The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

It’s an afternoon game, which we win. Of course we fucking won, because not only did I complete my pregame routine, I took it up a notch. A huge, flying leap up, complete with flashing caution signs everywhere telling me to turn around and go back.

This whole thing is stupid. Last night was stupider.

I’m still reeling.

Not from the game or the win. From Joy. From hearing her orgasm and wishing like hell that she’d let me see.

As much as I wanted to watch her, it’s probably better I don’t have that image in my head because I could do filthy, depraved things to that mental picture. And like I keep reminding myself . . . she’s Shepherd’s little sister, and is so completely off-limits it’s not even funny.

So in tune that he can sense my complete distraction, Shep backhands my arm, splashing the water from the hotel’s hot tub against the side of my face. “As captain, I’ve called this team meeting to discuss how fucking awesome we are! Gooo Moose!”

His grin is wide and happy as the guys join in the cheer with him.

As for “team meeting,” I’m not sure this qualifies. After the early game, we all rode the bus back to the hotel and a few of us decided the hot tub sounded like a good plan. I’d considered bailing, but that would’ve brought up too many questions, so here I sit, praying Shepherd can’t read my mind and see what I did last night.

Max high-fives Shepherd. “Glad to skate at your side, El Capitan!”

“Shep! Shep! Shep!” Randall chants.

They verbally pat each other on the back for a few minutes, breaking down some of the in-game scenarios from their various vantage points—Shep and Max as forwards, and Randall as right defense. All together, they can see the entirety of the ice. But none of them see it the way I do.

And though I listen, I can’t find it in me to focus on the game or provide any insight to how we played. My thoughts are too centered on something I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.

“Cat got your tongue, Days? You’re usually all too eager to tell us where we fucked up,” Max says, grinning as he wraps his lips around a straw the size of my pinkie finger and sucks water from a huge metal cup emblazoned with the Moose logo. The team swag’s gotten better this year.

“Yeah, anything we should watch for? Or repeat?” Shep adds, staying positive.

I shrug indifferently, sighing. “I’m tired, guys, so if this is a circle jerk to sing each other’s praises, I’m gonna head to my room.”

“Well, shit. Don’t let us hold you up, Sleeping Beauty,” Randall says with a laugh. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He waves his fingers at me like I’m already halfway to the door, not still sitting on my ass with a jet perfectly positioned on my lower back and bubbles bubbling up around my chest the same way he is.

Max leans over to Shepherd and mutters, “Tell Randall not to say bedbugs at a hotel. Seems like bad luck.”

Despite them supporting my desire for rest, I don’t move. “Can we just talk about something else? Anything else?”

And though we’re bros bro-ing out after a game, and guys who hide the fact that we care about each other behind teasing and shit-talking, we’re also gossipy as fuck. Don’t let anyone say girls are gossipier than guys. That’s a straight-up lie, because as soon as I make hockey off-limits, talk turns to women.

“Maybe you’re grumpy because you need to get your dick sucked,” Randall suggests.

Honestly, he’s not wrong, and in the past, I would’ve had a meaningless hookup with someone, gotten my rocks off, and fallen into blissed-out sleep. But I’ve been jacking off nearly daily at this point and wouldn’t have the energy to give to someone else.

You’d have energy for Joy.

I cough, choked up by the betrayal of my own thoughts. “Naw, I’m good.”

“You sure?” Shepherd challenges, but with a sly grin, he adds, “I think the cheerleaders are on the eighth floor. I’m sure Mollie wouldn’t kick you out of her bed. Unless you think your dry spell is what’s making you a beast on the ice. In that case, no spilling.”

The Moosettes—yes, that’s actually what they call them—are our team cheerleaders, and any fraternization is strictly forbidden. Realistically, that’s a cover-your-ass rule the league has, but I don’t know any team that abides by it. Players and cheerleaders are both professional athletes, and as such, we understand the travel schedules, practice requirements, and seasonal nature of our proximity, so, as long as everyone’s on the same page, nobody cares if we scratch each other’s itches. And Mollie and I have done our fair share of scratching over the years I’ve been a Moose and she’s been a Moosette.

