Hocey Mom Scores

We were getting creamed. It was a full assault, head-to-head, old-fashioned butt kicking.

Having played, coached and observed ice hockey for more than 20 years, I knew there would be games like this. But they seem to come when you least expect it.

It was not yet 7 a.m. and my merry band of players were losing 6-1 in a league game we were supposed to win. The boys gave up at about the 3 minute mark of the first period when we feel behind, 3-0, and things got worse from there. Looking back, it was probably the fact that two lumberjacks were playing for the opposition, two 13-year-olds who, if, rumor had it straight were going on 30, shaved and had families of their own. Nah, they were just big, really big. And mean. And, well, dominating. They were like Godzilla in that they swatted my svelte little munchkins all over the ice.

Nobody likes to lose, but much has been written about domineering parents and their influence over youngsters in sports. In ice hockey, a game where aggressiveness is rewarded and meekness rejected, there is a fine line between heads up, strong play and violence. Witness the Massachusetts case of the hockey dad's conviction for manslaughter of a youth hockey coach after a chippy practice session.

One has to remember, it is just a game. A kids' game at that. It's supposed to be a challenge, sure, but it's also about fun.

Coming off the ice after the 10-1 debacle, one of the parents put it short, sweet and succinct: the kids stunk but you stink.

Ignoring the ignoramus, I charged into the locker room to address the beaten troops. There wasn't much to say, but part of the job of being a coach is to build up the sprits as well as yell and scream. Since I did a lot of the latter during the game I decided to do more of the former after it.

Kids are funny. They come in all hot and bothered, ticked off with the defeat, but within minutes they are throwing tape, joking around and oblivious to the happenings of the game. I attempted to lecture, to do that coaching thing, but realized quickly that would have to wait for another time. The boys' minds were off to the rest of the day and the X's and O's would have to wait for Wednesday's practice.

I finished my speech, left the room, and was immediately struck by the skirt, or lack of, worn by Mrs. Morgan. Her son Josh played for my team, and she was always a pleasure to look at. She stood about 5-3, with long blonde hair and a shapely body to go with it. The wife of an airline pilot, she regularly brought her boy to practices and games and a smile to my face. The woman did not dress for an ice hockey rink, and she always was in a skirt, leaving those long white legs open to the cool rink air and the warm looks from my (and every other male's) eyes. The other moms, I believed, hated her for her flirty behavior, but never said a negative word to her face.

Today Mrs. Morgan looked adorable, but her frown indicated something was amiss in hockeytown.

There were no friendly words, no attempts at small talk. Mrs. Morgan got right to the point.

"Josh didn't seem to play a lot today," she calmly said. "Was he hurt?"

"No Mrs. Morgan, we were trying some things out and I just couldn't work him in," I replied. It was a regular conversation, as young Josh, well, stunk. It was a weak link in a team that couldn't afford the liabilities he brought to the ice.

"He certainly won't get better if he doesn't play. You should know that, coach," said the woman, emphatically speaking her mind.

She was right, but young Josh was a liability to the team. Of course, on a team that lost 10-1 and which is barely above .500 for the season, did it matter? Probably not. But it did give me the opportunity to speak with the mother of all mothers. "He'll get his shot."

She nodded, and I left the rink.

On Wednesday night, while waiting for the Zamboni machine to finish its cutting of the ice before our practice, she again addressed the ice time situation. "We're a development team, and Josh should be playing more to develop his skills," she said, as if reading from our club's mission statement. "He's getting half the ice time and that's not fair."

It wasn't fair, but life isn't fair. I had a particularly bad week at the office, my girlfriend, or should I say ex-girlfriend, told me for the 27th time I was history and not to call her, my two key stock holdings had tanked and now Mrs. Morgan was on my case.

Attractiveness only goes a certain distance, and she felt the brunt of my crappy week.

"Do YOU want to coach this team?" I snarled. "Look, you can double my pay, my zero pay that is, and I will tell you the same thing. Josh is a nice kid, but he doesn't work hard and frankly is a liability on the ice. I will work him in as I can, and I will work with him in practice. But more than that I can't promise..."

