Page 88 of Bad Pucking Roommate

“Damn,” he mutters as he looks at the screen on his camera. “We’ve got a few hours ahead of us still, but this is the one that’ll go viral.”

At our confused look, he steps forward and shows us the images.

By sheer luck, we’re standing underneath a light that captures the dips and planes of our pecs as they taper to our abs, and you can clearly see the swell of the asses we’ve honed after years of workouts. But it’s not our physiques so much as our expressions that really draws the eye.

Each individual picture is powerful in its own right as we stand in profile, heads lovingly pressed together. When clicked through rapidly, they recreate a slow-motion version of the kiss we just shared. It’s clearly a tender, emotional moment, and will probably end up being the most authentic image we’ll get since it was totally candid.

At first, I wonder whether this is a moment we want the world to see, because there are some things I want to keep between the two of us. But the longer I stare at the screen, the more apparent it becomes that we need to share it.

This—the ability to freely express my feelings for Justus—is why I retired a year before my contract was up.

“It’s perfect,” I agree.

“Can we keep this one just for us?” Justus points to the image where our lips just barely meet.

The photographer seems to hesitate—there’s no reason for him to honor that request—and it might be the most sensual picture of the bunch. But the earnest expression on Justus’s face seems to win him over.

“Yeah, I’ll save you that one. Ready to get started?”

Justus brings his bashful gaze to mine, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lip, and in that moment it’s not about being ready for pictures so much as being ready for all of it. Marriage. Family. A lifetime of adventures and experiences that we’ll have together. On our own terms.

“Hell, yes.”

Chapter thirty

Extended Epilogue - Justus

“Do you want me to carry that?” I ask my husband as he pulls the bag from the car.

“How will you do that on crutches?” Luca scoffs.

“It’s got a shoulder strap,” I reason. “And you’ve got enough to carry.” I grin, gesturing to his full right hand.

“I’ve got it covered. You just worry about getting to the front door in one piece.”

“I snagged my crutch on the rug one time,” I mumble, though I’m not really upset. How can I be when Luca’s only saying something because he worries about my recovery. He doesn’t need to though, since I’m not planning to make a comeback.

When I tore my ACL at the start of the playoffs, it felt like a sign. My contract with the Bulldogs was up, and I’d been procrastinating about signing a new one. I’m not sure why except that I had this nagging feeling that it was time to move on from hockey, I just didn’t have areason to. Not with Luca’s job at the NHL podcast making it so that we could travel together.

Then this injury happened.

Luca doesn’t want me to make a decision because of my knee, since I’m only thirty, plenty young enough to recover and play a few more years. But in addition to the injury, we received a totally unexpected yet welcomed surprise, and since I’d already been leaning toward hanging up my skates—the decision was an easy one.

My husband worries that my knee is a dominating factor, and he doesn’t want me to look back one day and wish I’d played longer.

I won’t. I’m ridiculously excited for the next chapter.

As we finally get to the front door, Luca pauses to look at me, barely containing the anxious glint in his soulful eyes. “Ready?”

I take a deep breath. “Ready.”

He rings the bell, and a few seconds later Tripp flings open the door with a concerned frown. “Luca Daniels, why are you making your husband crutch to the door instead of carrying—” His jaw falls to the ground as his eyes register what he’s seeing.

Lifting a shaky hand, finger pointing accusingly, he stutters. “That’s a baby. Why are you carrying a baby?”

“You can carry her now.” Luca thrusts our daughter toward a clearly shaken Tripp. “She’s fucking heavy.”

“Language.” I roll my eyes as Tripp’s grow comically wide, darting between us and the tiny human sleeping in the baby carrier in his hand.

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