Page 3 of The Pucking Proposal

“So I hear,” I murmur, implying that I know all about his reputation, both on and off the ice.

I should be getting my angel halo any second now because like the total good girl I am, I don’t mention that the piercing looped into his head and out below his crown is still peeking out around his wrist. Because he’s that big.

I mean, does a vagina even accommodate semitruck-length dick without a ruined cervix or bruised back wall?

Okay, that halo might be on back order given that train of thought. But I should at least get a participation award for not pointing it out aloud.

Dalton Days doesn’t get embarrassed. He’s a machine, cold as the ice he skates on, showing no emotion. A little attention from me can’t be the thing that does him in. But I swear his cheeks blush—the slightly scruffy ones on his face, not his ass, which I can’t see since he’s facing me fully.

“What do you want, Joy?” he growls, grabbing a pair of black boxer briefs from his locker and stepping into them.

Tragically, his penis disappears into the cotton, and though I can still trace the outline of his shaft, the thin fabric is enough to helpfully rouse me from my dick-drunk stupor. “Opening night,” I answer, as if that’s a logical response to his question.

“What about it?”

I sigh and something clicks in my brain, sending me into the professional mode I pride myself on. “You know what. Comment? Concerns? A quote for the people? Or should I run with ‘duh, I guess I’ll try to stop the little black circle things before they go in the net’?” I tease, making him sound like he’s taken a few too many shots to the head.

Being professional in the sports world is different than being professional in something like banking. I’m expected to be moreBrothanPolite Polly, push for answers to hard questions when challenged, and be comfortable refusing to back down against testosterone-fueled men twice my size, even when they could squish me like an annoying gnat if they wanted to.

“We’ve already done this preseason commentary,” he says with a sigh, but at my sharp look, he relents. In a bored tone that speaks to practiced repetition of his answer, he adds, “The Moose are ready. We’re gunning for the playoffs this year, same as always. This year? The cup’s ours. No doubt.”

“And I can bet the farm on that?” I challenge. I don’t have a farm, nor a gambling habit, but I want to test the waters of how sure Dalton is because I’m going to quote him on tomorrow’s news.

I’ve heard Shepherd’s take on things, mostly around our parents’ dinner table on Sundays, but you can’t take a word he says at face value. He’s always the best, the brightest, the winningest, the star ... at least in his own mind. Or so he says. He’s definitely the best at one thing—putting on a good face. But if you know where to look, you can see the worry in my brother’s eyes, the way he clenches his hands when the season’s not going well, and the tightness in his jaw when the good people of Maple Creek offer consolation instead of congratulations. He’s Mr. Good Times Guy on the surface, but he’s got a deeper edge than most would expect. I’m not sure that’s the case with the team’s goalie, who seems cavalier at best, apathetic at worst.

“You can bet your nonexistent ass for all I care,” Dalton retorts. He’s pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie, and now sits to put on his shoes and socks. For some reason, seeing his bare feet feels more intimate than seeing his dick, and this time I can feel a blush creeping up my neck.

Once he’s fully dressed, he yanks a duffel bag from his locker and stands. “I’ve gotta eat and get to bed before nine p.m. Coach’s orders,” he announces, taking three strides toward me. He stops directly in front of me, giving me a once-over expectantly. “So are you coming, or is there something else you want?”

I bark out a laugh at his audacity. “I’m not going out with you, Dalton One-Night.”

He chuckles, then leans lower to whisper hotly in my ear. “I didn’t ask you to.”

With that, he walks past me, through the locker room door, and into the night, leaving me alone to replay what he did say.

Gotta eat. Get to bed. Coach’s orders.

Shit. He didn’t ask me to fuck, but to get out of the damn doorway. I assumed, probably because of his reputation. And maybe because Iwas wishing I could take a spin on him and be passed out by nine in a blissful, post-orgasmic haze. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that.

But it’s not happening tonight either. Or anytime soon. And especiallynotwith Dalton Days.

“Ugh, what an asshole,” I growl out to the now-empty room.

Despite the mess I made of the last few minutes, I take my career seriously. It’s the one thing I’ve always wanted to do, and I’ve fought my ass off to be on the local news at five and eleven. I’m still only slated to cover the lower-level sports in our area, like high school and the minor leagues, but it’s an honor I don’t take lightly, and I’m well aware that there will always be people who think I got the job on my knees because I’m young, pretty, and female.

To be clear, those were reasons I almostdidn’tget the job. Not why I did, which were things like my lifelong love of hockey, college degree in broadcast journalism, and ability to verbally go toe to toe with damn near anyone.

I’ll spend tonight the same way I have the last few weeks—rewatching videos of last season’s games and comparing the athletes to what I’ve seen in the public practices, typing up bullet-point notes, and preparing reporting chatter that’s fresh and on point, with insightful inferences and engaging accuracy. I wouldn’t dream of providing less. The athletes, viewers, and fans deserve my best, and I won’t let them, or myself, down.

And after all that work, I’ll fall asleep curled up with my only bed companion—a body pillow—giddy for opening night. Because as much as it’s a fresh opportunity for our Moose to potentially get called up to the majors, it’s an opportunity for me too—to have my reporting noticed. And that’s the goal: to eventually be handpicked to report on college and major league games, first locally and later as the face on nationwide networks. But for now, I’m still a baby reporter, with only a few years under my belt, so it’s a long-term goal.

Just one I have my sights laser-locked on.

Chapter 3

Joy

“Moooose! Moooose! Mooose!” the crowd chants, the longoalmost sounding like a boo. But it’s not. The crowd is hyped up and cheering for their home team because opening night is a Big Deal around here. Yes, with a capitalBand an extra-bigD.

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