Page 75 of The Pucking Proposal

I inhale sharply, ready to go for the man’s throat or balls. Or maybe shove his balls up into his throat and then choke him with them.

It’s not that there’s anything inherently wrong with reporting the weather. Often, those reporters are degreed meteorologists with expertise that’d shock the average viewer. But that’s not what Milligan’s talking about. He’s telling me to be a brainless teleprompter reader who’s only useful appeal is their hair, smile, and tits.

“I would eat a bowl of water with a fork before I gave a single shit about what you think I’d be good at,” I snap, leaning forward and enunciating each syllable with crisp precision so he catches every barb I throw at him.

Milligan’s eyes narrow as he glowers at me. He thought he’d get me with that weather girl zinger, but he’s ill-prepared to deal with me when I’m not smiling and nodding agreeably at his every word the way most people do with him.

“I’m an excellent sports analyst and reporter. Better than you’ve been in decades, which is a pity, really,” I continue, every word feeling like a razor blade coming out of my mouth to cut him deep. “Once upon a time, before I knew better, I looked up to you. Now you’re barely a hack who blindly reads other people’s analysis, and everyone knows it.”

He turns a shade of purple I haven’t seen before, the capillaries in his bulbous nose threatening to pop. “Maybe I should call my good friend Greg and tell him about his sports girl’s behavior tonight,” Milligan sneers, then smirks like that’ll be the threat that gives him the upper hand.

I shake my head at the expected play of “I’ll call your boss.” “Greg’s not part of your good ol’ boys club. He knows talent when he sees it.” I look Milligan up and down, intentionally mocking the way he’s done to me dozens of times. “And when he doesn’t.”

The truth is, Greg might care a little. I’m a great employee and an even better reporter, plus Greg thinks Milligan is as much of a blowhardas I do, but there’s always a chance he’ll put some stock into a firsthand report of my misbehavior tonight.

“You bitch,” Milligan hisses, spit flying out to hit my cheek as he looms over me menacingly, trying to use his height and size to intimidate me when he realizes that his position in the industry isn’t going to work.

He might’ve gotten away with it, too, considering there’s only the two of us in the hallway to hear it. Except that’s the exact moment the locker room door swings open behind me, revealing Dalton standing there. He’s changed from his gear into after-game sweats and seems surprised to see me still here, but that becomes unimportant the instant he hears Milligan’s words.

“What’d you just say?” he snarls, stepping up to Milligan and shoving his back against the wall so that he’s nowhere near me in less time than it takes my heart to stutter. Dalton’s a hairsbreadth away from throwing punches again, but this time, it’ll be assault. Milligan sputters, shocked that someone dared lay a hand on him as if he thinks he’s literally untouchable.

I place a steadying hand on Dalton’s arm, crowding into him. “Let’s go. He’s not worth it.”

Milligan grins a devilish smile. “Yeah, Days. Let this one push you on out of here so I can talk to the real stars of tonight—DeBoer and VanZandt stepping up to try to save the team.” He recites the last bit with excitement, like it’ll be his report on tonight’s game, which doesn’t make sense. He rarely reports on the Moose, much less attends games, but here he is at my worst moment.Thanks, universe!

The door swings open again, and it’s Max Voughtman this time. His usually carefree smile has been replaced with his deadly game face. “No press tonight. We’re having a team meeting.” Behind him, DeBoer and VanZandt give me a chin lift before staring Milligan in the eye. Then, in coordinated slow motion, they turn their backs on him.

I might’ve blown up the Moose tonight, but not a single one of them has turned on me. I don’t know what Shepherd and Dalton saidto the team after talking to Coach Wilson, but maybe it was enough to settle things. Or maybe they heard Milligan’s words, too, and despite my impact on the team, they’ve got my back. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for the team’s support.

Milligan blusters for a few seconds, his hands clenching at his sides in anger, but Dalton and I leave him standing where he is in his disappointed frustration. Leaving him behind, we stride down the hall and out into the cool spring night. Together. But with some work still to do.

At my apartment, I push Dalton to the couch. “Sit there. I’ve been practicing what I want to say, but I need to pace.”

He lifts a brow doubtfully, but slowly lowers himself to the center of the couch, giving me the floor.

“Right. Okay,” I say, nodding as I start to walk back and forth to do something with all the pent-up nervous energy zinging through me. “So, last night ... Let me start at the beginning, even though it seems stupid now.” I look at him like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t say a word. “In that bathroom, when Mollie was telling June all about the two of you—”

At that, he does interrupt. “I’m not fucking Mollie. Haven’t since well before October.”

“I know,” I agree, “but in that moment, all these ugly feelings came bubbling back up, and it felt like I was reliving that moment where I was standing in the doorway of my boyfriend’s room and everything I thought I knew was shattering inside me. I’m realizing that I maybe didn’t deal with that in the best, most mature way. Apparently, shoving it in a box under the bed—literally, that’s where all the old memorabilia was before I torched it last night—isn’t the healthiest.” I laugh like that’s funny, when it’s most definitely not.

He cocks his head, peering at me in horrified confusion. “You had sentimental crap from that asshole literally underneath your bed?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “That was Rayleigh’s reaction too. She said it’s like bad vibes or something.” I don’t really believe in that stuff the way Rayleigh does, but it did feel good to burn all the pictures, movie ticket stubs, and notes I had from Buchanan. It was especially cathartic to flambé the condom wrapper from our first time, which was my first ever. “It’s gone now,” I assure him.

“Good. Fuck what’s-his-name.”

Oh, he knows Buchanan’s name. There’s no doubt about that, but he’s taking away the power it has over me too.

I flash a small smile of appreciation but get back to exposing my greatest damage to the one man who’s ever demanded to see it, hoping that it won’t be too much for him to handle and that it’s not too late.

“I wanted to bleed you in Chuck’s for cheating,” I confess quietly, my eyes falling to the floor.

“You should’ve. Would’ve saved us a lot of time and stupid shit,” he says. “We could have hashed it out right there.”

I look up, not expecting him to find any humor in my admission of murderous anger. But it’s right there, dancing in his dark eyes. “Maybe so, but I think last night did us both some good.” I walk another lap across my living room, trying to pull my thoughts together again. “What you said, it hurt. A lot. And when you left, I drank the rest of that bottle of wine and ended up ugly crying on the bathroom floor.”

“Joy—” He starts to get up, reaching for me with both arms, but I hold a hand out to stop him.

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