The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Using every ounce of polite manners my mom force-fed into me to be gracious and grateful, I tell Dalton, “Thank you for the blazing stars. They’re beautiful.” He’s sitting in a chair in his hotel room, wearing a Moose T-shirt and presumably sweats, though I can’t see them on the phone screen, and I’m on my couch, wearing a sweatshirt, sports bra, underwear, leggings, and socks, and covered to my chin with a fluffy blanket.

Both of us seemingly chose safer spots and attire for tonight’s pregame call. As if we both know there can’t be a repeat of the last one and wanted layers of protection from it. Or at least, that’s why I chose my outfit. Dalton might’ve packed only team gear for all I know. But at least his muscled chest and ripped abs are put away like the weapons of female destruction they are.

What I really want to say is, Do you know what a shitstorm you stirred up for me by sending a bouquet to my work? What were you thinking?

But I don’t, because I don’t want to sound like a bitch, even though the flower delivery definitely got tongues wagging. People were coming by my cubicle for all sorts of nonsense for an opportunity to peek at the flowers and see if I’d spill who sent them.

“I thought you’d like them,” he replies with a confident smile. “No roses, like you said.”

I swear to god, if he could pat himself on the back any harder, he would. As it is, he’s nearly verbally popping his shoulder out of socket to congratulate himself on a job well done.

How is he so completely oblivious? He’s smart and has surely sent flowers to a woman before, so how does he not realize?

Maybe I bear the teeniest bit of responsibility for not clarifying that I meant to my apartment when I told him to send flowers? And honestly, it was a joke. I didn’t think he’d really send them anyway. But I figured if he listened and actually did it, he’d know better than to send them to the station. Apparently not, which means I have to be the one to educate him.

“Do you know what happens when someone gets flowers at work?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

His dark brows furrow in confusion and he shrugs. “I dunno. You set them on your desk?”

I nod as if I’m thinking deeply about his superficial answer. “Let’s try this . . . you and the team walk out of the arena together, high-fiving and congratulating each other on a win, and see Max’s car has stuff written on the windows like great game, best winger ever with an arrow pointing at the driver, and Moose 4ever. What would you say to him?”

“Stage five clinger alert,” he jokes, grinning at the thought. “We’d definitely ask who the new pussy is and warn him about condom sabotage because a girl like that’s a baby-trapper.”

“Riiight,” I drawl out, prompting him to put two and two together.

It takes a second, a solid breath in and out while he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles, and then he sits upright. “Oh fuck! I didn’t even think—” He frowns hard, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Did people at the station—”

I interrupt to fill in, “Ask who my new boyfriend is? Yeah. They did. And when I said ‘not a boyfriend,’ they got carried away with all sorts of theories. Before long, I was fielding conspiracies about secret admirers, stalkers, and obsessed fans.”

He rumbles, his jaw clenching. “Straight from the tea to the drama, huh?”

I arch a sharp brow. “Girls have to stick together, and stick up for what’s right. If one of us got flowers from some unknown guy, we’d be doing FBI-level investigative work, walking each other to our cars, and texting a code word of the day to check in once we got home. We follow the safety in numbers guideline, so I was trying to hold off initiation of Operation: Protect Joy.”

That perks his ears right up and he goes deadly serious. “Do you really do all that?”

“Yeah, that’s what good friends do. Being in the public eye isn’t always the safest job, so we’re careful. Everyone in any sort of broadcast journalism knows that people get attached to you. We come into their homes every day, like clockwork, which creates a sense of connection as we share the news, weather, or sports. They think we’re friends . . . or more. It’s even riskier as a woman.”

He looks angry. Actually, scratch that. Though he’s probably aiming for chill and calm, he looks downright monstrous as he grits out, “Have you had issues with anyone?”

“Nothing that serious, thankfully. And before you go all ‘give me his name,’ you have the same thing with fans. They think they know you because they watch you play, and maybe you gave them a high five or a handshake at the supermarket,” I remind him. “Not to mention all the girls in the stands wearing your jersey number, waiting in line to drape themselves over you for a picture and slip you their numbers, and rating you for Kiss/Marry/Kill on Instagram.”

“Jealous?” he taunts with a wicked smirk. Then he answers more seriously, “It’s different for me. I don’t walk around feeling unsafe. Other than the girls, the most I get is a keyboard warrior who thinks he can play better than me even though the only thing he’s guarded is the front door with a dead bolt, and I have to hold myself back from typing out a ‘fuck you’ response under my real name.”

