This story is written for Literotica author Chanson Bleu. It is in payment for a friendly bet we had on the outcome of this year's Stanley Cup Playoffs, won by her beloved Colorado Avalanche. CB provided the synopsis for the story, an erotic fantasy of hers, as per the bet. Additionally, she helped me with information on Denver, the French language, and helped edit and name the story. I should lose more bets this way. Thanks CB, and enjoy.
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"The winner of the Conn Smythe trophy, for the third time, Patrick Roy!" The National Hockey League's commissioner's voice echoed through the Pepsi Center in Denver. The Colorado Avalanche had just come back from a three game to two deficit in the Stanley Cup Finals to win the seventh and deciding game against the reigning Stanley Cup champions, the New Jersey Devils. The series had been one of momentum changes, both teams dominating for a time. But in the end, Colorado had won their second Stanley Cup, an award emblematic of professional hockey supremacy.
The Conn Smythe trophy, donated by the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey club back in 1967, was named after the crusty original owner of the Leafs. The trophy is presented to the most valuable player in the Stanley Cup playoffs. The latter represent the post season of hockey, and the most important games to be played. Winners advance by winning four games in a best four out seven game series. In all there are four grueling rounds where players become battered and bruised, injuries are not disclosed, and all sacrifice themselves for the glory of winning the Cup.
The MVP winner this year was Patrick Roy, veteran goaltender for the Avalanche. Goaltenders are a strange breed. They play the entire game and face a barrage of pucks , propelled at speeds of over 100 miles per hour. Although covered from head to toe with padding, goaltenders often are bruised by the sheer force of the pucks hitting them. Their job is purely defensive, keep the puck out of their net. Roy, as he typically is, was brilliant. With a defiant icy stare and skilled athleticism, he denied the Devil shooters when it counted the most, and the trophy was his again, as it had been two times before.
The Avalanche players frequently party at the restaurant where I work, the Denver ChopHouse and Brewery. As Events Director at the restaurant I book, plan, and oversee all special functions. No party had been booked tonight because no one wanted to jinx the team, but I had deliberately not booked The Caboose, our largest banquet room at the back of the restaurant. Sure, there would be a parade, a municipal reception, perhaps even an invitation to the White House. Before all that though, the players would party together as a team. I smiled at the thought of some of them showing up in uniform. Rumor has it that there is an element of superstition involved in not taking off the winning uniforms for at least twenty-four hours after the final game. I wondered if it were true.
And the Stanley Cup itself would be with them. The Cup was donated years ago by Lord Stanley of Preston, the Queen of England's representative to Canada at the time. The Lord left Canada shortly thereafter and neither he nor his heirs have ever seen a Stanley Cup game. The Cup travels with the players of the winning team, each of them getting an allotted period of time with it. In the beginning it was mostly Canadian players taking the Cup back to their hometowns to a reception reminiscent of those for a conquering hero. In more recent times, the Cup has found its way from Time Square in New York to Red Square in Moscow, along with international cities throughout Europe such as Helsinki, Stockholm, and Prague. The Cup has had some adventures, having been forgotten on trains, left on buses or in hotel rooms, and in one bizarre incident, unceremoniously dumped into the Rideau Canal in Ottawa, Canada. Miraculously, it keeps turning up and has grown into one of the most recognizable trophies in sports.
I was excited about the impending party. I had met most of the Avalanche players over the past year and enjoyed flirting with them. Georgie as they called me, short for Georgina, took care of them. Hockey players are always going somewhere, either travelling, playing, or practicing, and I ensured the time they spent at the restaurant was fun and relaxing. Perhaps because the Avalanche as a team had originally played in Quebec City, located in the heart of French speaking Canada, they had a tradition of having several players who spoke French as their first language. The latter found me interesting in that I could converse with them in fluent French, having studied the language as my major in college. It was highly unusual for them to meet an American woman who could speak their language.
In my late thirties, I have a pretty face, innocent looking, yet subtly seductive. I am fit, poised, and sexy. The younger players would occasionally hit on me, mistaking my teasing and good nature for a green light. I sometimes took them up on it. Why should the groupies have all the fun? I am at my sexual peak and one of these virile, athletic young men can literally fuck all night long. Exhausted, and sometimes more than just a little sore the next morning, I would promise myself never to do it again…but never is a very long time.
Most of the veteran players were married, had young families, and were more polished and professional. They realized that the season was long, the travel tiring, and spending the night fucking wasn't going to make it any easier. But they were great to party with. My favorite was Patrick Roy. He would look at me with those incredible icy blue eyes of his and I would feel my pussy getting wet, tingling with excitement. He was supremely confident, patient, and had a serene aura around him. Patrick was Quebecois, from Canada's French speaking province, and 'Roy' means king. He was true to his name.
I had spoken with Patrick only once, the last time he was in the restaurant. He was celebrating becoming the all time leader in games won for a goaltender, surpassing the venerable Terry Sawchuk. I had flirted with him a bit in the past, as part of a group, but this time I actually had a chance to talk with him. "Patrick, you have won the Cup, all the individual goalie trophies, you have most of the goalie records, what challenges are left?" I had asked with some seriousness.
"Georgie, I love the game, I love the fans…especially the beautiful ones," he grinned and winked at me as he said it. I turned a not so pale shade of red, momentarily caught off guard. There was a pause as I recovered. I looked up and those eyes were locked on me, too long to be accidental. I looked away and began to fidget.
'He couldn't be,' I thought. Patrick kept staring. 'He could.' Patrick looked away finally. 'Nah, he's not.' For a moment I thought he was coming on to me and, as the moment passed, I was regretting not being more receptive.
After that thoughts of Patrick began to surface regularly. I would find myself listening to sports reports more attentively, for any news that might be about him. I wasn't obsessive about it, but I had this tinge of anxiety inside. The question of what might have been kept haunting me. At first I wanted to find out, but as time passed, I needed to find out. The next time I see him I promised myself. And Patrick was sure to be here tonight. I just wasn't sure what I was going to do about it.
A quick phone call from my boss confirmed the arrangements. "Good work Georgie, I knew you would have something ready for them," he said. "Tell the staff to stay as long as they can, there will be a bonus. We'll keep the restaurant open past regular closing."
It took six of us to prepare for the Avalanche. The Caboose had its own bar area and should have enough room for all that showed. We chilled down two cases of champagne and prepared an extensive buffet with our best dishes. After the tension of the last few games, the players probably hadn't eaten much and were sure to be hungry! I instructed a small pedestal be placed in the middle of the room where they could put the Cup on display although I had a feeling it wouldn't stay in one place too long. Kevin, our head brewer, surprised me. He had prepared something special, Lord Stanley's Ale he called it, just for the occasion.
News travels fast and the restaurant began to fill with patrons awaiting the arrival of their Stanley Cup champions. The mood was jovial and upbeat but the crowd, though boisterous, was well behaved. The parking lot was completely filled with cars. The players, we were told, would arrive by limousine, and the drivers would park around the back of the restaurant next to the railway tracks.
