🔥 Session Plan 🔥
An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Goalie Problems by Tessa Valehart
⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus chapter takes place three months after the epilogue of Goalie Problems. It contains major spoilers and very explicit sexual content (18+), and it runs hotter than the book. Read the novel first for the full experience.
Alexei’s side of the first road trip of the new season: a hotel room in her name, a mirror, a plan in pencil with the times on it, and the thing Wren has waited six months to ask for. Explicit content — 18+.
Session Plan
Barrett stops twenty-nine, and I open a gate for sixty minutes, and at 9:52 I’m standing in a hotel corridor that doesn’t belong to the club.
That last part matters. I’ve read clause six twice. Club buildings are for work. The team is four blocks south, in a tower with our logo on a stand in the lobby. This is a different hotel. A conference is paying for it. The name on the booking is hers.
Her message came in the second intermission. I read it with a towel round my neck and my hand on the gate.
Room 1408. 10:00. Bring nothing.
She said that to me once about a video room, in my second day of knowing her. I brought nothing then as well. I’ve brought nothing for six months, and I keep leaving with more than I came with.
Curfew on the road is midnight. I knock at 9:59, because I’d like it on the record that I was early.
Wren opens the door in my black team hoodie and, as far as I can tell, no other thing on this earth.
Her hair is down. It’s been in a braid all day, in front of two hundred goaltending coaches, and it has the kink in it still. On the desk behind her there’s a lanyard. WREN CASSIDY. CREASE THEORY GOALTENDING. Under that, one word. PRESENTER.
“That’s good plastic,” I tell her.
“It’s the best plastic I’ve ever had.” She takes me by the tie and brings me in. “You’re a minute early.”
“I’m told your timestamps are worth nothing.”
“Tonight they’re worth a great deal. Coat off. Read.”
There’s a hotel notepad on the pillow. She’s filled the top sheet in pencil, in the small square hand I know from eight session plans and one lease.
SESSION PLAN. A. Volkov. Filed by W. Cassidy.
10:00. Arrive. Coat off.
10:05. Item 1. The mirror.
10:25. Item 2. Mine.
10:40. Item 3.
Item three has been written, and crossed out, and written again, and crossed out. The third time she’s pressed hard enough to dent the paper.
Item 3. What I didn’t have the nerve to ask for in April. All of it. I’m asking.
11:20. Item 4. Nothing. Twenty minutes. No hosting.
11:40. Out the door. Curfew.
I read it the way I read a shooter. Then I read item three a second time, slowly, and something low in my body sits up.
“April,” I say. “My bed. The night of the melon.”
“Your thumb.” Her ears have gone pink. She’s holding my eyes anyway. “You put it somewhere, and I came so hard I blew a whistle for the first time in my life. Then I spent six months not putting it in a sentence.”
“Put it in one now.”
“You can read.”
“I can read. I’d like to hear you ask.”
She breathes in. I watch her do the thing she did on my hall floor, with a number. She checks the sentence over before it leaves.
“I want you to fuck my ass, Alexei. Slowly, with the lights on. I’ve got a bottle in that drawer, and I’ve got forty minutes on the plan, and whistle still means what it means.”
No if you’d like. No sorry. I’ve stopped a breakaway in overtime and been less affected.
“Yes,” I say. It isn’t steady. “It’s the only word I’ll be listening for.”
“I know. That’s why I can ask you.” She taps the pad. “It’s 10:04. You’re still wearing a tie.”
The mirror is on the inside of the closet door, full length, and she’s angled the door so that it faces the bed. Of course she has.
I stand her in front of it. I stand behind her. I’m a head taller, and in the glass my hands look very large on the hem of my own hoodie.
“You watch tape of everyone,” I tell her ear. “Eleven children. A third-round pick. Me, forty-two times. You’ve never once watched yourself.”
“There’s never been a camera.”
“There’s one now. Arms.”
She puts her arms up, and I take the hoodie off over her head.
I’ve seen her bare in a lamp, in a shower, in the grey light of a warehouse at seven in the morning. I’ve never seen her look. She does it now. Her eyes go down her own body in the glass, the freckles on her shoulders, her breasts, the white three inches on her left hip, the dark red curls between her thighs. Then they come up and find mine.
“Well?” I say.
“Good bones.”
I laugh into her hair. Then I stop laughing, because I’ve put one palm flat on her stomach and slid the other down, and she’s wet already. She’s been wet since she wrote the plan. I can tell. I part her with two fingers and hold her open, so that she can see.