I nod, glad he understands. “I don’t live my life in fear, either, because I’m careful and on alert one hundred percent of the time, like my coworkers, which is why they were worried about me. I finally had to lie and say Hope sent the flowers as a thank-you for being such a great sister, which then sent everyone back to tea-territory, asking what’s up with her.”

He seems grateful for the opportunity to redirect the conversation and quickly adds, “People ask Shep that too. He usually tells them she’s working in California, keeping people’s veneers camera-ready in blinding LED white.”

I laugh. “I haven’t heard that one, but I’ll start using it, too, so it seems extra believable.”

The truth is, Hope floats wherever her husband, Ben, and his band go. If that’s at their home in LA, fine. If that’s a tour of Europe that hits fourteen cities in fifteen days, that’s okay too. She’s the band’s biggest cheerleader, often referee, and occasional fake-assistant, serving as a face for various venues who want to speak to a representative because the band members’ identities are top secret. She’s found an unexpected life that makes her happy, and that’s all I care about. Even if I do miss her.

But people in Maple Creek ask about her pretty regularly, so Shep and me having the same answer would be good. Ben wants and deserves his professional privacy, and I’m honestly honored to be included in his circle of trust. We should probably fill Mom and Dad in on the cover story, too, so it really sells it for the Gossipy Gertrudes and Geralds around town.

“I really am sorry, Joy. I thought you’d like the flowers and figured you’d get to see them more at the station because I know you work long hours,” Dalton says earnestly. “I didn’t think about what effect that might have for you, and I should have. I’m sorry.”

I can’t help but smile. He can be sweet, when he wants to be. Given that’s not very often, I appreciate that he did send the flowers with the best of intentions. “Thank you. They are beautiful.” This time when I say it, I truly mean it.

His eyes drop to my lips, like he’s measuring my smile. When his lips lift in answer, the resulting effect is almost boyish, like he’s unbelievably pleased with my eventual reaction. Time stretches, both of us simply grinning at each other stupidly.

“So, shall we?” he asks, getting down to business.

And by business, I mean, showing me his. It’s a quick peek tonight, no talk about what happened before, no over the top touching, just a “here ya go,” and then he puts his dick away, thanking me.

When we hang up, I feel like the pregame ritual wasn’t the most important thing that happened tonight.

A week later

Knock, knock.

“It’s open,” I yell.

My apartment door opens, and Dalton struts in like he owns the place, locking the door behind him, squatting to pick up my purse and hang it on the hook, easily stepping over my floordrobe, and setting the bag of take-out food he brought on my kitchen counter.

“Plates are in the—” I start to say, but he throws me a duh look as he opens the correct cabinet and pulls out two plates. I press my lips together, fighting off a laugh as he makes himself at home, plating up our dinner while I stay curled up on the couch.

I’m not a great hostess. Never claimed I was. And technically, I’m doing Dalton a favor, so I’m not gonna clean up, act like I’m Miss Perfect, and treat him like a guest.

He flops onto the couch beside me, offering me chicken marsala while keeping a plate piled high with grilled chicken and veggies for himself. When he’d offered to bring dinner tonight, strictly for convenience’s sake, I asked if I had to follow Fritzi’s diet, too, and Dalton had said he’d get me whatever I wanted. Chicken marsala sounded delicious, and given the smell wafting from my plate, I was right. Mine looks considerably better than Dalton’s too.

“Thank you,” I say, licking my finger where a bit of sauce got it when I took the plate.

Dalton’s eyes zero in on the tip of my tongue, and he shifts, seeming uncomfortable on my super comfortable couch. Secretly, I smile to myself. I knew chicken marsala was the way to go.

“What are we watching?” Dalton asks, eyes turning to the television where I paused the movie I started earlier. The screen is frozen on an image of white snow-covered trees, a handsome blond guy wearing a sweater and matching beanie, and a Saint Bernard puppy, complete with wooden barrel keg on his collar.

He’s gonna laugh and give me shit, but I don’t care. Cheesy Hallmark movies are my one and only vice, and I love them. “Snowball’s Chance in Heaven,” I answer, daring him with a glare to say one word.

His fork pauses halfway to his open mouth, a broccoli tree hanging precariously from the tines. “Snowball’s chance in what?”

I hit play, explaining as we go. “That’s Jameson. He oversees his family’s property in Vermont. And that’s his dog, Bernie, who rescued a visitor coming to the house to try to buy the land but accidentally slid into a snow drift. And that’s Sheila, the visitor-slash-investor’s representative, who’s in way over her head.”

