Page 103 of Body Check

Jackson looks like there’s nothing he’d love more than to jump out of the closest window.

“Anyminute now.” I roll over onto my back and do my best to kick the smile off my face. “I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind.”

“Hell no. Are you kidding?” He trips over a stray pair of shoes in his haste to pull on a pair of briefs, then half hobbles to the dresser. “You, ma’am, better get your pretty ass dressed. I’m not facing my mom alone after all of—”

Raising up onto my elbows, I stare him down. “All of what?Sex?” You’d think that after all these years of being married, the Beast of the Northeast, theBadassof Hockey, wouldn’t be terrified to talk to his momma about the birds and the bees.

Luckily for him, Momma Martha isn’t our visitor for today.

“Caaarterrrrr!” Ensue banging on the front door.

Right on time.

Jackson’s handsome face turns toward the front of the condo. “Who was that?”

I roll my eyes. God, men. Sometimes you really do have to spell it all out for them. “It was the Ghost of Christmas Past.” I pause, letting him soak up all of that brilliant sarcasm, and then add, “I called in the reinforcements.”

“Carter! We’re coming in and you better be dressed!”

“No naked dicks, either! Unless you really did get that penis reconstructive surgery—then I’m intrigued!”

Jackson pauses halfway in pulling up his jeans, understanding dawning in his expression. “You invited the guys.”

I crawl to the edge of the mattress, then swing my feet to the floor. Naked as the day I was born, I amble over to Jackson and hop up on my tiptoes to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Family doesn’t come down to a piece of paper,” I say, brushing my hand over his bare chest. “It doesn’t matter if you have a hockey contract or a marriage license marking it as true and legal.” Palm flat on his heart, I risk a glance up his face. “You need them just as you need me. Now go let them in before they break the door down.”

“Christ, Holls.” He wraps his arms around me, lifting me off the floor in one of his tight, familiar hugs. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jackson.” Pausing, I tap his chest with a finger. Once. Twice. Then, “Even if you did opt for penis reconstructive surgery.”

I’m over his shoulder in the very next breath, my butt to the ceiling and his palm clamped down on it. “You’re going to pay for that one, sweetheart.”

“Yeah?” I stare at the tight globes of his ass. Honestly, this isn’t a bad view. I could get used to it, gladly. “You’re hereafter banned from the kitchen.”

“Fun-killer.”

“CARTER! Goddamn, will you two stop hooking up and let us in?”

Eventually, Jackson puts me down.

Eventually, I dress before he lets his teammates inside.

I watch them like a military sergeant watches his platoon members, checking each one off my mental list as they come to talk with Jackson and offer him an ear from his peers, people who know the risks of the game.

Duke Harrison.

Andre Beaumont.

Marshall Hunt.

Henri Bordeaux.

Weston Cain.

Turns out, the immature one in the Safe Space group thread was the rookie, Josh Kammer, and he comes in too, bringing up the rear.

They crowd Jackson in the living room, threatening to sit on his face if he doesn’t open up and tell them everything. When I pause in the kitchen to gather plates and utensils for the food Duke brought, I grab my phone and scroll through the new group message I began on our separate drives back to Jackson’s condo, appropriately titled,The Best Group Thread To Ever Exist.

Me: Rules of this thread.

---