The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

I’ve called. I’ve texted. I’ve sent memes. I’ve left voicemails.

Joy hasn’t responded to a single one since I walked out of her apartment after the festival.

The only reason I know she’s okay is because when we came back from our holiday break, and the guys talked about what they’d done over the long week, I made sure to ask Shepherd how his Thanksgiving went. Apparently, their dinner was great, other than a little baby pressure for Hope and her husband, but Shepherd laughingly boasted that he’d escaped mostly unscathed.

As for Joy? He barely mentioned her. But even hearing that she was there soothed the knot of fear in my gut. She’s okay.

Except she’s still not answering. And we have a game tomorrow.

I get that she’s mad at me, but she won’t fuck over the team, will she? She knows I need her to play my best.

I bang my head against the headboard and dial her number again . . .

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Joy, answer the fucking phone. We play the Devildogs tomorrow, and they’re unbeaten so far this season. I need . . . I need . . .” I sigh and say the one thing that comes to mind, “You.”

She doesn’t call me back.

I try to put it out of my mind and do the rest of my pregame rituals. I drink half my 5-hour energy, do my stretches and warm-ups, meditate and visualize, and listen to my playlist. I tap the goal four times on the left and three times on the right, then once on the top bar with my helmet.

We still fucking lose. Four to two, which would have been worse if it wasn’t for Shep’s aggressive offense keeping the Devildogs on their heels for the entire third period.

I’m slamming my gear around as I take it off when Shepherd comes up behind me. “Damn, man. You good?”

“No,” I bark. “I’m not fucking good. That was a shit show out there.”

Of course, I can’t tell him that what’s truly wrong is that I royally fucked things up with his sister, who, in response, has gone honey badger–level vicious and currently shows no sign of mercy.

He nods, agreeing with me. “Yeah, those Devildogs are rabid. They were all over Max’s ass, and we couldn’t get past their goalie for shit.”

He’s right. They have a good goalie, one who until today I would have said is nearly as good as me. That sounds like a bunch of bullshit now, considering I played like I was made of swiss cheese.

“Wouldn’t have mattered. I might as well have sat on the bench for all the good I was out there,” I snarl, furious at myself. And at Joy.

“You had an off night. We’ll get ’em tomorrow night. No need to get splinters in your ass,” he tells me with a grin. He’s mad, too, but talking me off the ledge instead of piling on to my self-dogpile.

“Yeah,” I grunt.

He’s right about one thing. We’re playing the Devildogs again tomorrow night, and it’s going to be a much different outcome, because I’m figuring out this deal with Joy right after I hit the shower.

“Answer the door, Joy,” I growl at the blue-painted wood, glaring at the number plate.

She’s here, I know she is because I heard her shuffling to the door after I knocked, saw the light change as she peeked out of the peephole, and I definitely heard her hiss fuck when she saw it was me. As if it’d be anyone else.

It better not be anyone else.

“Joy’s not here. You know what to do. Beeep.”

She’s not seriously trying that again, is she?

“Did you see the game? Were you there to watch me get humiliated?” I’m so fucking angry. Not at her, though there’s a small amount of frustration directed her way for blowing me off, but given that’s somewhat warranted, I’m mostly furious with myself for not blocking those shots. It’s my job. It’s the one thing I’m good at, and I failed spectacularly, letting down my team, the fans, and myself.

The door cracks open and I see one single blue eye blazing fury at me. “Of course I saw. I was there, did my eleven o’clock report, and virtually ran out of there. Wanna know why?” she bites out. Without waiting for me to guess, she informs me, “To avoid you. Yet here you are.” Every word is full of piss and vinegar, spat out in disgust at my appearance at her door.

“You knew I’d hunt you down,” I counter, not giving this up. “You sure you didn’t run scared so I’d chase you and we could be alone?” I’m 87 percent sure I’m right, but it’s still a gamble to throw it in her face.

