Page 38 of The Pucking Proposal

I get that she’s mad at me, but she won’t fuck over the team, will she? She knows I need her to play my best.

I bang my head against the headboard and dial her number again ...

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Joy, answer the fucking phone. We play the Devildogs tomorrow, and they’re unbeaten so far this season. I need ... I need ...” I sigh and say the one thing that comes to mind, “You.”

She doesn’t call me back.

I try to put it out of my mind and do the rest of my pregame rituals. I drink half my 5-hourenergy, do my stretches and warm-ups, meditate and visualize, and listen to my playlist. I tap the goal four times on the left and three times on the right, then once on the top bar with my helmet.

We still fucking lose. Four to two, which would have been worse if it wasn’t for Shep’s aggressive offense keeping the Devildogs on their heels for the entire third period.

I’m slamming my gear around as I take it off when Shepherd comes up behind me. “Damn, man. You good?”

“No,” I bark. “I’m not fucking good. That was a shit show out there.”

Of course, I can’t tell him that what’s truly wrong is that I royally fucked things up with his sister, who, in response, has gone honey badger–level vicious and currently shows no sign of mercy.

He nods, agreeing with me. “Yeah, those Devildogs are rabid. They were all over Max’s ass, and we couldn’t get past their goalie for shit.”

He’s right. They have a good goalie, one who until today I would have said is nearly as good as me. That sounds like a bunch of bullshit now, considering I played like I was made of swiss cheese.

“Wouldn’t have mattered. I might as well have sat on the bench for all the good I was out there,” I snarl, furious at myself. And at Joy.

“You had an off night. We’ll get ’em tomorrow night. No need to get splinters in your ass,” he tells me with a grin. He’s mad, too, but talking me off the ledge instead of piling on to my self-dogpile.

“Yeah,” I grunt.

He’s right about one thing. We’re playing the Devildogs again tomorrow night, and it’s going to be a much different outcome, because I’m figuring out this deal with Joy right after I hit the shower.

“Answer the door, Joy,” I growl at the blue-painted wood, glaring at the number plate.

She’s here, I know she is because I heard her shuffling to the door after I knocked, saw the light change as she peeked out of the peephole, and I definitely heard her hissfuckwhen she saw it was me. As if it’d be anyone else.

It better not be anyone else.

“Joy’s not here. You know what to do. Beeep.”

She’s not seriously trying that again, is she?

“Did you see the game? Were you there to watch me get humiliated?” I’m so fucking angry. Not at her, though there’s a small amount of frustration directed her way for blowing me off, but given that’s somewhat warranted, I’m mostly furious with myself for not blocking those shots. It’s my job. It’s the one thing I’m good at, and I failed spectacularly, letting down my team, the fans, and myself.

The door cracks open and I see one single blue eye blazing fury at me. “Of course I saw. I was there, did my eleven o’clock report, and virtually ran out of there. Wanna know why?” she bites out. Without waiting for me to guess, she informs me, “To avoid you. Yet here you are.” Every word is full of piss and vinegar, spat out in disgust at my appearance at her door.

“You knew I’d hunt you down,” I counter, not giving this up. “You sure you didn’t run scared so I’d chase you and we could be alone?” I’m 87 percent sure I’m right, but it’s still a gamble to throw it in her face.

Thankfully, the gamble pays off because she flings the door open the rest of the way but remains blocking the entrance with her body. It’s then I know I’m 100 percent right in why she ran. She might not admit it, even to herself, but she came home, washed her face, pulled her hair up into a messy bun, and put on what she calls pajamas but is actually an oversize Moose T-shirt that hits her midthigh. She’s mywalking, talking fantasy, and she fucking knows it. I told her as much on one of our phone calls.

“Fine, we’re alone. Say what you came to say. Blame me for the loss and make me out to be the bad guy. I’ll tell you to fuck off, and then you can leave before the neighbors call the cops.”

That’s truly how she thinks this is gonna go. Hell, itisbasically why I came over.

I need to change tactics. I rack my brain, trying to come up with something, anything. And thankfully, it hits me. There’s one super-risky option that has equal odds of soothing her hurt ego as it does resulting in my head on her trophy wall of guys she’s murdered in cold blood by dashing their hopes and dreams at any chance with her.

It’s all I’ve got.

“I’m sorry,” I shout, my voice hard and jaw set as I force the words out. I’m not good at apologizing, can think of only a handful of times in my entire life I’ve actually done it, but if this goes wrong and she strikes back at me, verbally or otherwise, I refuse to let her see the damage she can so easily inflict on me. Keeping some level of blustering confidence is key to protecting myself.

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