The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Chuck’s is slammed tonight, but I expect that because of it being opening night. The bar is basically the team’s second home, with warm wood paneling, a mishmash of high and low tables and booths, and a small dance floor that’s completely overrun by celebratory fans and probably a few people who had no idea their beer-and-chicken-wing dinner was going to be invaded by an entire hockey victory crowd. It doesn’t help that Chuck’s isn’t a huge place, nor that there are few nighttime options in a town like Maple Creek.

We’ve taken over the back corner as a makeshift VIP area for the players and their girlfriends and wives, but I keep to the edges, not wanting to get locked in to small talk with one of the guys’ flavors of the week. Not that I’m judging. I’ve done my fair share of fucking around with puck bunnies, but those days are in my rearview mirror. My time on the ice is running out, and I’m not wasting minutes or energy on some woman who thinks her pussy’s special or she can lay claim on me because she can suck my soul out through my cock.

“Hell yeah, brother! Total shutout!” Shepherd shouts as he thrusts his beer bottle toward me.

I clink my bottle to his. “Thanks. It helps when you make shots like you did! You had us set from the drop.”

Shepherd preens at the praise, his white smile bright in the bar’s dim light. “Wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t blocked those rockets. Bop, bop, bop.” He mimes fighting off an attack with an imaginary sword and shield that I’m guessing is supposed to resemble my hockey stick and pads. “Deee-nied!”

I appreciate that he values the work I put in at the net. Not every captain does. Goals are the flashy parts of a game, and scorers tend to like all the attention they can get. But Shep’s a good guy and a great leader, making sure the whole team knows we win and lose together.

“Your family here?” I ask, changing the subject . . . for no reason in particular.

Fine, I’ll admit I’m curious if Joy is coming. Even more curious to know if she tattled to Shepherd about our little tiff last night. He would not appreciate me waving my dick around to his sister.

“Yeah, Mom and Dad are at the bar. You know Mom, she’s probably offering to cut lemons if it’d be a help.” That’s the truth. Shepherd’s parents are kind of like team parents, looking out for any of the guys when they need it, but his mother is basically ready to ascend to sainthood. She would give you the last crust of bread she had if you were hungry, so I could totally see her stepping in to help the slammed bartender instead of acting like a typical customer. “And the girls are probably on the dance floor. I’m glad Hope could make it for the opener. Keeps the tradition alive.”

Girls. So Joy is here. Ignoring the uptick in my heart rate, I keep the focus on Shepherd’s other sister.

“Awww, you miss your wittle sistah?” I tease in a toddler voice, knowing full well he worries about Hope, who seems to travel all the time.

“Fuck no,” he lies smoothly. “But at least I know she’s not in trouble if she’s here.”

Shepherd and I have been friends for a few years now. When I joined the Moose, he was already the star center hoping for The Call, and I figured he was a short-timer on his way up and didn’t put much effort into getting to know him. He wasn’t having that for a second. He invited me to dinner, got to know me basically by force, and adopted me as his friend whether I wanted to be or not. Now? I love the guy and appreciate his friendship more than I would’ve dreamed.

And the first thing you learn about Shepherd is that he loves the hell out of his family. He talks about them nearly as much as he talks about hockey, which is a fucking lot. That’s why I know his sister, Hope, has never been in trouble a day in her life. She’s the Good Sister.

Which makes Joy the . . .

Nope. Shut that shit down, Dalton. She’s your best friend’s little sister, and you’re done with your Bad Girl phase.

The good news is that if Shep’s shit-talking about Hope’s visit, then he doesn’t have a clue about my dick waving around like a flag at nearly full mast last night.

“Tell her I said ‘hey’ before she jets out,” I say, and he tilts his beer at me.

We sit in silence for a minute, eyes scanning the crowd around us. Everyone’s smiling, laughing, and having a great time. I’m glad, even if I feel a bit on the outside of it. It’s not that I’m not included. I’m part of the team, part of the family, in the thick of things, but inside, I keep it all at arm’s length. It’s what I’ve always done, how I always am, and everyone knows and respects it, not getting too close, physically or emotionally, with me.

“I’m gonna hit Amara up for a second. I’ll be back,” Shepherd tells me, scooting away toward a girl he’s talked to a few times. She’s pretty, with dark curls, dark eyes, and seemingly zero interest in my boy, which drives him insane.

I take a sip of my beer, and like a beacon from heaven, or maybe karma, shining down on the dance floor, I spy Joy swaying in time to the music that’s playing over the jukebox. She’s wearing jeans with slashes in both knees that let her tanned skin peek out, low-heel boots, and a green sweater over her Moose jersey. She’s smiling as she sings along with the music, her arms over her head, flashing a sliver of her belly.

Ice dumps into my veins.

Not because of her, but because Max is dancing with her. He’s my teammate, a decent guy, and as close to a friend as I have beyond Shep. I mean, Max and I aren’t swapping-life-stories-over-whiskey types, or anything close to it, but I’d show up to help him move out of his apartment if he asked. Not all the Moose fit that description.

Objectively, he’s not even close to her, merely beside her, effortlessly joining in the circle with Joy, Hope, and a couple of other people. Still, I don’t like it. Especially after his too-easy flirting with her earlier. He’s slipping and sliding down a slope to danger.

