Archive of Our Own

Scarlett arrived swallowed inside Riri’s oversized hoodie, which made her look smaller than usual. Tam noticed the garment, perhaps because it was plainly not Scarlett’s size. Scarlett caught her looking and decided to reveal the joke.

She gripped the hem and pulled the hoodie slowly over her head. Underneath, instead of more loose layers, she wore a close black top and short skirt, the sudden shift in silhouette dramatic enough that Tam’s gaze visibly reset. Scarlett folded the huge hoodie neatly against her chest, pointed toward Tam and then toward the garment as though offering it to her. Then she pointed toward herself. The implication expanded the offer considerably. Tam laughed, eyes travelling over the outfit that had been hidden beneath Riri’s clothes. Scarlett laid the hoodie beside her and left it there for the rest of the game, occasionally patting it when Tam looked over as though reminding her that the proposed theft remained available. She didn’t redress or repeat the reveal. The excitement came from transformation: one moment Scarlett was almost concealed inside somebody else’s oversized clothing; the next she was unmistakably herself and openly inviting Tam to appreciate the difference.

They traded hoodies in the hallway and did not take them off. Tam’s smelled like rink soap and her. Scarlett’s smelled like her perfume and the inside of a coat. They fucked in the stolen cloth — Scarlett on her back in Tam’s hoodie ridden up to her throat, Tam’s mouth on her, Tam later wearing Scarlett’s and grinding down until the fabric between them was soaked. Scent was the kink. After they came they swapped back and immediately missed the wrong one.

Ange’s dramatic reactions delighted Scarlett. When Ange objected extravagantly to a call, throwing her body into the complaint as though personally betrayed by the laws of hockey, Scarlett immediately mirrored her from behind the glass.

She pressed one hand to her chest and widened her eyes in theatrical devastation. Ange saw her and nearly laughed mid-protest. Scarlett maintained the tragic expression while slowly sliding that hand downward from sternum to waist. The emotional pantomime stayed identical; only the path of her fingers changed the meaning. Ange’s complaint died entirely as her eyes followed. Scarlett let the hand settle at her hip and gave a tiny, mournful shake of her head, as though the true injustice were now how much Ange wanted to keep looking. Ange finally broke into a grin and pushed away from the official. Later, whenever she reacted dramatically to anything, she checked Scarlett almost automatically. Scarlett sometimes mirrored the expression without adding anything sexual, keeping Ange uncertain about when the transformation might occur again. She never repeated the downward hand movement. Its one appearance had been sufficient to make every subsequent piece of mock tragedy feel potentially dangerous.

Body-safe paint, blue. Ange asked where she could leave a mark; Scarlett offered the inside of her thigh and took Ange’s hip in return. They painted each other in streaks and handprints and then smeared it fucking — Scarlett on her back, Ange’s marked hand on her breast, blue transferring to sheets they would regret. Ange came first, theatrical even in pleasure. Scarlett came looking at the print on her own skin, a temporary claim that would wash off and still feel like league history.

Em’s attention normally travelled everywhere, and Scarlett found that scattered energy attractive enough to want the opposite from her. She decided that every time Em reached the bench, she would provide one distraction strong enough to hold.

On the first visit Scarlett slowly crossed her legs and then became still. Em watched the movement all the way through. On the next, Scarlett allowed one shoulder of her top to slip bare, met Em’s gaze and left it there until Em went back onto the ice. Later she traced one finger around the edge of her neckline in a single continuous motion. Each gesture was visually simple, distinct and impossible to misplace among the noise of the rink. Gradually Em stopped scanning the crowd when she sat down. She looked directly for Scarlett. That change excited Scarlett more than any blush would have. She had taken attention that usually scattered in six directions and made herself its fixed destination. By the final period Scarlett no longer needed to perform at all; she merely leaned forward, met Em’s eyes and smiled. Em stayed focused on her until the bench door opened.

A soft cuff around one wrist and Scarlett’s other hand on her hip: stay present. No wandering, no sudden need to fix a thing in the room. Em had one job. Scarlett kept her there with mouth and weight until Em’s attention, which usually went everywhere, locked onto the single point of contact. Em came focused and startled. Scarlett came with Em still held in place, because making a scattered woman stay had been the whole restraint.

Kit’s immaculate footwear caught Scarlett before anything else. Even around hockey equipment Kit had the air of someone who cared about presentation, and Scarlett appreciated a woman who noticed details from the ground upward. At the next game Scarlett arrived in excellent black boots of her own, paired with a short skirt that made absolutely sure Kit could see where the boots ended.

She waited until Kit noticed. Then Scarlett propped one boot lightly on the empty seat ahead of her and ran a hand along the leather from ankle upward, not caressing herself so much as presenting the line. Her fingers continued over the top of the boot to the beginning of her knee, where she stopped, looked directly at Kit and pointed toward Kit’s own footwear in acknowledgment. Kit looked down at hers, back at Scarlett’s, then let her gaze travel deliberately farther up Scarlett’s leg than the compliment strictly required. Scarlett’s grin sharpened. For the rest of the game their looks became a kind of visual inspection: Kit catching the angle of Scarlett’s crossed ankles, Scarlett noticing Kit when she stepped over the boards, each appreciating the other’s deliberate style. The pleasure for Scarlett was that the seduction had begun with something specific Kit cared about rather than generic exposure.

