Page 123 of On Thin Ice

And God, the fact that I could say it now, could whisper those three little words like it was the most natural thing in the world, still felt unreal.

I never thought I’d get to have this.

Not the lazy mornings. Not the quiet domesticity of a strong, stable relationship. Not someone who fucked me like he worshipped me and let me do the same.

Not someone who loved me for all the parts I used to hate.

But here I was. Herewewere.

And I’d never been happier.

We stayed like that for another breath, maybe two, before Bell gave me one last kiss and murmured, “Go do your stretches, old man. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

I was a few months shy of my fortieth birthday, but some days I felt closer to eighty.

My plan—even before Bell had come into my life—had been to retire at the end of that season, but it turned out the universe had other plans in store for me.

During an away loss to Colorado in mid-January, I was smashed into the boards, hurting my back. At first, everyone thought it was a typical hockey injury, and I’d be back on the ice in a few weeks. But when I started experiencing numbness, tingling, and weakness in both my hands and my feet, additional scans showed I had something called spinal stenosis, a narrowing of the spaces within my spine that resulted in compression of my spinal cord and nerves. Physical therapy could only do so much, so I underwent surgery, which effectively ended my season—and my career.

I announced my retirement before the Aces even made it to the playoffs, losing to the Richland Renegades in a series that had come down to the wire.

I expected to be gutted. To miss the game I’d devoted my entire life to—the one I’d given up so much of my lifefor. But with Bell by my side, I’d had something new to live for.

I came out that summer, ironically in a three-page spread inSports Worldthat included a picture of Bell and me together on the ice. We were fully clothed, much to his—and the editor’s—chagrin.

“Slavedriver.” I rolled my eyes at Bell, swatting his ass on the way to the vanity. He yelped dramatically, even though we both knew my aim was terrible when I was this blissed out and cum drunk.

When I came downstairs a few minutes later, passing the framed triptych I’d gifted him our first Christmas together as I went, Bell was humming along to some indie song he’d had on repeat for the past week.

A fire going in the pellet stove in the dining room, making sure the downstairs was blessedly warm, as bright light filtered in through frosted window panes. Snow dusted the trees outside, a lazy flurry still falling beyond the glass.

Somewhere in the living room, our asshole cat, Puck, was chittering at a bird.

I leaned against the doorway for a second just to watch my husband, the love of my goddamned life.

He was dressed in sweatpants and nothing else, his golden hair still damp, his skin pink and dewy from the shower. He looked soft and relaxed and so fucking beautiful I had no choice but to stand there and admire him for a few more moments.

He turned just as I pushed off the jamb and stepped into the room. “Perfect timing.” He lifted a giant Yeti tumbler off the counter and passed it to me. “Black, just like your heart,” he joked.

“Thanks,” I murmured, my lips quirking to the side as I took a sip.

Once upon a time, that cold black heart was something I took pride in. But not anymore. With years of therapy under my belt, and—dare I say it, the love of a good man—I’d turned over a new leaf.

If anything, I was a big old softie these days.

Just don’t tell my players at Thackeray, or they’d eat me alive.

Bell opened the fridge to peer inside. “By the way, we’re out of that litter Puck likes,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder. “Think you can grab some on your way home?”

“You mean the extra-fine, unscented, thirty-dollar-a-bag organic corn one that he flings across the floor like a toddler in a sandbox?”

“That’s the one.” Bell held a carton of milk up to his nose and sniffed it. “You can’t blame the man for having exquisite taste. Only the best for our Pucksy.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He’sourcat.”

“He’syourcat,” I volleyed back.

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