Page 12 of The Pucking Proposal

Nope, that’s what he said. Exactly what he said. I jump up from the couch and march to the door, yanking it open. “Get out.”

“Wait. I’m doing this all wrong,” he says and sighs. I tap my foot, crossing my arms over my chest as I glare pointedly out the door.

Shiiiit.I’m not wearing a bra either. I wonder where I threw that when I got home. Oh yeah, it’s on the kitchen counter where I dumped it while the popcorn was popping.

Dalton’s eyes drop, and I realize that my arms-crossed pose has probably highlighted my free-boobing state because this oversize T-shirt only disguises that fact when it’s hanging loose. “Eyes up here, mister.” I snap my fingers, then point at my eyes.

To his credit, he jerks his eyes to mine. “Let me explain. I swear it’ll all make sense if you let me explain.” He holds a hand out toward the couch, inviting me to sit on my own damn furniture.

Eyes narrowed, I close the door and walk back over, taking my time to sit down, arrange my blanket, and only then, give him a glance worthy of Queen Elizabeth looking down on a peasant.You may speak,I say with my eyes, though my mouth stays primly shut for a change.

I owe it to my home team to hear him out because if our star goalie has crossed over to some world where dick-flashing is normal, Shepherd needs to know. Especially given Dalton’s unexpected and illogical exhibition at Chuck’s a few days ago. I know the players are under a lot of stress, but I never would’ve thought Dalton would be the one to succumb to it.

But it seems like he has.

“Thank you,” he says, sounding like the words are glass shards on his tongue. “As I was saying, all the guys have routines, good luck charms, stuff like that—”

“Superstitions,” I offer helpfully.

“I don’t like to call them that,” he corrects.

I tilt my head and say airily, “To-may-to, to-mah-to. Do you need hair from a guinea pig or eye of toad or something? I could hit up the Google for you.”

“Joy. Focus,” he orders harshly, making my name sound like a curse. “I need to show you my cock.”

“We’re back to that? I thought you were kidding!” Well, I hoped he was. It’s not that I’m against seeing Dalton Days’s dick again. But it’s probably not good for my vibrator’s life expectancy because that fella’s been getting a workout worthy of a CrossFitter while I fantasized about a certain big, pierced appendage. But not the man it’s attached to.

Is it possible to be dick-attracted but man-repulsed? Apparently so.

“I’m not joking. Unfortunately,” he grumbles. “I’ve thought about it from every angle possible—”

“Same,” I say, shaking my head sadly, as if his penis has haunted my nightmares.Dick Attack on Mars!

“Wha—?” he asks, probably confused since he can’t hear my inner train of thought. “The opener was my best game ever. I felt good, played well, and we won. Then the Ice Truckers game was a shit show at best. I felt like I was forgetting something the whole time, and Shepherd suggested I compare my pregame prep between the two. There was only one difference.”

He looks at me like I should be able to figure out the very obvious answer, and slowly, I reply, “Me seeing your dick?”

“Yes!” He seems relieved that I understand. “So, can I ...” He motions toward the crotch of his sweatpants.

Absolutely not!That’s what I should say because the very idea is preposterous. Offensive even. He can’t go around showing off his penis to people—especiallyme—for no good reason. Because seriously, me seeing his one-eyed monster is not the reason he played well for the opener. It’s because he’s a great goalie. His stats alone bear that out.

But I’ve been around athletes enough to know that sometimes logic and reason don’t matter. These are people who won’t wash their underwear during a winning streak, despite sweating their balls off in them for three hours per game. If he thinks it makes a difference, it will. Call it the power of the placebo effect.

Am I actually considering allowing this?

Unbelievably, I am. Maybe I’m a true-blue, loyal Moose fan. Maybe it’s really not that big of a deal after spending years in locker rooms where guys would intentionally flash me in an attempt to punish me for daring to be a female sports reporter. Maybe I wouldn’t mind another lookie-loo at perfection. That last thought I shove way down deep, not letting it fully form.

Fine. This is happening.

Act cool, Joy. No big deal. Just a penis. Juuust an example of penile perfection. Nooo big deal, at all.

I grin and lean against the couch cushions, spreading my arms out along the back. “By all means, whip it out.”

Despite being given not only permission, but an open invitation, he hesitates.

“Shy all of a sudden?” I tease. “I wouldn’t have thought the great Dalton Days would have any qualms about flashing flesh around. Just another night, right?”

He swallows thickly. “I didn’t exactly think this through, and never dreamed you’d actually agree, so thank you. But it’s weird, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and this is ...” He waves his hand around my apartment, but I think he means our current situation rather than my home.

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