Page 101 of From Fling to Ring

“Not at all. It’s very practical. If I wear shoes, my feet are too warm, and if I just wear the flops, my feet get cold. This is the perfect compromise. My feet love them.” He pokes me in the ribs where he knows I’m massively ticklish. “Hey, at least I don’t brush my teeth in the shower.”

Oh my God. What am I doing with this man? “Come on. What’s wrong with that?”

“Um, it’s gross. How about that?”

“If I have to explain the logic behind shower teeth-brushing, then it’s already too late for you,” I say.

“Fine. I’ll learn to live with it. Just promise not to do my laundry anymore. Or remove the tape from my stick.”

I play-slap him. “That was only once that I messed up your stick. And I’ve apologized for turning your shirts pink about a hundred times. I even went out and bought you some new ones.”

He nods. “You did, and I appreciate your effort to try and redeem your guilty ass. However, my favorite shirt ever was in that load of laundry. So I feel I have the right to gripe about it until the end of time.”

I shrug. “Okay. I get it. Don’t blame you.”

“And darlin’,” he says, “while we’re discussing quirks, no more pre-game dinners. Really. I can handle meals myself.”

I look at him, puzzled. “I don’t know why my chili dogs with cheese are not a good pre-game meal. They are very nutritious, not to mention yummy. Petal and Gilly love them.”

“You guys also like those ‘girl dinners,’ which consist of a hunk of cheese and some kind of prosciutto or whatever you call it.”

Really? “It’s called a charcuterie board, and it’s delicious.”

He frowns. “It may be, but a dinner it is not.”

‘Girl dinner.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

I crawl on top of him where he sits on the sofa and straddle his lap. He tries to look around me at the TV, but I keep moving to block his view.

Tormenting this man is one of my favorite past times.

“You hockey guys are so weird with your superstitions. But I do like your clean-shaven face,” I say, running my fingertips over his smooth skin.

“It’s not weird. All athletes have routines and superstitions. Like, did you know, I always put my left skate on before my right?”

I’m now running my fingernails over his scalp, something I know he can’t resist. “Weird. That’s all I have to say.”

His eyes close as he falls into a mini-trance. “Mmmm-hmmm,” he mumbles.

“You like this?” I whisper.

“Yeah. Baby, I’m so glad you’re back,” he moans.

“Is that all you want me for? My head scratches?”

His eyes fly open. “Silly girl,” he says, then scoops his hands under my ass and stands up.

“Oooh, be careful,” I scream, hanging off his neck.

With my legs wrapped around him, he lumbers toward the bedroom, where he drops me on the bed and starts sliding my jeans down to my ankles.

“Darling,” I say, “we just did the deed. Are you already ready for more?”

“What do you think?” he asks, pointing at the bulge in his jeans.

He flips me over onto my knees in a powerful move, and I break into giggles at his caveman touch.

“Oh, baby,” I croon, “I love when you manhandle me.”

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