Page 31 of Charming Crosschecks

With a sly grin, Gerry darted away with the puck, his focus narrowing to the play at hand. The sounds of the scuffle faded into the background as his mind honed in on the scrape of his skates, the rhythmic click of sticks, and the heavy cadence of his breath. His heart pounded in his ears, syncing with the drumbeat of the game, each movement precise and purposeful. The puck felt like an extension of him, gliding across the ice as if pulled by an invisible thread.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, he glanced to his left.

People always talked about fate, destiny, or some cosmic alignment of the stars. Gerry wasn’t one for that kind of talk—chakras and karma weren’t exactly his thing—but in that split second, it felt as if the universe had shifted.

His gaze locked onto Molly’s. Her striking blue eyes gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights, and she was wearing a jersey—hisjersey? The sight sent a jolt through him, an overwhelming wave of possessiveness so intense it nearly knocked him off balance. Was it his number? He hadn’t noticed her wearing one before, but the fabric looked familiar. He craned his neck, desperate to catch sight of the front to confirm the number. If she was wearing someone else’s jersey…

Oh, they were going to have a long, long talk.

Before he could fully process the thought, a sharp crack jolted him out of his reverie. Someone’s stick smacked against his shin, nearly toppling him. He grunted, recovering just in time to keep control of the puck. His pulse quickened, but his determination solidified. He couldn’t let this slide—not with Molly watching. Did she come to games often? Why wasn’t she sitting in theAlonsy Aislewith the other wives and fiancées? That was her place now, as his girlfriend. He’d make sure she knew it.

He’d tell her after the game. Maybe she didn’t realize she belonged there, that shebelongedto him in a way that felt as certain as the ice beneath his skates. The thought fueled him as he pushed harder, driving the puck toward the goal with renewed ferocity. He was going to sink this shot, then skate right up to her and kiss her senseless infront of the entire arena.

And if she was wearing his number?

Oh, it was going to be spectacular. Scandalous, even.

He grinned wickedly under his mask, imagining the SportsCenter headlines. This wasn’t just about the game anymore—it was about claiming what was his, on and off the ice.

Gerry sunk the puck effortlessly, the sound of the crowd erupting in cheers, a euphoric symphony in his ears. With a triumphant grin, he flung both arms and his hockey stick into the air, a gesture of celebration that felt as natural as breathing. The rush of adrenaline coursed through him, but it wasn’t the goal that had his heart racing.

It was her.

He turned his gaze toward Molly, locking eyes with the woman who had haunted his thoughts and dreams for weeks. Those blue eyes of hers, so vivid they could put the brightest sky to shame, were wide with surprise. They slayed him every time, cutting through his tough-guy facade like a hot blade through ice. He loved the way her face gave her away, every flicker of emotion dancing across her features like a beautiful, private show just for him.

Leaning his stick downward, he pointed it directly at her, a silent claim that left no room for interpretation. She was the reason for his joy, the one he wanted to celebrate with, the one who made every victory sweeter. Without hesitation, he began skating toward her, his strides purposeful and strong. The crowd around her shifted, a cluster of eager fans jostling for his attention, but Gerry had eyes only for Molly.

“Hey, guys,” he called out, his voice carrying over the din. “Stay here after the game, and I’ll grab you a few shirts—if I can talk to my girl for just a second.”

The fans, surprisingly cooperative, parted like a well-trained defense line, creating a path straight to Molly. His knees, however, almost buckled beneath him the moment he saw her up close. She was wearing his number.

His number.

‘Bout time,” he said, flashing her a lopsided grin as he tried to play it cool. His pulse hammered in his ears, but he forced his tone to remain light, even teasing. “You look good in that number.”

“Oh, I do, huh?” she shot back, her voice as warm and challenging as he remembered. That sass was one of the many reasons he adored her.

“Come here for a second…” He beckoned her toward the left, where a small opening in the rink's protective framework led to the penalty box and the team entrance. His teammates called itAlonsy Alley—a nod to the wives and Batiste’s gameplay scream telling them ‘Let’s Go!’ before a game. And right now, he was about to make the play of his life.

As soon as she was close enough, Gerry didn’t hesitate. He flung off his gloves and dropped his stick like he was gearing up for a brawl, the sharp whistle of a referee slicing through the noise. But a fight was the furthest thing from his mind.

In one fluid motion, he grabbed Molly and pulled her over the railing. Her surprised squeak rang out as he wrapped her tightly in his arms. Then he kissed her—fiercely, deeply, unapologetically. Every ounce of emotion he’d been bottling up poured into that kiss, raw and unfiltered. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, drowning out everything but the softness of her lips and the way she fit perfectly against him.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t let her go. Instead, he cradled her close and began skating down the rink with her in his arms, the crowd’s gasps and cheers blurring into a distant hum. Stopping near Becca and Aimee, he set Molly down gently, his hand lingering at her waist as if to reassure himself she was real.

Becca, Giroux’s wife, was staring at him with a mix of shock and amusement.

“My girl sits with you,” Gerry said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument as he nodded at her.

Becca raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with a knowing smile. “You take care of my man on the ice.”

“Always,” he promised with a chuckle, giving Molly a wink that sent a flush creeping up her cheeks.

Before skating away, he offered her a small salute, the gesture both playful and heartfelt. He bent down to retrieve his gloves and stick, completely ignoring the referee, who was shouting at him with increasing frustration. Let the guy yell. The penalty box was going to be totally worth it.

Gerry cast one last glance at Molly, who stood frozen, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and disbelief. She liked big gestures, moments with meaning and thought behind them. So, he’d give her exactly that—again and again until there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind about where they stood.

That was his woman, even if she didn’t fully realize it yet. She wanted to take things slow, to feel it out and make sure it was real. Fine. He’d play along—for now. But his clock ran differently than hers, and when the time came, he’d make sure she knew just how serious he was.

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