Page 48 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Yeah,” he says, reaching out and pinching an inch of the sweater’s fabric between his thumb and pointer finger. “And I like it—you look nice. Cozy.”

“I’m dressed like your fake girlfriend, remember?” I ask, voice choked as I swallow and avert my eyes. This is a casual outfit for me, and I’ve curled my hair so it rests against my shoulders. Usually, I need it up and off my face, pulled back. But I’m trying something new, a pink scrunchie on my wrist for when we go on the rides.

Sammy releases his hold on my sweater and my brain is fizzling out at his proximity, that little gesture. So intimate and close.Like I’mactuallyhis girlfriend. Like the photo we take later for his Instagram will be real.

When I raise my eyes to him again, his are on me steadily, and I get the sense he’s working up the courage to say something about what happened last night.

This man had his tongue on my clit.

Things between us should be awkward. It should feel impossible to talk to him, or even look at him. Instead, that initial moment of tension is gone, and Sammy is back to smiling at me. Part of me wonders if I shouldn’t have run away so quickly two days ago, in New York.

Then I remember:“It won’t happen again.”

I push the thought away and clear my throat, gesturing for him to take out his phone.

“We have to be careful,” I say, watching as he opens the camera app. “I borrowed Penny’s clothes on purpose, and would never normally do my hair like this, but people on the internet can be insane when it comes to sleuthing. I have my location turned off, just in case.”

“Won’t they recognize your face?”

“Soft launch,” I tease, clearing my throat again and gesturing for him to hold his phone up. When he does, I step into his chest, turning my head and pressing my cheek against his chest.

He’s warm. And he smells like fresh pine—surely his deodorant or body wash. I want to drink it in. One of his arms comes around the small of my back, and he draws me closer to him, resting his chin on the top of my head. We stand there like that for a long moment, until my body starts to relax into his. Finally, I push back, blinking up at him.

“Did you get it?”

“What?” he asks, blinking back at me like he’s just woken up from a nap. Then, “Oh. Yeah, I did.”

I ignore the blush spreading over his cheeks and dig into my purse, hands shaking as I produce my phone. This is going to be a long day—I can’t even look at him for more than two seconds without the stars of my orgasm flashing through my eyes again.

Sammy waits patiently while I tap through my phone until I find our tickets—two QR codes for us to gain access to the park.

“Here,” I say, flashing them at him, knowing my voice is overly cheery, but unable to change it. “This is our exercise for the day!”

“I hope it has something to do with corn dogs,” he says, gamely falling in line behind me as we join the crush of people pushing into the park.

Of course it doesn’t—today is still all about forcing him to face his fears. Distantly, feeling his heat at my back, I wonder if it’s about facing mine, too.

Yesterday, Sammy and the Vipers took on the Dallas Stars. Despite the fact that it’s nearing Christmastime, it’s still warm enough here for the amusement park to be open. Some of the Texans are wearing winter coats, which makes even me—a certified California girl—laugh. It’s a cool sixty degrees, which hardly requires bundling up.

“Okay,” I say, grabbing a paper map from a little stall inside the entrance. “How do you want to—”

I stop when I look up, realizing Sammy is already in line at a food stall. I watch him step up to the window, his voice carrying across the little courtyard, which mills with families and little kids, somehow already sticky with sugar, their little eyes wide with excitement as they gaze up at the rides.

My eyes catch on a little girl with two braids running down her back. Her mother is holding her hand, walking with her into the park, and they’re chatting together about what they plan to see first. A mother and daughter. A little team.

Stomach twisting, I turn away just in time to see Sammy coming back to me with what looks like a funnel cake, laden with chocolate syrup and powdered sugar. I should tell him that it’s not part of his finely tuned nutritional plan, to eat something like that. I should tell him that even if it was, nobody would suggest that he have it for breakfast, right at ten in the morning.

But I don’t, instead, ignoring the way Sammy glances at the little girl and her mother, a clear question in his eyes, I reach out and break a piece off, popping it into my mouth so I don’t have to talk.

It’s been a long time since I had something so deliciously non-nutritious. Not a single redeeming quality to a funnel cake—it’s all just sugar and fried nonsense—but it melts in my mouth. Sweet and hot and delicious.

“Come on,” I say, already reaching for another bite as I swallow the first one. Sammy beams at me. “We’re headed to the Tower of Power first.”

***

“Just take it.”

“But—”

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