Page 75 of Body Check

Giving her the time to say no if she’s opposed to it, I slowly fold my hand over her knee, my thumb flirting along the hem of her yoga pants. Her skin is hot to the touch, despite the chill from the overhead vents.

“I was going to say that they’re family”—I slip my thumb under the fabric of her pants, drawing small circles over the smooth skin—“and you’re Holly. Beautiful, live-life-to-the-fullest, Holly.” I squeeze her leg and meet her gaze. “The rest of what I wanted to say can wait for our weekend away . . . if you’ll want to hear it.”

She visibly swallows, and I catch the sight of her bright pink shoe flexing like she’s enjoying my touch more than she’ll ever admit.

Then she’s leaning forward, her fingers curling under my chin—her quiet, gentle way of making me look at her. Her blue eyes are large in her face when she sets my heart on fire with six little words.

“Don’t leave out a single word.”

25

Holly

There’s no other way to put it: the fans arepissed.

In a sea of red, Carmen, Adam, and I are a solitary navy-blue blip on the Jumbotron whenever the camera swerves past us. The legendary Kiss Cam is being met with blank stares; poster boards with enthusiastic, pun-tastic catchphrases are inching farther and farther down with each blow-out period that trickles past; and if all that wasn’t enough to prove that the D.C. fans are sore losers tonight, then the jerk duo seated behind us are doing a good enough job proving it for the rest of the arena.

“Fucking Carter!” shouts one of the jerks as Jackson dekes a Caps player.

My breath lodges in my throat as Jackson slips the puck between his legs, out of position to be stolen away, and then cuts its trajectory toward the boards short with the blade of his stick. My camera hangs loosely around my neck, forgotten, my fists jutting up into the air as I stand on my tiptoes to see around the guy in front of me.

“Go, baby, go!” The words are out before I can put a lid on them.

I’ve never been so thankful that hockey fans are a rowdy bunch because no one hears me—and, if they do, no one gives me a second look, mistaking me for just another rabid Blades groupie.

Cutting short on his skates, Jackson swivels his massive weight like he’s nothing heavier than a feather.

I look from the ice rows below me to the Jumbotron, where the camera is locked on my ex-husband’s face. He’s sweating profusely. His dark eyes are sharp as he tracks the ice, looking for his chance, and I know the minute he’s found what he’s searching for.

His lips curve in that same wicked grin he always wears seconds before he strips off my panties and hunkers down between my thighs.

The irony isn’t lost on me—giving me pleasure has always existed in the same playing field as the joy he reaps from outsmarting the enemy on the ice.

The puck shoots like a dart from Jackson to Marshall Hunt, who’s waiting in the slot.

“Shit!” one guy hollers at my back. “C’mon, miss, you motherfucker! Miss the shot!”

Hunt doesn’t miss.

He aims.

He shoots.

He scores.

The lamp lights, and I can just imagine the long-time Sports 24/7 announcer, Justin Daily, chuckling into the microphone as the TV cameras cut his way. “And wouldya look at that? The Blades are on fire tonight.”

Fire doesn’t even begin to cover it.

By the time the buzzer echoes in Capital One Arena, signaling the end of the game, the Blades take the W with a final score of 4-1.

Adam cups his hand around his mouth to be overheard over the din, “What’s the game plan, Holls?”

Inching my backpack toward my front, like a kangaroo pouch, I slide the camera strap from around my neck. My hair falls forward as I unzip the bag and tuck my camera safely inside.

For the first time in years, I didn’t take a single picture while being technically on the clock. At every game in the last month, I’ve used the time in the stands to snap photos of fans cheering on their favorite players or children perched on their parents’ shoulders as they watch their heroes fight for the win.

Some of those photos have gone on a dedicated Fans Only page on the Blades website—the team’s way of showing how much all the support means. Others went on the Instagram page for Carter Photography, racking up thousands of likes while local fans tried to find themselves in the posted photos.

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