Thankfully, the gamble pays off because she flings the door open the rest of the way but remains blocking the entrance with her body. It’s then I know I’m 100 percent right in why she ran. She might not admit it, even to herself, but she came home, washed her face, pulled her hair up into a messy bun, and put on what she calls pajamas but is actually an oversize Moose T-shirt that hits her midthigh. She’s my walking, talking fantasy, and she fucking knows it. I told her as much on one of our phone calls.

“Fine, we’re alone. Say what you came to say. Blame me for the loss and make me out to be the bad guy. I’ll tell you to fuck off, and then you can leave before the neighbors call the cops.”

That’s truly how she thinks this is gonna go. Hell, it is basically why I came over.

I need to change tactics. I rack my brain, trying to come up with something, anything. And thankfully, it hits me. There’s one super-risky option that has equal odds of soothing her hurt ego as it does resulting in my head on her trophy wall of guys she’s murdered in cold blood by dashing their hopes and dreams at any chance with her.

It’s all I’ve got.

“I’m sorry,” I shout, my voice hard and jaw set as I force the words out. I’m not good at apologizing, can think of only a handful of times in my entire life I’ve actually done it, but if this goes wrong and she strikes back at me, verbally or otherwise, I refuse to let her see the damage she can so easily inflict on me. Keeping some level of blustering confidence is key to protecting myself.

She stutters on the comeback she had locked and loaded on her venomous tongue. Her jaw drops open and then her eyes narrow. “For what exactly?”

“For not telling that girl at the festival to fuck off. For not stomping onto that dance floor and ripping you away from that asshole the way I wanted to. For leaving after you let me taste you because it’s all I’ve been able to think about ever since.” I grind my teeth, needing the physical pain because it’s a more familiar sensation than emotional vulnerability, which hurts so much worse.

The door moves an inch, and for a second, I can’t tell if she’s about to slam it in my face. I’m not sure she knows either. But she makes space for me, holding out an arm to invite me in though she’s still glaring ice daggers my way.

I step inside, inhaling her as I pass her. This time, I’m not leaving until we figure this out. I’ll plant myself on her fucking couch or in the middle of her bed and force her to talk to me if that’s what it takes.

Not for the team or tomorrow’s game. But for myself. If that makes me a greedy asshole, then so be it.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Joy starts, still sassy and mouthy as she sits down on the couch, spitting out barbs the whole way, “but I still don’t date athletes.” She points from me to her as I sit beside her, noting that she’s curled her legs between us as a buffer. “So this isn’t happening.”

I kinda hoped my true confessions moment would give me a little quarter with her, but mercy isn’t in her nature and I wouldn’t change her even if I could. But challenge her? Fuck yeah, I can do that, especially if it means understanding her better.

“Why not?”

“Buchanan Spitz.”

I blink, not following in the slightest. “Is that supposed to mean something? Should I know that name?”

Joy chuckles, but her smile is bitter and frayed at the edges. “He was my boyfriend for a minute. I thought we were serious, he thought what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Surprise! It hurt . . . a lot. Me, not him, it was the first time I caught serious feels. In hindsight, I should’ve ripped his arm or leg off and beat him with it. He deserved it.”

I get it now. This Spitz guy must’ve been an athlete and he cheated on her, so she swore off all athletes.

“We could correct that oversight,” I offer, already earmarking one Buchanan Spitz for a visit by me and Shepherd and making note of Joy’s great, albeit graphic, idea about how to deal with him.

That does make Joy smile a true grin. “No, it was ages ago, but the lesson stands. I hear about the players’ exploits from Shep. And I see firsthand how the guys are on the road, the fangirling, the reputations.”

Ah. Okay, it’s not only the high school asshole. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s me too. “I would never cheat. That’s not who I am.”

“Dalton, your nickname is One-Night for a reason,” she says softly. “You’re a playboy, a man whore, with different girls every night. I’m not judging you for it. But it’s the truth.”

