Page 100 of Butterfly Effect

“It’s Davé-Radek,” she corrects.

“Right, right. You sayin’ you wanna share a last name?”

“I didn’t?—”

“‘Cause I’ll propose right now?—”

Her teeth gnash behind those pink-painted lips. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t hear a ‘no.’”

“You’re. Crazy.”

“Still not a ‘no,’” I sing.

Every word is hissed through her teeth. “One. Kiss.”

The crowd’s cheers crescendo. Denise snickers, pointing her camera at us. The Jumbotron displays our exchange. A series of LED hearts throb and dance on screen around us.

Pew pew pew pewwww, an air horn blares in a staccato.

“Try not to roll your eyes,” I warn. “You have to pretend you like this.”

She’s a fantastic actress. Or maybe she actually likes it.

Pulling back and switching the placement of her mouth with her hand, she cups my cheek and presses her lips to mine.

The surrounding cacophony deadens. Air struggles to enter and exit my lungs, but I deepen the connection, attempting a quick taste by dipping my tongue into her mouth. A single, slow, teasing slash from her isn’t enough. She breaks the kiss, and my eyes remain shut, an unintentional quiver traveling down my chin.

No matter how hard she stifles it, there’s a joy tugging at her lips. She balls my jersey in her tight fist to whisper into my ear.

“You’re gonna pay for this.”

A chuckle escapes. “Oh, Freckles. I’m banking on it.” I give her cheek a loud cartoon smooch. “MUAH!”

The sound system plays the intro beats of “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson, and I knock my helmet over my face as if it’s the King of Pop’s fedora, then moonwalk back toward the rest of the team, gaze steadfast on her. Landon whoops when I pass by but skates alongside.

“You’re a goner.”

“I know. My girl loves it.” I give her another goofy smile and wave across the ice. Everyone else thinks she’s ignoring me, but I don’t miss her downward pointing middle finger from her jacket sleeve while chatting with another reporter.

“Thank God, they tolerate us.” He looks longingly at Indi. “I don’t know how I ever lived without my wife.”

Colorado plays like ass, giving many opportunities to show off for Gabe. Their center, a little shithead named McKay, rounds the net to drop in a Michigan, but I extend a leg up to the T-bar and block it. Jaeg shoves McKay from the crease, and Fletch takes off with the puck. I jump to do a split and point my paddle at Gabe. “Whoo!”

By the end of the second period, we’re up 5-0, and Coach finally benches me to give Unger some playing time now thathe’s cleared from that pesky knee injury. Fletcher’s taking a breather, too.

“I still can’t get over how puffins mate for life.”

“Christ, Donovan.” I elbow him. “Chill with the animal videos.”

A rogue puck makes it over the boards, and I interrupt him by catching it. I pump my eyebrows and hold it up like a trophy, winking at a gawking Gabe Finch. My lips purse, and I blow her a kiss before tossing the puck back to the ref.

The fans lap it up. My girlfriend looks like she’s going to burst into flames at any second.

It’s a shutout, and we win by six.

Gabe skips over me to interview Fletcher about his goals tonight, and I have to pretend not to be disappointed. Whatever. She’s gonna be eating my food, sucking my dick and sleeping in my bed tonight, so Fletcher can wheeze out his rehearsed replies all he wants.

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