She’s definitely a been-there-done-that situation for me, though. The last time we hooked up, she wanted to talk after, which is fine. In theory. Despite my reputation—as a cold asshole, not a ladies’ man—I don’t have a problem with talking with people, male or female. But something set off my spidey-senses, and I haven’t fucked her since. She was supposed to be a stress reliever, not a stress creator, and that’s what she was becoming. There were a couple of texts during the offseason, but I figured when I sent her a flat “No” for the first and ignored the others, she’d gotten the message.

“Dry spell? Shiiit, Days was sending flowers to someone earlier. He’s holding out on us on who the lucky—or unlucky—lady is,” Max reveals, looking proud as a peacock for catching me in a lie of omission.

“Ooh! Tell us!” Shep taunts, backhanding my arm again.

“Fuck off,” I growl at him, kicking out beneath the water and connecting with his ankle.

Then, like I’m not sitting right here hearing every word, my three buddies discuss who this mystery lady might be and possible reasons I might not want to share who I was sending flowers to.

“Was it roses? Red ones mean I want to fuck you hard and rough. Pink ones mean I want to fuck you nice and slow. White, I fucked someone else and I’m sorry.” Randall’s opinion on the meaning of rose colors is as ridiculous as he is. Unless he’s right, but I wouldn’t know because I’ve never sent flowers to anyone.

Except I did. Today. To Joy.

But not roses because she specifically said no roses, which makes me wonder if maybe Randall’s on to something and Joy knows the rose rules too.

I sent her a bouquet of blazing stars, something a little wild, a bit unusual, and very pretty according to the flower shop’s website. Just like Joy. I had them add a card that simply said thanks on it, figuring she could take that however she wanted because I sure don’t know what to say after last night.

Sorry.

Let’s do it again.

Please don’t tell your brother because I really like living on this side of the dirt.

Not that I think if Shep and I ever came to blows I couldn’t handle myself. But I know Shep, and this would be one area he’d be willing to go all-in on—fighting to the death, fighting dirty, or not even fighting, but straight-up Pulp Fiction gunning someone down.

I can’t explain any of that to the guys, so instead, I muster up some fake indignation and shove Max. Hard. “Fuck you, man. The flowers were for my mom. Not some chick.”

That last part is true at least. The flowers weren’t for “some chick.” But they also weren’t for my mom, and lying to them, especially Shep, feels shitty. I don’t have a choice, though, because the alternative to telling the truth is definitely worse.

And at this point, the team needs me to keep doing what I’m doing with Joy. It’s my ritual, and she’s my good luck charm, so I’d hate to screw everything up by telling them what’s brought on my newfound confidence and the team’s winning streak.

I just have no fucking clue what to do for the next roughly fifty games.

“That’s sweet. Tracy doing okay?” Shep asks.

Shepherd’s parents, Jim and Lorie, take care of us all like their own, but my mom is pretty amazing in her own right. She lives far enough away that she can’t be at every game, but she supports what I’m doing, and fuck knows she spent my entire youth, high school, and college years on a hard metal bench watching me protect whatever goal I was in front of that game.

“She’s great,” I answer, realizing that I owe her a phone call. “Wanted to thank her for all the time she spent freezing her ass off at my games.”

I make a mental note to actually send her flowers too. She’d be tickled as hell at that.

“Good to hear it.” Shepherd nods.

“Well, if Days isn’t going to get his dick sucked, I am,” Randall announces, standing up from his seat in the hot tub.

I don’t know if he means with a cheerleader or someone else. Hell, he could be lying his ass off too.

But we wave our goodbyes as he walks past the pool and disappears.

Cupping the bubbles in my hand, I realize that if Max leaves, I’ll be alone with Shepherd, and that’s a dangerous position to be in. I’m gonna have to figure that out—he’s my best friend, so avoiding him for the season is impossible—but I also don’t have to figure that out today.

So before Max can say anything, I rise too. “Think my bed’s calling my name,” I say, grabbing a towel and roughly running it over my head. “Don’t cook yourselves so long your balls turn into prunes, or you’ll never get them caressed again.”

They laugh at the advice, not moving, and I make my escape to safety.

I’ve got to be more careful. If Max had seen the delivery address or name, and not only the flowers, I’d be bobbing for apples in that hot tub right now with Shepherd’s hand holding me under.