Page 18 of The Pucking Proposal

“On that, we can agree.” I can’t help but grin at the venom in his tone and creative imagery.

“He did some hockey chatter tonight,” Dalton explains. “It wasn’t particularly complimentary to yours truly.”

Ah, so that’s what’s bothering him. Before I can tell him to ignore anything Milligan has to say, he jumps back to my broadcast tonight. “You go to the North game?”

I nod, letting him goad me into sharing my night. It’s probably a good distraction from whatever shitstorm Milligan stirred up in Dalton’s head, especially when he’s going up against the Bishops tomorrow night. They’re tough competition. “Yeah, right now, I’ve got high school football, basketball, and hockey, and North had two games tonight, so I could cover both in-person. Plus the AHL games, which I prefer because hockey’s my passion.”

Matt, my coworker at the local station, does the coverage for college and major league games, and then there’s Milligan’s report on the metro news that covers it all again, plus does a deep dive into the NFL games with a thirty-minute breakdown.

“Mine too. I don’t know what I’d do without it. Hockey’s all I’ve ever been good at,” Dalton says, sounding almost wistful and embarrassed at the same time. “Playing pro is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“No plan B, huh?” I grin, understanding exactly what he means. I’ve seen that hyperfixation in the mirror, only for me it was broadcast journalism. “We’re already living the dream in a lot of ways. If you’d told fifteen-year-old me that I’d be a sportscaster for the local news, I would’ve been ecstatically bouncing around like a lunatic. I bet you’dbe the same way if someone told teenage Dalton Days that you’d make a career out of hockey, no matter the league.”

“Yeah, but every time I step on the ice, I worry it might be the last time. Which is terrifying because the pro carrot’s been dangling for so long, just out of reach, that I’m not sure what’d happen if it wasn’t still there,” Dalton says. “Or worse, I couldn’t play at all. That’s what Milligan was alluding to—that I’m hoping to go out on a high because I’m obviously on my way out.”

This again? I swear he’s like a dog with a bone. Or an athlete with a one-track mind and a healthy sense of his own mortality, sports-wise. I’ve figured out there’s only one way to attack one of his self-doubting moods, and I never would’ve expected it. Humor. If I can get him to lighten the hell up for a single minute, he turns back into the cocky, egotistical pro he’s earned the right to be.

I rub my finger and thumb together. “Waahh, waahh, waahh.Let me play a tiny violin for poor Dalton Days, the goalie with the best stats in the league, who’s in the best shape of his life and playing better than he ever has. Poor you. Now who’s pouting?” I look at him accusingly through the screen, and he laughs. “That’s what I thought. Quit pity-partying and start feeling yourself like the arrogant asshole you are. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but you’re killing it on the ice. Act like it. Repeat after me ... I’m Dalton Fucking Days.”

He grins, his teeth beautifully white and surprisingly all present and accounted for, an oddity in hockey players. “I’m Dalton Fucking Days.”

“I eat, breathe, bleed, shit, and live for hockey.” He arches a dark brow, but repeats my words. “And I’m gonna go out on the ice tomorrow night and block every puck that comes my way like the badass goalie I am.” He echoes me again. “And then I’m gonna send Joy Barlowe a big thank-you flower arrangement—no roses!—because she put up with my grumpiness after her own long day of work.”

Instead of that last bit, he sighs happily, a weight seemingly lifted from him. “Thanks, Joy.”

“No problem, Dalton. Now show me what you’re working with.”

He laughs, but then meets my eyes through the screen. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”

I freeze. He’s right. I never call him by his first name. He’s Days or Dalton Days or the Moose goalie. “Is that okay? I mean, I can try to stick to Mr. Days if you’d prefer some formality, but it seems a bit late in the game for that when I know the tattoo on your left cum gutter is your own jersey number, which is ego on an entirely new level.”

Yeah, I’ve seen several of his tattoos at this point—all over his chest, his arms, and his hips. There are others I haven’t seen, and probably never will, but I definitely gave him hell for having his own jersey number, telling him that it was the equivalent of tattooing your own name by your penis. He was less than amused at my analogy.

“Mywhat?” he says.

“Cum gutter.” I point to them on the screen as if he can tell where I’m indicating. “You know, Adonis belt, V lines, dick framers. The grooves that make girls stupid.”

His grin is pure sex. “You like those?” He holds the phone back, running his hand down his six-pack to the indentation I’m talking about.

I swallow hard. He looks so good, and I’m starting to hate him incrementally less.

In fact, when we actually talk, I enjoy our conversations, and the regular orgasms that come from masturbating after every time I see his penis don’t hurt. Or at least they don’t hurt in a bad way.

Is that an unhealthy habit to get into? Absolutely. But I can’t help it. He’s beautiful and sexy, and it’s been a while since I’ve had sex with someone other than Woody.

“They’re ... fine. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing,” I stammer. I could fry an egg with the heat coming off my cheeks, and I can see in the tiny image of myself on the screen exactly how pink they’re turning.

“I think I like you calling me Dalton,” he says, his voice husky in a way that sends shivers down my spine.

I can’t see his hand. He’s dropped it out of the camera’s view, but I know he’s touching himself.

“Let me see.” I’ve said those three words to him before, and seen him several times at this point, but this time feels different. It feels like something well beyond a superstition. This is ... personal.

He angles the camera down, his rock-hard cock filling the screen in a super-close-up that makes me gasp, but then he adjusts and I can see his shaft laying against his abs, and up his chest to his face. His eyes are dark and half-closed as he stares down at the camera, stroking his hand up and down his length slowly.

“If seeing it is good luck, what do you think this is?” I whisper, not sure what I’m saying.

He groans, gripping himself tight. Pre-come leaks from his head and I watch, utterly captivated by him. He slips his hand over his crown, gently pulling on the piercing there, and I lick my lips.

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