“Alexei.”
“Eyes open. This is the session.”
I stroke her slowly, the long way. In the mirror her mouth parts. I circle her clit with the flat of two fingers, light, and watch her watch it, my wrist moving between her legs, her own hips starting to roll. She reaches back with both hands and takes hold of my thighs through my trousers. I’m hard against the small of her back. She presses into it on purpose.
“Tell me what you see,” I say. She made me do it once, in a chair, with thirty-five saves on a wall.
“Your hand. God. How big it is on me.” Her breath catches. “My face. I look—”
“Say it.”
“Greedy.”
“Yes. Accurate.” I push two fingers up into her, deep, and she goes up on her toes. “Look how you take that. Look at what I’ve been looking at since March.”
I’ve a rule about her tells. I don’t hurry them. The flush comes up from her collarbones. Her knees want to close and I put my foot between her feet and keep them apart. I work her with my fingers and the heel of my hand, and I set my teeth where her neck meets her shoulder, and in the glass her eyes are wide and brown-green and they don’t leave the place where I’m inside her.
She comes like that, standing, watching it happen to her. Her whole body pulls tight against mine. She says my name to the woman in the mirror, as if she’s introducing us.
I hold her up until her legs come back.
“10:19,” she says, unsteady. “You’re under budget.”
“I’m thorough. It isn’t the same as slow.”
Item two is hers. She said so in writing.
She undresses me herself. Tie, shirt, belt. She folds the trousers over the chair, because I’ve a curfew and a bus in the morning. Then she sits me on the end of the bed, facing the mirror, and kneels on the carpet between my feet with a pillow under her knees. She’s planned for the pillow.
“Hands?” I ask. Last time it was armrests.
“Wherever you like. I’ve revised a lot of things.”
I put them in her hair.
She takes me into her mouth without hurry and without mercy. She knows me now. She knows the ridge under the head, and what her tongue does there, and that if she looks up at me while she does it I’ll say something my mother shouldn’t hear. I say it. She hums, pleased, and takes me deeper, her fist tight and wet round what her mouth can’t reach.
I can see all of it twice. Her head moving in my lap. And in the glass the long line of her back, her heels tucked under her, her red hair wound round my fist.
“Wren. I’m close. Move, or—”
She pulls off for exactly as long as it takes to speak.
“I told you once, not in my mouth. That’s one of the things I’ve revised.”
She goes back down, all the way, and swallows round me, and I’m finished. I come down her throat with both hands in her hair and a sound I’d deny in any language. She takes all of it. She holds my eyes while she does, and she looks very much like a woman crossing a line off a list.
When I can see again, she’s sitting back on her heels, wiping her mouth with her thumb.
“10:36.”
“You’ve killed me. Item three is cancelled. There is no one left to perform it.”
“Item three has a twenty-minute warm-up built in.” She gets up and kisses me. I can taste myself. “I looked up what a man of thirty-four needs. I padded it.”
“You scouted my recovery.”
“It’s the only thing about your body I’m still allowed to have an opinion on.”
She lies down on her stomach in the lamplight, with a pillow under her hips and her cheek on her folded arms. The bottle’s on the nightstand. Her eyes are on the mirror, and so on me.
I don’t begin where she expects.
I begin at the back of her neck. I’ve twenty minutes, and I use them. I kiss down her spine, one bone at a time. I kiss the two dimples at the base of it. I spread my hands on her, and open her, and put my mouth where my thumb was in April.
“Oh.” It goes out of her as if she’s been tipped over. “Oh, you— that isn’t on the plan.”
“It’s on mine.”
I lick her there, slowly, flat and soft, and then not soft. She makes a sound into her arm that I’ve never heard, high and shocked and delighted. She pushes back against my tongue. I slide two fingers into her cunt at the same time, because she’s dripping, and because I’m greedy as well.
“More,” she says. She’s coaching. She can’t help it. “Slower. No. Yes. There.”
I warm the oil in my palm before it goes anywhere near her. One finger. I give it to her by fractions and read every one. Her breath. The muscles in her back. The way her toes curl into the sheet when it stops being strange and starts being good.
“Tell me.”
“Full. It’s— God, it’s so much, and it’s one finger. Give me the second.”
I give her the second. I take a long time about it. I turn my wrist, and she swears at the headboard, and by then I’m hard again, as hard as I was at the door. She scouted it to the minute.
“Now,” she says. “Alexei. I’m asking.”
