Page 80 of Proposal Play

The aftershocks don’t stop. They pop in every damn cell. I feel drunk in the best of ways. Hazy, happy, wild, thrilled.

When I open my eyes, reality hits. I can’t believe I came in my pants. But I can’t believe the wicked smile on my wife’s face either. She’s too damn pleased. “Happy one-week anniversary, hubby. I guess we’re even now.”

It takes me a beat, and then I say, “Tomorrow’s our anniversary. We were married after midnight,” I point out.

“Details,” she says, then smirks again at my lap. “I’d let you walk me to the door but looks like you have some otherdetailsto deal with.”

I wave her off. “Don’t be so cocky.”

“Oh, I’m going to be cocky. I’m going to be so very cocky.” She tilts her head to the side, that grin never leaving. “Also, thanks to your flamingos or whatever they are today, we still didn’t break our no-touching rule.”

“Shame. Such a shame.”

With a playful glint in her eyes that near about kills me, she opens the car door, then tosses a sexy-as-fuck look my way. “Goodnight…Quick-Draw Asher.”

“You’re mean,” I growl.

“And you like it.”

And…she’s right.

But I’m right about something too. I knew it was our one-week anniversary. “Maeve, there’s a gift in the back seat for you. Take it and wear it to my game on Monday night.”

28

THE WET BLANKET KIND

Maeve

Asher flies down the ice, hellbent on chasing the puck on Monday night, flipping it back and forth with Wesley and my heart slams against my rib cage.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I shout, urging him to score. “Get it, Asher!”

I rise to my feet.

When Asher winds up the stick and slams the puck past the goalie, I go wild, arms in the air. “That’s how you do it!”

Asher and Wesley skate past the bench for fist bumps—or glove bumps, really—then glide past me. I’m behind the glass a few rows back, wearing my one-week anniversary gift—a Number Twenty-Nine jersey. He locks eyes with me and blows me a kiss.

In front of the entire rink. I catch it. It’s part of our game—the public kissing game. But still, I feel giddy, evenwhen he hops over the boards for the line change, and I sit down next to my aunt.

She’s a hockey fan, but not the way I am. She’s pragmatic to the core. “The game’s not over yet,” she warns me.

Yup. Like I said. She’s the worst kind of fan. The wet blanket kind.

“I’m still happy they scored.” I won’t let her, or any other fans, get me down—like the women holding up signs offering to be Asher’s second wife even though I’m right here.

But I’m the only one who made him come in his pants, so really, I think I’m winning the wife wars.

When the team goes on to win the game a little later, “Tick Tick Boom” blasting through the arena, I grin at Vivian. “See? My optimism paid off.”

She shakes her head. “I can never cheer till it’s over.”

And that makes me a little sad for her.

Asher, Vivian, and I grab a post-game bite at a bar next to the arena. Asher keeps a close watch on the time. He needs to catch the bus with the team in half an hour, heading out to the Sea Dogs jet for a long road trip.

He orders a chicken sandwich, Vivian picks a burger, and I opt for a tofu scramble.

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