Page 48 of The Pucking Proposal

“Feeling good about a lot more than that,” he murmurs. “We’ve got the Rockets Saturday and Sunday, but we’re off the first part of the week. You wanna come over late on Monday? After you get off from the station.”

He’s asking for a lot more than Netflix and chill, and we both know it.

“Yeah, I think I can do that,” I say, though I’m internally screaming both yes and no at the same time. On one hand, I know I’ll get exactly what Dalton just promised me, and I want that desperately. On the other hand, it won’t be a casual one-night fucking, and I’m not sure I’m ready for more. Even so, I don’t change my answer when he peers at me, silently asking if I’m sure. “Yes. Monday.”

“Good.” He looks . . . relieved?

He really thought I was going to say no, didn’t he? For some reason, that hurts. I don’t want him to doubt me, even though I’m all sorts of confused about what this might mean.

“Well, good luck tomorrow night. I’ll be watching,” I tell him.

“You’d better be.” He adds a wink, looking more like the cocky, arrogant bastard I’m used to. “Good night, Joy.”

“Good night, Dalton.”

But after he hangs up, I stare at the dark screen of my phone, seeing my own reflection there. I look ... happy.

Sunday night, I go to my parents’ house to watch the game and eat dinner. But mostly to watch the game, even though we both have the subscription service that lets us watch all the games—national, regional, major, minor, college, and even some high school. What can I say? Our family’sthingis hockey.

“Honey, can you take this to Dad?” Mom asks, handing me a casserole dish covered in foil.

“Yep, on it.”

In the living room, Dad’s got the coffee table set up buffet-style with chips, dips, bowls, and more. But he quickly rearranges to make room for the dish I hold out. “From Mom.”

“Here,” he tells me, pointing to a newly cleared space and a trivet.

I set the dish down, then pull off my oven mitts. “What else?”

We both peer at the spread, not imagining a single thing we’re missing. At least not from the table. I still miss Hope at our watch parties, but she’ll be home in a couple of weeks for Christmas. I can’t wait to see her and fill her in on things here at home. Mostly with me and Dalton. I get the feeling she’s gonna brag about being right, but I can’t find any irritation about it when I’m too blissed out from orgasms and excited about our date tomorrow night.

“C’mon, Lorie! They’re already singing the national anthem,” Dad yells toward the kitchen.

Mom rushes in, placing her hand on her heart respectfully but still eyeing the table like Dad and I didn’t already check it over. As soon as the song’s over, we sit—Mom and Dad in their respective recliners andme on the couch—and start reaching for snacks, starting with chips and onion dip.

“How do you think tonight’s gonna go?” Dad asks me, shoving a loaded chip into his own mouth.

Our family has grown up supporting Shepherd’s hockey dreams, constantly replacing and repairing gear, going to tournaments, hiring private coaches, and scheduling our entire lives around his seasons. In a lot of families, the other kids would feel slighted or neglected. But not with Jim and Lorie Barlowe as your parents.

I can say without hesitation that they spent as much time, energy, and cheerleading power on Hope and me as they did Shep. I’m sure it helps that my first love is also hockey, just in a different way, but they made sure we never felt at the mercy of our brother’s passion. They went to my debate tournaments, watched my news reporting in college, and were my biggest and loudest supporters when I got the sports reporting position at the local station as a fresh graduate with a year’s internship under my belt helping Matt prep his reports. They literally held a watch party at our house for my first official five o’clock report, and they haven’t missed a single one since.

They respect my knowledge, analysis, and insight more than any other reporter, especially where hockey’s concerned. And definitely more than Shep’s own self-evaluations, which tend toward “of course we’re gonna wipe the ice with them” no matter who the Moose are going against. For him, it’s pep talk and much-needed hype. My job is to be more truthful with what the odds actually are, and I think Dad especially appreciates that.

“If they play like last night, it’s in the bag. Shep seems to be feeling himselflike usual.” I roll my eyes at my brother’s ego, which is absolutely warranted but annoying to live with. “Voughtman’s on his side like superglue, and Pierre made a killer slap shot last night, so I think he’s ready to shine. Miles and Hanovich kept a lot out of the goal themselves, but they paid the price for it. Thankfully, Dalton walled off the rest. All in all, I think we’re a shoo-in for a repeat victory.”

Dad cuts his eyes my way, most of his attention still on the screen, to nod agreeably with my assessment. Mom beams at me proudly for the quick synopsis of yesterday’s game and tonight’s odds. But a quick glance shoots between them before they focus on the television again. I’ve seen that look before when Hope and I have entire conversations in the span of a single blink, and I wonder what they told each other. Probably something cute and lovey-dovey, knowing them.

After last night’s game, I waited for Dalton’s call, half hoping he’d show up at my door instead. I even considered getting dressed up and heading down to Chuck’s to celebrate with the team, and maybe, possibly, see if I could lure Dalton back to my place or his. But ultimately, I stuck with the plan. They won the first game against the Rockets but have one more to go, so Dalton needed his pregame ritual, not the added pressure of doing more with me for the first time.

Or at least, that’s how I sold it to myself when I didn’t go out and instead curled up in bed because it was either that or admit I was chickening out.

And when Dalton finally called, I knew I made the right decision. He looked exhausted. Happy to see me, but exhausted. I basically talked him through touching himself the way he did for me the night before, getting us both off quickly so he could rest. But he kept talking, rehashing the game, which was obviously heavy on his mind.

Dad adds to my game report, “As long as Wilson stays off the ice.”

Eyes wide, I nod back, remembering Coach Wilson yelling from the bench last night. They’ve gone at it before, but he was acting as if there’s something personal between him and the Rockets’ Coach Jenkins. Even though Jenkins ignored him, it was a bad look for Coach Wilson, because everyone watching at home could read every word, liketake ’em down,fuck them,blockblockblock, and some other gritted-teeth, growled instructions that probably couldn’t be aired.

“Right? What’s his deal with Jenkins? There’s no history on the ice I could find, other than the one go-round they had last year. Is it something off-ice?”

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