Page 2 of The Pucking Proposal

I turn around to find our local sports reporter, Joy Barlowe, standing ten feet away, staring at me with shock written all over her pretty face.

“See something you like?” I ask, smirking arrogantly.

I don’t cover myself. Why would I? I’m not ashamed of my body. And the team has two rules about Joy Barlowe. The first is from Coach Wilson—treat the press with respect. That means no discriminating against the sole female sports reporter in the tristate area. If I wouldn’t cover up for Steve Milligan, the bigshot who did a scathing newscast after that championship fuckup, then I shouldn’t for Joy. Her having a pussy doesn’t change our behavior, our answers, or our actions, especially in our own private locker room where swinging dicks happen.

And two, from Shepherd Barlowe, my teammate, my friend, and Joy’s older brother—don’t fuck or fuck with his sister.

But unlike Fritzi, Joy is definitely looking at my dick, which explains the awestruck reaction. It’s one I’m used to. Shock, fear, occasionally excitement, and once, horror. I try not to dwell on that last one, though, because we were young and stupid, and I didn’t have a solid gauge on how unique my dick was back then. Not like I do now.

Length? Check.

Girth? Check.

Pierced? It is now, which would’ve terrified that scared college girlfriend even more.

Tattoos? Oh yeah. Dozens of them trace my body in a patchwork of seemingly senseless chaos, but they all mean something to me.

“Awww, it’s so wittle and cute,” Joy coos, wiggling her pinkie finger in the air while she peers at my appendage like it’s a damn puppy. “It’s okay, Days. Don’t be embarrassed. Some guys are growers, not show-ers.”

I barely hold back a snicker of respect. Joy’s a ballbuster for sure. There’s no doubt about that. She can out-roast any of us with her wicked tongue and quick wit, to the point where she’s basically one of the guys. Only a hell of a lot better to look at.

Speaking of, I slowly and methodically let my eyes lick down her body, shameless in my assessment of her. The scoop neck of her baby-pink shirt teases barely above her cleavage, her black jeans are painted over her curves, and her feet are covered in New Balance sneakers I know are all the rage because my sister is on the hunt for the out-of-stock-everywhere shoes. Slowly, I let my gaze return to her face, taking in her perfectly highlighted and tousled hair, pursed glossy lips, and pale-blue eyes, which are full of ice as she glares at me, waiting for my returning zinger.

“Maybe it doesn’t see anything it likes. And for your information, I got out of the ice bath a minute ago, so I’ve got Alaska-level shrinkage going on.”

I do. It’s a fact of life. But I’m not small by any means, and given the barely audible gasp that passes Joy’s lips, we both know it.

Chapter 2

Joy

That’swith shrinkage? Holy shit! I’m well on my way to hell in a handbasket for the dirty, filthy thoughts I’m having about the goalie of the team I’m here to report on.

When my boss, Greg, told me to see if I could catch any of the team for last-minute insights about the season, I was pissed. I’ve already talked to the guys of the Maple Creek Moose throughout the preseason, had an on-air interview with Coach Wilson, and completed my own stats-focused analysis of last season in preparation for the opening game report.

Now? I might have to send Greg one of those fancy fruit baskets where they cut the pineapples into flowers and dip the strawberries in chocolate, because without his annoying reminder that as a woman in sports reporting I have to work three times as hard to be taken half as seriously, I wouldn’t have this particular image to store in my mental memory bank.

And that would be a shame.A real shame.Because Dalton Days is hung.

Not that I’m a girth queen or length snob. Hell, I’d like to think I’m more into sweet talk and romantic gestures than penis. But hisis ...pretty. And scary. And looks like a disco stick I’d like to take for a whirl.

Except he’s completely off-limits.

I’m a sports reporter, and as such, privy to locker room behind-the-scenes action. The fact that I’m even seeing Dalton like this shouldn’t be a big deal in the slightest if I’m sticking to my completely professional capacity.

Not to mention, he’s friends with my older brother, Shepherd, and since Dalton joined the Moose five years ago as the replacement for a beloved goalie, he’s earned a reputation as a ladies’ man. That’s putting it nicely. Honestly, Dalton comes with warning labels like “player” and “man whore,” but now I can see why. Who wouldn’t want a little taste? A single night of fun? A challenge to see how deep I could take him?

I mean ...someonemight think that. Not me specifically. No, not Joy Grace Barlowe. I’m not that girl. Nope. Not. That. Girl. At all.

“Um, is it growing? Like, right before my eyes?” I wonder aloud, sounding like one of those late-night Chia Pet commercials.

Dalton looks down at himself like he has no idea.

He has to feel that, right? He’s got a third leg hanging between his thickly muscled thighs, and it’s rising through thin air like a flag being erected on the moon. His hands are even on his hips, framing it like the masterpiece it is.

One small step for man, one giant erection for mankind.

“You’re staring. He likes the attention,” he snaps, cupping himself with his hands. “Perfectly natural.”

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