Page 34 of Pucking the Grump

About fifteen minutes later, we arrive at an adorable old Main Street, where we take Barb for a walk while window shopping and sharing an ice cream cone. We find another killer t-shirt for Barb’s collection at the pet boutique, then head to the glass blowing studio just in time to catch the afternoon demonstration.

I’m having so much fun, I don’t even resent being asked to share my mint chocolate chip.

I really am in love.

The knowledge should still give me pause, I guess, but Remy and I basically just had the “do you want kids?” talk. And you don’t have the kid talk or anything even remotely adjacent to the kid talk with someone you don’t have feelings for.

Maybe her feelings aren’t where mine are just yet, but maybe they’re not that far off, either…

On the way back to the city, we grab burgers at a dive by the highway, laughing as Barb begs for little pieces of meat all the way home. By the time we make it to my place, we’re both exhausted, but in a good way.

“Shower?” I suggest, already imagining Remy wet and warm in my arms.

She answers by pulling me down for a kiss that starts slow and builds until we’re stumbling toward the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothing in our wake.

Barb huffs her disapproval at our lack of dignity before retreating to her princess bed in the living room to recover from her big adventure.

Under the spray, I worship every inch of Remy. No rush, no urgency—just the slide of skin on skin and the soft sounds she makes when I make her want me, need me. When I finally sink into her, her legs wrapped around my waist and her back against the tile, it’s like coming home.

Later, we fall asleep tangled together on the couch while a mindless cooking show plays in the background. At some point, I register Remy mumbling something about setting the alarm and agreeing that I should go do that…as soon as I worked up the energy.

That’s the last thing I remember until my phone’s ring jolts me awake hours later. Enough hours that the sun is already streaming through the blinds on the other side of the room…

“Dude, where are you?” Tank’s hushed voice is concerned. “Coach is on the warpath. Team meeting started ten minutes ago.”

I bolt upright, accidentally dumping Remy, who’s still asleep on my chest, onto the floor. “Fuck me.”

“Ow!” She glares up at me, rubbing her hip. Then she spots the clock on the cable box under the TV, and her eyes go wide with horror. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah,” I agree. To Tank, I say, “Be right there, man. Thanks for the heads up.”

I end the call, tossing my cell on the coffee table as I jog into my room to throw on clothes. Behind me, Remy, who is apparently an Olympic-level dresser, shouts, “I’m ready. I’m going to head in now. See you at the arena.”

“Okay!” I call back, shoving my feet into fresh socks.

This is bad, but I can’t bring myself to regret it. Not when last night was so damned good.

But I’m sure Coach Lauder will bring me around to feeling plenty of regret, starting the second I breeze into the Monday meeting thirty minutes late. Even if I hit every green light on the way to the arena, I’m still screwed.

So. Very. Screwed.

Chapter 9

Remy

I’m doing eighty down the highway, tailgating the truck in front of me like my life depends on it, which it kind of does.

Though to be fair, being thirty minutes late to my admin job once in a blue moon isn’t going to summon the kind of shit storm Stone is about to walk into. Not even close.

Juliet, my boss and director of business operations, probably won’t even notice that I’m late. And if she does, she won’t care. I’ve earned her trust with three years of high-level performance as the kind of assistant director who gets shit done on time, every time, and never leaves a mess for her to clean up. She’s told me numerous times that she has no idea how she got by without me.

But if my dad realizes that Stone and I were both late, just like we were both “out sick” last Monday? If he connects those dots and realizes I’m the reason his star forward is missing meetings and losing focus…

Well, he’ll kill me.

Not literally dead, of course, but I’ll wish I were six feet under by the time he finishes dressing me down and icing me out. My father can hold a cold, merciless grudge like no one else. The one time he caught me drinking in high school, at some dumb summer party I wasn’t even excited to be attending, he grounded me to within an inch of my life and didn’t speak to me for three weeks.

Three weeks is a very long time to go without human contact in a house as quiet as ours was. When school finally started, I was so grateful, I almost cried on the bus.

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