Kit’s boots stayed on. So did the rest of her longer than practicality required. Scarlett knelt and worshipped the leather first — ankle to knee, the same line she had traced at the rink — then the woman inside it. Kit remained immaculate while Scarlett got messy, mouth wet, braids coming loose against Kit’s thigh. Luxury submission: Scarlett indulged the vanity out loud, told her she looked expensive even like this, and came on Kit’s polished floor with one boot braced beside her cheek.

Scarlett realised quickly that Dani noticed construction before exposure. Dani registered a good coat, a clean silhouette, the way a skirt sat over somebody’s hips, the difference between clothing thrown on and clothing chosen. That made Scarlett excited in a very particular way. She dressed for Dani instead of merely dressing provocatively: a long black coat falling almost severe around her, fitted skirt beneath, boots polished, blouse shaped neatly through the waist. For most of the first period she gave Dani no reveal at all. She simply let the other woman notice details in fragments whenever she passed close to the boards.

During the intermission, with the players still near the bench, Scarlett finally caught Dani looking directly at her. She stood, undid the coat slowly and opened it all the way. There was no flashing gesture. Scarlett turned one quarter-turn, paused so Dani could see the line through her waist and hip, pivoted enough to give her the back view, then looked over her shoulder to confirm Dani was still watching. Dani absolutely was. Scarlett closed the coat again before sitting, making the whole thing feel less like exposure than a private runway showing conducted for one woman. Dani came out for the next period visibly more alert to Scarlett’s position in the rink. Even when the puck was at the opposite end, her eyes kept making brief returns to the stands, evidently hoping there might be a second outfit reveal. Scarlett gave her none. The exclusivity of the first had been the point.

Dani kept the trousers and the waistcoat. Protocol became the room: Scarlett sat where she was told, approached when she was invited, touched only after Dani nodded. Glamour turned into structure. Scarlett ended up on her knees between those tailored knees, eating Dani out with her hands folded behind her back because that was the etiquette. Dani came without wrinkling the waistcoat. Then she unbuttoned exactly enough to return the favor with the same formal heat, and Scarlett came with her cheek against wool.

JoJo’s appetite for harmless secrets gave Scarlett a route that had nothing to do with broad exhibition. During a stoppage she took a small card from her bag, wrote a sentence on it and waited until JoJo was near enough to read through the glass. Then she pressed it flat against the pane: I’m not wearing what you think I’m wearing under this.

JoJo’s eyes immediately dropped to Scarlett’s clothes. Scarlett folded the card before anyone else nearby could read it. She opened her coat only a few inches, just enough for a thin edge of black lace to appear at the neckline, then closed it again and tucked the card away. That was all. JoJo’s imagination did the remaining work. Through the entire next period she kept glancing toward Scarlett whenever there was a lull, visibly trying to solve a problem for which she had been given deliberately inadequate evidence. Scarlett occasionally caught her looking and tapped one finger against her lips, reinforcing the secrecy rather than providing another glimpse. JoJo returned to the bench after one shift and leaned toward a teammate as though dying to tell her something, then apparently remembered that sharing it would spoil her privileged position. Scarlett saw the struggle and grinned. The flirtation thrilled JoJo because it had turned her favourite currency—private information—into something intimate that belonged only to the two of them.

Every escalation cost a secret. JoJo gave up a crush, a ridiculous fantasy, the name of a teammate she had once stared at too long. Scarlett demanded one about JoJo herself before she took her pants off, then another before she put her mouth on her. JoJo thought gossip made her unbeatable until she was the subject. By the time Scarlett was two fingers deep JoJo was confessing things that were not harmless at all, and she came with her face in Scarlett’s neck, still talking, finally the story instead of the teller.

Mel’s love of dancing gave Scarlett a chance to flirt through movement without turning the rink into a performance for everyone. During a long stoppage Scarlett caught Mel at the bench, found her eyes and began with the smallest possible sway of her hips. It was subtle enough that someone sitting beside Scarlett might have assumed she was shifting her weight.

Mel noticed immediately. Scarlett rolled one shoulder, then the other, letting the motion travel gently through her torso. She gave Mel a few seconds of a private little dance—hips tracing a slow rhythm, one hand slipping along her own waist, head tilting as if she could hear music nobody else could. The instant the official prepared to restart play Scarlett stopped completely and sat down. Mel stared at her as though the interruption were personally offensive. On her next visit to the bench she pointed toward Scarlett and made an unmistakable circular motion with one hand: again. Scarlett shook her head, smiling. The request itself had become the reward. Later she gave Mel only three more seconds, a controlled little hip roll followed by a beckoning curl of one finger. Mel laughed and pushed back onto the ice visibly energised, now checking every stoppage to see whether Scarlett might decide there was time for another measure.

Whoever had the stereo had the room. Scarlett put on something slow and made Mel wait, grinding against her with maddening patience. Mel lunged for the skip button, flipped it to something with a beat, and took Scarlett from behind to the new tempo. Scarlett stole the remote back mid-thrust and dropped the track to a ballad just to watch Mel snarl. They came on a song neither of them would admit to owning, switching who was on top with every change, laughing when the neighbors thumped the wall.