“Are you fucking with me?” he deadpans.

I don’t answer. I turn up the volume, gluing my eyes to the ridiculously contrived and saccharine-sweet story that makes my insides all warm and gooey.

Surprisingly, Dalton watches the movie with me while he eats. Occasionally, he snorts at the absurdity of the storyline, and once, he tells Sheila to run for the city before she’s brainwashed by the Vermontian cult of pine tree appreciation. I actually laugh at that one, too, but still poke him with my elbow and tell him to watch the movie.

By the end of it, I’m sniffling quietly as Sheila and Jameson confess their love for one another and Sheila helps him save the family estate from her boss by revealing a clause in the contract Jameson’s dad secretly signed.

“Are you crying?” Dalton sounds incredulous, like the possibility that I might be capable of tears never occurred to him.

I swipe at my eyes, but there’s too many tears escaping, so I resort to using the blanket to wipe them away, keeping my face turned the other way so he doesn’t see. “No.”

“What’s wrong with you? You’re crying over that?” He points at the television, where the credits are rolling over a closing scene of Sheila, Jameson, and Bernie having a snowball fight in front of a huge log-cabin mansion while snow falls around them.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I argue.

“Are you crying over her giving up her career for that asshole?” he asks, seeming shocked at my uncharacteristic show of emotions. “Or because he brainwashed her with a cute puppy and picturesque backdrop into thinking he’s a good guy, when he’s an asshole who let her walk away from everything for what? For him? Why was it never an option that he sell the estate, take the money, and the two of them move to a walk-up in the city? Oh no, of course not, because she’s the martyr, not him.”

I stare, all my gobs smacked by his takeaway from the movie. “What? That’s not what that was. It was romantic! They fell in love with each other. I guess you wouldn’t understand a sweet love like that.”

We’re not really arguing, more like debating the merits of a Hallmark movie, which is ridiculous in and of itself. I can’t help but defend the predictable plots and for-sure endings I’ve come to know and love, even if Dalton does have a point.

“You wouldn’t understand a ‘sweet love’ either,” Dalton accuses. “You’d eat a soft guy like Jameson for breakfast and shit him out before lunch. You need someone who can handle your bullshit.”

“Like you?” I guess snidely.

He scoffs, but nods. “Better than some weak-ass guy who can’t pull his head out of his ass long enough to save his family’s farm unless his one true love drops into his lap and helps by selling hot cocoa at the fair.”

He does little finger air quotes around “helps” because Sheila did a lot more than hand out Styrofoam cups. She saved the day, but somehow Jameson came out the hero.

I stare at him in shock for three, two, one . . .

And then I burst into laughter. “What?” I say around full-on belly guffaws that shake my shoulders. “What the fuck are we arguing about?”

“I don’t even know,” he answers, laughing too.

Suddenly, we both dissolve into a mutual laughing fit at the absurdity of the movie and each other. And still, Sheila, Jameson, and Bernie snow-fight on, which only makes the whole thing funnier.

Eventually, the laughter starts to subside, and I ask, “You really think I’d shit a sweet guy out before lunch?”

“One hundred percent,” he declares with complete surety. “Wouldn’t matter, though. He’d be running scared within the first thirty seconds of meeting you, intimidated as fuck by your mouth, mind, and tits, in that order,” he says, ticking the attributes off on his thick fingers.

My mouth falls open in surprise. That almost sounded like a compliment, but I must be wrong because Dalton Days doesn’t give those out. Especially to me.

Except, while he has called me mouthy at least a half dozen times, he’s also said I’m smart and strong, and he doesn’t seem to hate my body given his response to it.

“You didn’t run,” I say quietly.

He huffs out a sound of disbelief. “I’m not sweet and weak. And I’m still running. You’re fucking terrifying. I leave every interaction with you glad that I got away with my life and replaying our conversations to see if I missed any threats to it. The only thing scarier than you is . . . losing.”

It sounds like he actually believes that. For some reason, I don’t want him to be scared of me.

“I don’t mean to be terrifying.” I sigh heavily, rolling my eyes in exhaustion. “Maybe I’m ready for a soft woman chapter. I’ve been a boss bitch for a long time,” I confess. “I think that’s why I like the stupid romance movies.”

Dalton turns on the couch, bringing up a knee between us. “If you’re serious, you should know that you don’t need to change a single fucking thing about yourself for the right guy to fall in love with you. You don’t need to be soft. You only need to be you. No giving up your career, moving to Vermont, or adopting a litter of dogs that’ll shit on the rug.”

