say is, who knew jacking off online would turn out to be so damn lucrative.

Luckily for me, I enjoy rubbing one out a couple times a week.

My scholarship covers my tuition and books. My online hustle pays for my living expenses and gives me enough cash to send Mom’s way at the end of the month.

It’s a win-win for everyone.

It wasn’t a lie when I told Mom I wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal.

Although, she’d definitely tear into my ass if she discovered how I make my money. And she wouldn’t accept one damn penny if she discovered the truth.

Which is exactly why I keep my online activities to myself.

No one knows about it.

Not even my closest teammates and friends.

A few months from now, TenInchesofCocky will retire and be a thing of the past.

I fidget with the screen until I have the perfect angle of my chest, abs, and gray sweatpants before tugging the waistband down. I squirt a little lotion on my hands and rub them together before starting the livestream. Already there are a couple hundred viewers—or voyeurs—waiting patiently in my private room.

The little red light on the camera blinks, letting me know I’m live.

I lean back in the chair and manspread.

Maybe women don’t like it IRL, but they sure as hell don’t mind when I’m on camera and they’re getting up close and personal with the goods.

Especially when I drag the material down, freeing my dick, and proving that my screen name is one hundred percent accurate.

There’s definitely no shame in my game.

My hands settle on my chest, sliding with ease thanks to the lotion. That’s all it takes for me to close my eyes and lose myself in the steady thump of the music. It’s something mellow that flows. I pinch my nipples before allowing my fingers to meander downward. I throw a few stretches in, so my muscles bunch and flex, before shifting on the chair.

When an image of Ava pops into my head and my dick stiffens right up, I go with it.

This is exactly what my fans clamor for.

Even though my eyes remain closed, I have zero doubts that appreciative comments are rolling across the screen.

In the beginning, I was more cognizant of them, but that takes me out of the experience. So, I stopped paying attention. The only time I tweak something is when the money dips, but I’ll be honest, that hasn’t happened since the beginning. My audience has only grown over the years.

I focus on the sassy figure skater as my hand drops to the waistband of my sweats before sliding over the material and grabbing the thick erection that tents the cotton.

I hiss out a breath.

The tip is already sensitive.

Who would have thought the feisty blonde could get me so hard?

My fingers drift lower, tracing the ridge of my erection until reaching my balls. I roll the sac around, massaging it before squeezing.

Damn, that feels good.

Under normal circumstances, I try to stretch out the show for about twenty minutes before the grand finale, but I don’t think I’m going to make it that long.

Fuck it.

Instead of waiting, I shove down the sweats and boxers, allowing my erection to spring free. Then I pull out my balls.

They’re just as much of a showstopper as my cock.

Especially since they’re shaved and as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

Don’t believe me?

Check out the comments section.

Maybe I don’t watch them scroll by, but I always read them afterward to see what people enjoyed.

With one finger, I circle the crown, gliding over the slit where moisture has beaded, before spreading it around until the bulbous head is slick with arousal. If I lift my finger, a little string of clear fluid would come with it.

Then I tighten my grip around the girth and slowly slide it up and down the shaft. Just when my balls tighten, I force myself to release the length, massaging my sac for a second time. A groan rumbles up from my chest before escaping between my lips as my head falls back and I arch, impatient to feel the slide of my hand against my dick.

It’s nothing short of torture.

I’m so damn close to coming.

My teeth sink into my lower lip as I nudge myself closer to release before easing off. Then I do it all over again until I’m dancing on the precipice. When I can’t stand another second, I allow an image of Ava to creep back into my thoughts.

I wasn’t kidding when I said she’d look good on her knees with her mouth stuffed full of cock.

My cock.

That image is all it takes to send me flying over the edge.

With a guttural groan, my balls tighten as the first hot spurts of cum land on my lower abdomen. My orgasm seems to last forever. It’s only when I’ve completely emptied myself that I loosen the chokehold on my dick and sink farther back on the chair.

I massage the jizz around my belly since I know the fans love it.

With a peace sign, I end the livestream.

I pluck a few tissues from the box on my desk and clean up the mess before tugging up my underwear and sweats and then heading to the shower.

I glance at the screen, zeroing in on the number of viewers.

The corners of my lips tip upward.

We’re venturing into record-setting numbers, which translates into record-setting amounts of money that will hit my bank account and help pay for Mom to keep food on the table and my siblings in hockey.

There’s nowhere else I could earn this kind of cash for twenty minutes of “work” a couple times a week.

Who knows, I just might miss it when I finally pull the plug at the end of the semester.