My eyes dart around to find Shepherd, but he’s preoccupied and hasn’t noticed one of the guys getting too close for comfort with his sisters.

Well, sister.

I slam my beer to the table and stalk across the floor. I must look like approaching fury because people move out of my way, parting like the Red Sea, until I’m next to Max, bodily putting space between him and Joy. “You got a death wish I need to know about?” I snarl at him.

“Huh?” His smile vanishes as worry clouds his eyes.

“Don’t fuck with the balance,” I warn. Coach has given us that advice at least a dozen times per season. On the ice, there’s a delicate balance between defense and offense, between teammates, between when to go balls to the wall and when to play it smart. Max is on a tightrope, risking the balance with Shepherd by flirting with Joy. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it. Not when we just had our best opener in recent history, and that includes the season we went all the way. “If Shep sees you, he’ll kick your ass, and as much as I hate to admit it, we need you.”

Max’s jaw drops open in protest, probably about to say something asinine like, We were only dancing, Dad, but someone else is quicker to the punch. Behind me, Joy snaps, “Quit cockblocking, Days. If I want to get railed by a Moose, Max or otherwise, I will.”

She will do no such thing. Not on Shepherd’s watch, and if he’s busy, not on mine.

I whirl to tell her that she absolutely will not be getting railed by any-fucking-one, only to see her grinning so widely that I can nearly count her molars. She bursts out in laughter, which is instantly echoed by Hope.

“Jesus, you should see your face. Lighten up. It’s a celebration,” Joy informs me, as if I’m not already well aware of that fact. “We’re not having sex on the dance floor. I wasn’t even twerking . . . yet.”

Still grinning happily—or is she drunk?—she takes my hand and twirls herself under my arm while I remain frozen in place, watching her give me her back and then face me once again. The thought of Joy twerking her ass in those jeans, or worse—better?—without the jeans, sends all my blood south.

“You know, dance-ing?” She says it slowly, like I’m too stupid to understand the word.

“You are not twerking. You are not fucking Max or any other Moose,” I growl, just loud enough for her to hear. A half beat later, I tack on, “Or hell, any other asshole in here tonight.”

I have no right to tell her what she can and can’t do, but the declaration comes out automatically. And if I’d stuck to only saying Moose, I could probably play it off as a team thing. But I didn’t, and that’s gonna cause problems.

Her smile vanishes instantly, her eyes flaring wide with anger as her brows jump up her forehead. She’s pissed. No, she’s furious, and I can almost sense the scathing words forming in her mind and rushing to her sharp tongue.

On one hand, I can’t wait to hear them. But honestly, I’m not sure I can take her on in my current no-blood-in-my-brain state. Quickly, I try to soften the blow so she doesn’t destroy me. “You’re too good for anyone here, and you know it.”

There. That should do it.

She flips her hair over her shoulder, not buying it in the least. “Obviously. I know my worth. But sometimes, I go on flash sale. Out of boredom mostly. Or when my vibrator needs a good charge.” She leans to the side to wink at Max. “No offense.”

Behind me, he answers, “None taken, ma’am.” I can hear the grin in his voice, and I can imagine him tipping an invisible hat as if he’s a gentleman.

“Not helping,” I toss over my shoulder to Max, keeping my eyes locked on Joy. And definitely not imagining her with her legs spread wide, pussy dripping, and a toy disappearing inside her. I bet she’s a screamer when she comes. She’s mouthy all the time, so she probably only gets louder when she releases the tight hold she keeps on herself. My balls tighten painfully, which pisses me off. She pisses me off.

“He could be helping if you’d get out of the way.” Not waiting for me to move, she does it herself, forcing me to turn to follow her. Now, Joy, Max, and I are our own circle of three, but the others are close around us, watching the spectacle we’re making like it’s a live-action reality show.

When I don’t respond, she leans in closer to peer into my eyes like they might contain the secrets of the universe. Suddenly, and loud enough for everyone to hear, she says, “Oh shit. Are you jealous? I didn’t know you and Max were a thing. My bad.” She swings a pink-manicured finger from me to Max, and back again. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of true love.”

Like the laidback jokester that he is, Max throws a big smile on his face and clenches his hands beneath his chin, nearly shooting hearts out of his stupid green eyes. “Dalton, I didn’t know you had feelings for me! I wuv you too. C’mere, ya big sex machine. I’ll put my stick in your five-hole no problem!”

People around us are looking on in shock at the bold, and again, loud declaration. I don’t give a shit what they think or what gossip Joy might be instigating, especially since it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that Max is kidding. What I care about is that Joy’s fucking with me.

“Seriously? Everybody knows who I fuck almost as soon as I come. Women take out billboards about that shit. But Max is one of the boys. Don’t screw around with the team, Joy,” I snarl. Wrapping my hand around the back of Max’s neck, I grip him tight to guide him away.

Once we’re free of the clear and present danger, a.k.a. Joy Barlowe, I release Max, who laughs and holds a hand up for a high five. “I knew you were faking all that ‘grumpy asshole’ shit. Moose forever, man!”

People hear the last part and a chorus of “Moooose!” rings out through the bar.

There’s one particular voice in the crowd I hear over all the others, though, and it irritates the fuck out of me. Because it’s the only one that sounds like it’s taunting me specifically the whole time.