“On our sides. It’s kinder.”
“To what?”
“To two bad left hips.”
She laughs, and it shakes all the way through her, and that’s how I come up behind her. On our sides, facing the glass. Her back against my chest, her top knee drawn up, my arm under her head. I slick myself until I’m dripping with it. I fit the head of my cock against her, and I wait.
“Breathe out,” I tell her. “You hold it. You always hold it.”
She breathes out. I press in.
It’s slow. It’s the slowest thing I’ve ever done. She’s tight beyond anything, a hot close ring, and she gives a fraction at a time, and each time she gives I stop and let her have it. Her hand comes back and grips my hip. Not stopping me. Holding on.
“Wren.”
“I’m all right. I’m more than all right. More.”
I give her more. I watch her face in the mirror the whole way, the crease between her brows, her mouth open, her eyes going dark and far away and then coming back to find mine. When I’m all the way inside her, my hips against her, neither of us moves.
“Look,” I say. I can hardly get it out. “Look at you.”
She looks. At herself, on her side in the lamplight with her knee up and my arm across her breasts. At my face over her shoulder, which is not the face of a calm man.
“You’re shaking,” she whispers.
“Yes. Bozhe moy. You’ve no idea what this is.”
“Then move, and show me.”
I move. Short and slow, barely leaving her. She makes that sound again, the new one, and I’d give back a trophy to hear it twice. I put my hand between her legs. She’s soaked. I rub her clit in the small tight circles she taught me on a desk, and I don’t change anything, and she starts to move with me. Back onto my cock, forward into my fingers. She’s taking it from both of us.
“Harder?” I ask.
“Deeper. Not harder. Stay slow, I want to feel every— yes. Like that. Don’t you dare speed up.”
“I’ve nowhere to be until 11:40.”
“Stop being funny inside me.”
“No.”
I’m not going to last, and I don’t try. There’s no score tonight. There’s only the heat of her, and her fingers digging into my hip, and the two of us in a mirror in a room with her name on it. I push two fingers of my other hand into her cunt, from the front, so that she’s full everywhere. Her eyes go wide in the glass.
“Alexei. I’m going to— it’s different, it’s so much bigger, I can’t—”
“You can. I have you. Let it come.”
She comes with her whole body. It starts somewhere deep and it doesn’t stop. She clamps down round me so hard that I see nothing at all, and she cries out, loud, a long broken sound she doesn’t try to keep in. It’s her room. She can be as loud as she likes.
It takes me with it. I come buried in her, with my face in her hair and my arm locked round her, saying it in Russian and then in English, both, over and over, the way I learned to on a stack of rubber mats.
“11:14,” she says, some time later, into my arm. “Item four.”
I’ve started to get up.
“That’s hosting.”
“It’s a warm cloth. It’s hygiene.”
She considers it. “Granted. Then nothing.”
So I fetch the cloth, and I take my time over her, and she lets me. Then I lie down, and she puts her cold feet between my calves, and I do nothing for twenty minutes. It’s the hardest item on the page.
“Tell me about the talk,” I say. That isn’t hosting. That’s listening, which is the thing I’m for.
“Two hundred coaches. I showed them a recovery push, no name on it, no face. A man at the back asked who signs my reports.” I can feel her smile against my skin. “I said, I do.”
“And Dana?”
“One line. Saw the program. They spelled it correctly.”
“From her, that’s a sonnet.”
“I’m proud of you,” I say. I’ve not said it before, in either language. I thought she knew. It’s better said.
She doesn’t answer. She only turns her face into my chest and stays there until 11:38.
I dress. She sits up in the sheet and watches me knot my tie, and when I’m done she takes the pencil and writes two words across the bottom of the plan, and the time.
Completed. 11:40. Under it, her name. In full.
“May I keep it?”
“What for?”
“I’d like a record.”
She tears off the sheet and tucks it into my breast pocket herself.
“You start tomorrow,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Section 104. Row fourteen. I asked for the row.”
“I know. I’ll look once.”
“Look twice. I’ve paid for the seat.” She pushes me toward the door with one cold hand flat on my chest. “Go. You’re a minute behind.”
I walk four blocks south with a session plan over my heart. The lobby of the team hotel has a clock above the desk, and a wolf on a stand, and Barrett asleep in an armchair with his cap over his face.
My telephone lights as the elevator doors close.
11:52. She’s done that on purpose.
Thursday. Home. Same plan. I’ve left item three in.
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