Page 19 of Icy Pucking Play

When was the last time I joked around like this? When was the last time I let myself just...enjoy someone's company? Shit, am I actually enjoying this? That makes no sense.

"Here." I wrap my arms around her, adjusting her stance. "Like this."

She goes very still, and I suddenly become aware of several things at once.

First, she smells amazing—like vanilla and coffee beans.

Second, she fits perfectly against me, her back to my chest, her ass pressing against my groin, stirring something primal within me.

And third, this was a terrible idea.

"Um," she says softly, "is this part of proper golf form?"

No. This is part of me losing my mind.

I clear my throat and step back. "Try it now."

She takes a swing. The ball actually goes forward this time, rolling a respectable distance down the fairway.

"I did it!" She spins around and throws her arms around my neck before either of us can think better of it. "Did you see that? It went straight and everything!"

For a moment, I let myself enjoy it—the feel of her pressed against me, the way her excitement is contagious, the simple pleasure of teaching someone something new.

She's warm and soft and real, and I suddenly remember what it feels like to hold a woman in my arms. Then I remember who we are. What we're doing here.

I step back, immediately missing her warmth. "Not bad. Ready to try the next hole?"

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of golf tips and getting-to-know-you conversations.

I learn that Sophie's from Michigan originally, that she has three younger siblings, that she worked multiple jobs through college to get herself through.

"Dad got sick my sophomore year. Pancreatic cancer,” she explains as we walk to the next tee. "Mom had to quit her job to take care of him. So, I picked up extra shifts, and started coaching youth hockey on weekends."

"That couldn't have been easy."

"It wasn't. But you do what you have to for family, right?" She glances at me. "Like you with Natalia."

Something warm unfurls in my chest. "Yeah. Like that."

"Can I ask you something?" She lines up her shot, tongue poking out in concentration. "Why did you really agree to teach me today? After everything you said about reporters..."

I watch her swing (terrible) and the ball's trajectory (worse) while I consider my answer.

"Because," I finally say, "you helped my daughter with her math homework using hockey scores."

She looks surprised. "That's it?"

"That's it." I hand her another ball. "Chelsea—my ex—she never had time for things like that. Never wanted to mix family with hockey. But you..." I shake my head. "You make everything about family, don't you?"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No." I help her adjust her stance again, trying to ignore how right it feels. "It's just different."

By the time we reach the final holes, I have to admit—I'm impressed.

Not by her golf game, which remains horrifically bad, but by her determination. Her willingness to laugh at herself. Her genuine interest in getting things right.

"One more lesson?" she asks at the eighteenth tee, giving me those big brown eyes that are becoming increasingly hard to resist.

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