Page 73 of Puck Yes

I tuck a finger under her chin. “Does that embarrass you? Because I don’t think it does,” I say, calling her out on the shy act.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you told us in Vegas you like to play with your tits. I bet you like to play with yourself.A lot,” I say.

She nibbles on the corner of her lips.

“You do, Ivy,” I press.

She swallows, then shrugs. A subtle admission. And I plan on running with it. I lean closer, nip her neck, then point to the days of the week. “You might need to X out the evenings. We’re going to keep you very, very busy.”

“Are you now?”

That’s what I’ve wanted. And now I’m getting it. “Yes,” I say, then take her pen and add some items to her agenda so she knows that Hayes and I will be occupying her nights. Not gonna lie—that’s a ray of sunlight, knowing I’ll be busy in the best of ways. “We should meet at his place, though,” I add, with some reluctance. I like having her here. I’ve wanted this for some time. But it’s also…risky.

When she meets my gaze, waiting for me to say more, I add, “Just in case anyone spots you leaving in the morning. It seems wiser that you’d be seen leaving your hubby’s home.”

“Instead of my secret boyfriend’s?”

That sounds too damn good on her lips. So I focus on the calendar in front of her and making plans for the next few days. “What about Thursday night?” she asks since that day’s blank. But she answers for me. “Oh, right. Game night in Phoenix.”

“But you can FaceTime us the night before. And see us after the game if we don’t fly in too late.”

She writes anOon that day. “So this is officially a reward planner now.”

I take the pen and add anOto every night. Then, a couple extras. “Yes, it is.”

We give her plenty over the next few nights in person, then on FaceTime the night before the game. Well, I like to stick to the calendar too.

* * *

In some ways, I’m a lucky guy. I’ve had a good career for nearly a decade, but I don’t take that luck for granted. I try to cultivate it and shape it. On Thursday morning in Phoenix, I do yoga at the hotel, order a kale smoothie, then stretch.

The better I take care of my body, the longer I can play. Hockey’s a brutal game, and my body takes a pounding every time I take the ice, but it’s still a game—and I love it as much now as I did when I was a little kid, strapping on skates in Denmark, then in Virginia where we moved when I started school.

That afternoon, we hit the opponent’s ice for warmups, and I easily blot out the jeers of the opposing team’s fans. That shit never bugs me. Never has.

Playing is a joy, and I’ll stop playing when I can’t do it or when I stop having fun, whichever comes first.

There are a few Avengers fans in the crowd, so after we stretch, I sign a couple pucks. But when the game puck drops, I’m all focus, racing across the ice, jostling against the other team. Right off the mark, I spot an opening and pass to Brady. He shoots but misses.

He mutters a curse, clearly frustrated with himself. When we reach the players’ bench for a line change, I tap my stick to his skate. The dude is hard on himself. “Keep it up. There are plenty of chances.”

“Thanks, man,” he says. We find our chance at the end of the period, and we take it, and the goal.

“You were right,” he says as we skate off.

“It’s one of my many gifts.”

“Humility isn’t one of them,” he says.

“And that’s a good thing.” Nope. I amend that. “A great thing.”

* * *

During the third period, the score is tied, and I’ve been hunting for another shot on goal all night, but I’ve found none. As the clock ticks, I race down the ice. Hayes chases the puck, but he’s crowded by two defensemen, so he slings a pass my way.

And it’s all clear. I send a breakaway shot down the ice. It sails high, past the goalie’s reach, and slams beautifully into the twine.

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