I jumped onto the ice and skated to the bench, thinking all the while how unfair of me it was to take out all my frustrations on the woman. Soon 17 kids jumped onto the ice and it was time to work at playing hockey, and thoughts of mothers and fathers and stock investments and ex-girlfriends and unreasonable bosses went by the wayside. We were in our own little world of suggestions, commands and chalkboards. I left the rink after practice, downed a beer at home watching some silly documentary, and then drifted off to sleep.

The following night at practice --- we were on the ice developing our skills two nights a week --- turned out to be a dozy. Midway through the slot I noticed Mrs. Morgan sitting alone in the cold metal bleachers. The other parents had deserted her, moving upstairs to the warm overlook. She stood out even more as she sat in the stands with her short yellow skirt high on her thighs. Her attractive legs caught my eyes and I know she caught me staring. If I didn't know better I would have thought she was trying to entice me with a little glimpse up her thighs.

After practice she pulled me aside. "Will Josh be playing more this weekend?"

I shrugged.

She stared at me. I stared at her. The battle of unrelenting stares.

After a bit she blinked. "What would it take to get him more time on the ice? Is there anything I can do?" she wondered.

"Well, he needs to work harder in practice, he needs to play his position instead of running all over the ice, and he could use some skating lessons," I started my reply. "He needs to get a little more commitment..."

Mrs. Morgan interrupted me. "I know all that, and I will talk with him about it. But what I mean is, what can I do to expedite the process? I want him playing more now."

My eyes opened wide and I looked at the woman with surprise. Was she coming on to me? Was she willing to trade favors for favors? No way. This was only kid’s hockey. I had heard of groupies and loose women around the pros, but this was kids hockey for crying out loud. Still, the woman had made a teasing statement. I decided to call her bluff.

"Where there is a will there is a way, Mrs. Morgan."

She looked at me for a minute and then smiled. We looked at each other for a while, mentally sparring with each other.

Finally she broke the ice with a question. "Have you ever been ejected from a game?" she asked.

What a strange question, I thought.

"No, why?"

"I understand that if you are thrown out of the game you have to leave the rink. Is that right?

Nodding my head, I said yes.

"Can you leave the rink and wait in the locker room?"

Shrugging, I said, "Yea, I guess so. I just have to be out of the rink proper and not communicate with the team."

The woman smiled again. "I'd like to talk with you for a few minutes this weekend. I'm thinking I will be in the locker room, after the first period. If you we there we could, uh, talk about Josh's situation."

Bells and whistles went off in my head. Was it a trap, what did she mean. When she said talk, did she mean talk or talk? Still, I'm no dummy; I nodded and said, "We'll see."

On Saturday we played the Panthers in a non-league game, and true to form, we were behind 3-1 in the first period after giving up a couple of really bad goals. The referees, one of whom was a close friend, made several questionable calls. In between the first and second periods I noticed Mrs. Morgan get up and leave the stands. I called over my buddy and asked a favor. "Jackie, help me out here. The parents are giving me a hard time and I need a break. How about giving me the boot?"

"Huh?"

"I'm gonna question a call and I need you to eject me from the game!"

Jackie shook his head, but sure enough, two minutes into the second period, he gave me the old heave ho for questioning a call. The parents cheered as I left the ice surface, and I calmly exited with a dejected look on my face. That look was turned into a smile when I entered locker room three. Mrs. Morgan was sitting on the far bench, she had ditched her bulky overcoat and red cashmere sweater, and she looked stunning in her sexy outfit consisting of a black micro skirt with black spike heels and pretty red blouse.

"Were you a bad boy out there coach?" she asked, stepping to the door and locking it. "We don't have much time, but before we leave here I want your commitment that Josh will be playing an equal shift the rest of the year."

The negotiations had begun. "Let's say I agree. Equal, except not on penalty kills or power plays...what do I get?"

She sat me down on the bench, swiveled, and modeled her skimpy outfit. "I'm married, and and I don't cheat on my husband." She looked at me. "But maybe a little foreplay...?"

With that Mrs. Morgan, sweet, sexy Mrs. Morgan, knelt at my feet.

