Page 166 of Fake As Puck
His old hockey skates.
The ones he wore in junior league, before he went pro, before he became the West Carmack who scores hat tricks and makes crowds lose their minds.
I find his old hockey stick in the closet and lean against it like I’m posing for the world’s most ridiculous sports calendar.
This is ridiculous. This is the kind of thing that exists only in male fantasies.
But I don’t care. He just had the best game of his season, and I want to celebrate him. I want to celebrate us. I want to celebratethe fact that this is our life now. His victories are my victories, his happiness is my happiness, his success is something I get to be part of.
I hear his car in the driveway, then his key in the lock, then his voice calling my name.
“Liv? Where are you?”
“Bedroom!” I call back, adjusting the jersey so it hits exactly where I want it to.
“What’s the surprise? Did you order pizza? Please tell me you ordered pizza because I’m starving and—”
He appears in the doorway and stops dead.
Just stops.
His mouth falls open. His eyes go wide. His hockey bag slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a thud.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
“Congratulations on the hat trick,” I say, twirling the hockey stick like a baton.
“What are you—how did you—is that my jersey?”
“Your jersey. Your skates. Your stick.”
“My stick?”
“I thought I’d warm you up before your post-game shower.”
His brain visibly short-circuits. I can practically see the moment all higher cognitive function shuts down and he’s operating on pure instinct.
“You’re wearing my jersey,” he says, like he’s trying to process the information.
“I’m wearing your jersey.”
“And skates.”
“And skates.”
“And nothing else. Jesus Christ, Liv.”
“Too much?”
“No. Never too much.”
He crosses the room in three strides, and I barely have time to set the hockey stick aside before he’s pulling me into his arms.
“This is the best surprise in the history of surprises,” he says against my lips.
“Better than pizza?”
“So much better than pizza.”