I let my head fall back on the couch cushion, smiling at his dark humor. “I’m not going soft or giving up anything. Trust me, I know what I’m bringing to the table, so I’m not afraid to eat alone. I think I’m just a little lonely since Hope left.”

“Lonely? With me coming over or calling all the time?” he teases. And as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he reaches out to smooth my hair back from my face, peering at me curiously.

For a split second, I let my eyes close, enjoying his touch as his big palm slides over my hair, almost petting me. It feels good, releasing a knot in my chest I didn’t even realize had pulled tight.

I loll my head over, opening my eyes to lazily grin at him. “Yeah, you’re pretty annoying,” I agree, but there’s zero truth to my statement.

He’s not annoying in the slightest. He’s . . . something different than I thought he was. I knew he was tough, hardworking, and cocky. But he’s also insecure at times, kind, and funny.

It takes a long minute, but I can feel the mood shift as he intentionally takes his hand back. “Always have been, always will be,” he quips. “On that front . . .”

He drops his eyes to his lap, and when I do the same, I can see that he’s already hard beneath his sweatpants. I wonder if it’s from touching me, or if his dick has developed a Pavlov’s response to my voice because every time it hears me, it gets a moment of freedom and a few strokes.

“Yeah,” I answer hollowly, sitting up and tucking the blanket under my chin as a barrier between us.

Dalton’s hands lower to his waistband, where he slips his thumbs inside the elastic. I don’t breathe as he frees his erection. He doesn’t touch himself this time, already so hard that veins are throbbing along his length and his balls are pulled up tight against the base.

I stare, captivated by him. Hungry for him. And still, I sit unmoving.

Tonight has been fun. I’ve enjoyed hanging out with Dalton Days, which is something I never thought I’d say . . . or think. But giving in and doing what else I’m thinking about doing is a bad idea. For both of us.

I accused him once of letting women hop on his dick to do all the work, while he lay back and took pleasure from them. Honestly, right now, I would throw a leg over his hips, settle my aching pussy over him, and impale myself as deeply as I could physically handle to ride him until we both came powerfully hard and I passed out from bliss, still attached to him, and not hold him at fault in the slightest.

I scissor my legs, squeezing my inner muscles as tightly as I can, wondering if I might come without a single touch. All from seeing his cock in all its glory.

Wouldn’t that give Dalton the ego boost of the century?

I don’t move any closer, don’t let my eyes drift, and certainly don’t check to see if he’s enjoying my obvious arousal.

After a minute, he pulls his sweats back over his penis and cups himself, adjusting so his hardness isn’t uncomfortable. “I should go,” he grunts, standing up slowly.

“Yeah, uh . . . I’ll see you after the game,” I murmur, following him toward the door as I suddenly become the hostess I told myself I wasn’t. “I mean, for an interview. Or at Chuck’s. Or whatever,” I add, realizing I sounded like I meant we were going to meet after the game, like a date or a plan or whatever the hell it is people do.

But not us. We’re not people who do that.

We’re people who have a pregame ritual to complete. And maybe we’re actually friends now? That’s what we are—friends who help each other. Benefits, but not those kinds of benefits.

At the door, Dalton freezes. “Joy, I have a question. Tell me the truth, lie to me, or tell me to fuck off, but I have to ask.” His voice is gritty and rough, his hand nearly white at how hard he’s gripping the doorknob, and his back is to me like he can’t look at me when he asks.

My mouth is drier than the Sahara, partly because all my fluid is elsewhere and also because I can feel the anticipation building as I wait for him to ask me anything. I lick my lips. “Okay, ask away.”

“After our tradition, do you touch yourself the way you did on the phone?”

I swallow thickly as a heavy tension fills the small space between us. I could reach out to him. Hell, I could answer him. Either would get me exactly what I want, but then what?

He’s still Dalton Days, the playboy and my brother’s best friend. And I’m still Joy Barlowe, who put athletes off-limits years ago and won’t change her mind now.

“You should go,” I whisper.

He dips his head, disappointed but acknowledging my nonanswer, and walks out the door, leaving it open behind him.

I’m this close to stepping into the hall and calling his name, knowing he’d turn right around and come back, probably shove me up against the wall, kiss me, ravage me, and ruin me with that dick of his. So I force myself to close it before my body overrides my brain. But I’m still asking myself . . .

Should I have told him the truth? Should I have lied?