Page 107 of Body Check

Usually, “Stanley” refers to our Great Dane who drools in my shoes and hogs up the entire bed until both Jackson and I are clinging to our respective edges. Even our king-sized bed is no match for our furry firstborn.

I glance down at Mikey, where he’s clinging to Dog Stanley’s leg. “Please?”

He makes the most pitiful face I’ve ever seen. I’m seconds from caving and he knows I’m in his four-year-old clutches. Casting a quick glance at the Stanley Cup, which is seated in the center of our living room, I briefly wonder if Josh Kammer decided to clean the damn thing down with antibacterial wipes before schlepping it over to our house.

For the third season in the last five years, Jackson has led the Blades to victory as their head coach after Coach Hall retired. Without waiting for the board’s permission, Hall promoted Jackson because he refused to pass his team into anyone else’s hands. If you ask any of the other teams in the league how they feel about the Blades’ winning streak, there’s sure to be ahostof four-letter words being bandied about.

If you ask a Blades player or fan, Jackson is a god among men.

“Man just keeps getting better with age,” Kammer told a journalist a few years back. “Let’s get real here for a sec, he wears a goddamncapeduring playoffs and no one—not a single person judges him for it. Instead, they’re selling capes out of the gift shop. That, my friend, is the power of Jackson Carter.”

It’d be funny if it weren’t also true.

And, as I’ve told my husband during late nights while he watches clips and I edit footage for Carter Photography, it’s also damn sexy.

“Mommy? Cereal?”

I spare the Cup one more glance. “Can you pull the Frosted Flakes out while I wake up Daddy?”

My words fall on deaf ears as Mikey all but sprints tohisspecial cupboard. Stanley tosses me a look, then trots after his favorite person.

There’s no loyalty in this house, I tell you. Since Mikey’s birth, I might as well be chopped liver to the Dane. But as Stanley stands over my son, always watching his back the way he’s done for four years, I merely fumble for my phone and snap another picture of the two of them together.

The picture isn’t perfectly angled or aligned, but it’s the content that matters to me most.

After settling in Mikey with a bowl that isnotthe Stanley Cup—Kammer’s a player and, knowing him, I have no doubt that Lord Stanley has been through some debauchery during the twenty-four hours where Josh had the trophy—and propping him in front of the TV with one of his favorite shows, I head up our worn stairs to the second floor.

We sold Jackson’s condo the month Mikey was born. Living in the city worked when it was just the two of us, but we wanted more space. We’re on the South Shore now, just twenty minutes outside of Boston, but with a house on the oceanfront for Jackson and an outdoor mother-in-law suite that we converted into a studio for me.

The old Colonial shows its bones in the most beautiful ways, and as I ascend the circular stairwell, I run my hand along the oak balustrade.

On quiet feet, I head for our master bedroom at the end of the hall.

This season was harder on Jackson than the last few. The Blades finally overhauled their team, as Steven Fairfax had predicted ages ago, and it wore my husband down to the bone.

When I push open our door, it’s to find him still tangled in the bed and shoved into one corner. My mouth turns up at the thought of Stanley from this morning, his ass near our faces and his giant paws shoving Jackson and I to the ends of the earth.

I leave the door ajar in case Mikey calls for me, then climb into the bed beside my husband.

He groans in his sleep and rolls over, his arms instinctively reaching for me. “Holls?”

The Texan drawl is softer now, like an age-old blanket that’s been used down to the threads. When he’s angry or excited or ready to tear my clothes off, the accent always makes a delicious comeback.

He’s naked beneath the sheets and I sling one leg over his waist. “Time to wake up, Mr. I Am The Champion.”

His erection brushes my core as he rolls on top of me. “Don’t start quoting Queen at me this early in the morning.” He nuzzles the crook of my neck; his stubbled jawline makes me shiver. “I already had to deal with Carl calling me yesterday. Wanted to know if I was interested in going to a Celine concert next month.”

Laughter climbs my throat. “You’d think that after all these years he’d realize you can’t stand Celine Dion.”

He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Our one night of karaoke together sealed the deal forever. Do you know how many concerts I’ve been to with him at this point?”

My hands skim down over his hard obliques to the firm curve of his butt. “Seven?”

“Twelve, Holls. Twelve. He keeps count.”

Just to see his eyes narrow, I begin to hum the chorus toMy Heart Will Go On.

Poor Jackson. It’s like a needle in his skin now. The minute I start humming, he’s singing the words right along with me. He breaks off with a pained groan. “I’m going to tell Carl I’d rather eat my own toenails than go to another of her concerts.”

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