Elbows on my knees, I shove my hands through my hair and groan. “It was the truth,” I admit. “But those women knew what they were getting into with me. My focus has always been hockey, no time for a relationship.”

“And that’s fine. I went along with the whole cock-a-doodle peekaboo knowing exactly what it was.”

She pauses like she wants to say more, and I look up, “Buuut . . . ,” I prompt.

“Hope thinks I like you,” she confesses on a pained sigh, rolling her eyes. “I think Hope wants everyone to have the happily ever after she has, and that’s not me. But that girl at the festival? I wanted to scratch her eyes out and pee on you like a dog, marking my territory.” She makes a vague X shape over my groin, and my cock jumps in response to even the slight attention. But like she thinks I’m bothered by her claim, she’s quick to add, “I know you’re not. That’s not what this is and not what either of us want. It was messy in here for a minute, though.” She taps at her temple. “But no worries, I’m over it.”

Shocked to my core, I try to find any kind of logic in her words. In the end, I stick with the part that does make sense. “You could mark me however you want. Pee on me, slide that sexy pussy on me, spit on me, squirt all over me. I’m down for anything.” I lean in closer, hoping for something . . . anything from her.

“You would be,” she laughs, pushing playfully at my chest. “Maybe it’d help your game? You really sucked tonight. I’ve seen peewee players with better gloveside skills.”

She thinks I’m here because of the pregame ritual when I haven’t even thought about that since I walked in the door. But she’s right. I do need to fix things before tomorrow’s game.

“I’d do just about anything to taste you again,” I tell her directly and honestly, catching her hand and keeping it pressed over my heart. When she flinches at the straightforward tone, I force my voice to go lighter, joking, “It probably is why I let the puck skate past me so many times tonight. Because all I could think about was finally having you on my tongue.”

Her hand on my chest curls into a fist as she grabs my shirt and pulls me in. When there’s nothing but breath between us, she stops. “This is a bad idea,” she warns.

“Mm-hmm,” I answer, even though I don’t think that’s true at all. “Shep’s gonna kill me.”

“I can live with that. And don’t talk about my brother when you’re about to kiss me.”

I see her smile for a split second, and then my eyes slam shut as Joy presses her lips to mine. I enjoy the surrender, not of her to me, but of her to her own desire for a shared breath, and then I take over, both of us fighting to go deeper, harder.

There’s no gentle buildup. We’ve been waiting for this for weeks, and the fire sparks between us instantly. Her mouth opens, inviting me in, and I tease over her tongue with my own. I cup her jaw firmly, angling her head and holding her where I want her so I can ravage her.

She’s hot, sweet, and wild. Everything I imagined she’d be.

At one point, our teeth clack together as we desperately try to satiate the need coursing through us, but we don’t pause or soften. Her fingers dance over my chest, her nails scoring my flesh through the thin cotton, and I lay a line of sucking kisses down the tendon of her neck.

“Dalton?” she pants.

I moan, not stopping to answer but rather sucking a little harder over her collarbone as I push the neck of the green shirt out of my way to get at more of her tender flesh.

“You know Skittles? Like the candy,” she asks, tilting her head the other way so I’ll nibble at that side of her neck. “If icks were Skittles, I think I just tasted the whole rainbow. Hockey players are the worst.”

“What?” I mutter, confused as hell. I lift my head, meeting her eyes, and see lights dancing in her baby blues. She’s still fucking with me.

Jesus, this woman is gonna be the death of me. But what a way to go.

I growl, grabbing her hips and pulling her into my lap so that she’s straddling me. Her feet lay over my knees and her knees squeeze at my hips, putting a scant couple of inches between her pussy and my cock. “That’s the best kiss of your fucking life and you know it.” She smirks, not disagreeing, but not agreeing either. “If I’m wrong, sit on my face.”

She’s trapped and she knows it.

“You’re wrong . . . wait, I mean, right. I mean . . . what?”

I can’t fight the cocky grin that steals across my lips. “For tonight, just let me kiss you again, Joy.”