I leaned back on the hard wooden bench, a disbelieving look on my face, and slowly spread my legs. The woman looked at my face, then toward my middle section. She reached for my zipper and slipped it down, opening my coaching pants. I lifted my hips off the bench as she reached around, grasping the heavy fabric of my jockstrap, and slid the contraption down my legs. She took it off one leg but left it dangle on the other, giving me room to open my legs and display my cock.

"Don't you like me?" she asked, not me but looking at my still flaccid cock. Having been cooped up in the confines of the jock for an hour, my dick had turtled itself. Although it was lengthening, it was still tiny, so I asked the woman to kiss it hard.

"Come on, Mrs. Morgan, kiss it," I said, watching her face just inches from my musky manhood.

She kissed my cock, then ovaled her mouth and started to suck the tip.

"Whoa, kiss it, kiss it," I emphatically stated. I wanted to watch her pucker up and kiss the cock all over.

She got the idea, and held it at the base while planting kisses first on the tip, then wide, then all the way down near her hand. I smiled as I watched the woman lovingly smooch the hardening missile all over, bathing it in kisses and spit. She looked up and me and I nodded, giving her approval and encouragement. She raised her eyes, as if to ask if she could suck it, and I nodded my head.

"Suck my cock!" I groaned, "Suck it."

She did, slowly at first. Kneeling on the locker room floor, amid the empty equipment bags and their companion hockey smell, the Hockey Mom began orally pleasing my manhood.

She was a fine cocksucker, shifting the speed of her delivery from a slow, tantalizing suck to a frantic head-bobbing blowjob. She brought me to the edge of explosion on several occasions, only to back off and delay my ultimate satisfaction.

Mrs. Morgan had a master's in cocksucking, and her airline pilot husband had to be flying with a smile on his face thinking about the sexual prowess of his pretty wife.

The woman backed off my cock and opened the top two buttons of her blouse. Displayed were the firm tops of lovely white breasts, encased in a silky red bra. I placed my hands on her breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze before caressing them. "Mrs. Morgan, I think your son will be getting more ice time!"

The woman smiled and began stroking my now hard cock. Our arms nudged each other as they jockeyed for position, mine stroking her creamy tits while hers playing with my cock and balls.

Deep inside I felt my explosion starting. She looked so beautiful stroking my dick, I hadn't cum in weeks, and my body would not hold out no matter how much I wanted to delay.

I reached over to her head and pulled it toward my cock. She opened her mouth and dropped her head onto my cock. She sucked it with abandon, bobbing her head up and down on my mushrooming cocksickle. My sperm began to boil deep in my balls, and I maneuvered her head up and on and about my cock before it erupted pellets into her mouth. "HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES," I thought, laughing at myself as I groaned in pleasure.

The woman gulped and swallowed but couldn't capture all my sauce, as the last couple of bursts hit her cheek.

My head was leaning back against the wall as she cleaned off my dick, licking up all the sticky sperm and swallowing it with a knowing smile.

"I think," she finally said, "that the coach liked that play."

I rolled my eyes, still savoring her actions. Looking down, I noticed some of my sperm dripping down her face, while she reached over and first captured some on her fingers then cleaned them in her mouth. She made a show of swallowing my cum, and my cock jerked a bit.

"That was fantastic, Mrs. Morgan, fantastic," I finally said. "I think you carried out the play better than I diagramed it."

She laughed, I smiled, and we both shook our heads.

"Now don't forget our deal," she said after dabbing the cum off her face with a skate towel and smoothing down her skirt. "I better get out of here before we are caught, but you better not welsh on our deal.

I didn't, and Josh saw his ice time increase in subsequent games. I rode him hard in practice, his mom got him some skating lessons, and by the end of the season he was a pretty good player. We even made the playoffs.

Mrs. Morgan and I were friendly but did not get intimate again. Still, she surprised me at a practice this week.

"Do you think Josh could be on the penalty killing team in the playoffs?" she cooed, a mischievous smile creeping onto her face.

"Where there's a will, Mrs. Morgan, there's a way."