The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

I jump in shock as thundering booms jolt me off my couch, where I’ve been happily watching something besides sports for a few minutes.

Why the hell are the cops banging on my door?

A split second later, I realize it can’t be the police. It’d make no sense for them to be here. I’m not exactly the outstanding warrants type. Plus, Maple Creek falls under the jurisdiction of the county sheriff, and while he’s a dick with a serious case of misplaced anger against my sister because of his son, most of his deputies are the polite knock, knock type, not the SWAT team bang, bang sort.

So who’s trying to bust down my door at nine o’clock at night?

Tugging my T-shirt down to make myself look semihuman, I walk to my front door, kicking my purse out of the way to create a path, and turn the knob. Only to immediately slam it shut.

No way is Dalton Days at my apartment. No fucking way. Except . . . he is.

“What are you doing here?” I ask through the painted wood.

“I need to talk to you for a minute.” Dalton sounds like it pained him to say that. Say, not ask, because he certainly didn’t ask for a conversation. He informed me we’re having one. Well, he can fuck off.

“Sorry. Joy’s not home at the moment. Leave a number after the beep. Beeeeep!”

I hear the weight of his sigh, and when I peek through the peephole—which I totally should’ve done in the first place—I can see him staring at the hallway ceiling as if divine intervention will get me to open the door for him.

“Joy?” he finally says, looking almost . . . not vulnerable, but less invincible than normal. “It’ll be quick. Please.”

A horrible thought occurs to me. There’s only one reason that makes sense for him to be at my door, wanting to talk to me.

I rip the door open and demand, “Is Shep okay? What happened?” I’m already simultaneously gathering my purse from the floor, shoving my feet into the fluffy Uggs I keep by the door, and pulling my hair back into a ponytail. “What hospital?”

Dalton looks confused, his eyes wide and hands thrown up protectively in front of him like I might tackle him for information. “What? No. Shep’s fine. It’s not . . . that.” I pause, glaring at him for scaring the bejesus out of me for no reason. “Look, can we talk?”

He looks past me into my apartment, and I can read the judgment all over his face though not a single muscle twitches. I’m not exactly a clean freak, but my home isn’t dirty or hazmat worthy. I do a deep clean every weekend. Well, almost every weekend. But in between cleaning sprees, I tend to drop things where I am—keys not in the cute bowl by the door, but on the dining room chair with the mail, purse not on the hook but the floor, dinner plates and to-go boxes not in the trash but on the coffee table, and worn clothes in my floordrobe for either a rewear or washing.

Oh shit!

A thought hits me like a punch in the nose, and I whirl, snatching a pair of pink panties from the rug, where they landed haphazardly after I yanked them off earlier. I’d decided they were going in the trash because the lace was scratchy on my more tender parts today. Refusing to wear them for another second, I dropped them on the floor when I came in, because the trash was too far away.

Yep, Dalton definitely saw those. And now that I bent down, he can probably tell I’m commando beneath my sweatpants.

“What do you want, Days?” I snarl, throwing the panties over my shoulder to fall wherever.

He watches them fly and then glances down the hall, likely second-guessing whatever brought him to my door tonight. “Invite me in.”

I snort out a very unladylike sound that’s somewhere between disbelieving laughter and a pig. “What? Are you a vampire or something? Come in. Don’t. Your call.” I wave a hand dismissively and return to my nest of blankets on the couch.

Dalton follows, shutting the door behind him and stepping over my purse, which I of course simply dropped back to the floor so it’s ready for me to leave in the morning. He then nimbly sidesteps a pile of clothes and a couch pillow I threw at the TV when I didn’t like the person the bachelor gave a rose to. Dalton’s surprisingly light on his feet for being such a monstrous size, but I think I hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like Sweet baby . . . Yoda as he chooses a spot in front of the TV to stand for whatever conversation has brought him here.

I look at him expectantly, with zero desire to make this easier on him. Whatever he wants, he’s interrupting my evening for it. And tonight is one of the few I get off work because the weekend crew is doing the reporting for the nightly news.

“Yeah, so . . .” Dalton reaches back to rub the nape of his neck in his big hand, seeming unsure how to start. “Well—”

“Big hole in the ground. Fall in and fuck off.”

“Give me a minute, okay? This isn’t easy for me,” he snaps, pinning me with eyes dark as night.

Something in his glare makes me pause. He actually does look like shit. He’s wearing postpractice sweats, but that’s normal, so it’s not that. It’s more about the messy hair that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it on repeat, the prickly scruff covering his cheeks, and the wild look of desperation in his eyes. That’s what really makes me uncharacteristically clack my mouth shut and give him the floor, and the modicum of patience he asked for.

“You know how all the guys have things that get them right in the head? Routines, good luck charms, mental gymnastics, stuff like that,” he says. I nod, aware of that fact but not sure what it has to do with his impromptu appearance in my living room. “Those are sometimes as important as all the drills, practices, and skills.” He seems to expect something from me, so I nod again, but I guess that’s the wrong thing to do because he starts to pace, muttering to himself, “So fucking stupid, Days. There’s no way. She’s more likely to trip you and laugh at your big ass sprawled on the floor than to help you.”

He’s lost it. Gone crazy. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. It’s the only explanation.

I raise my hand like we’re in second grade math class. “Um, if I might ask a question . . . Could you have this completely normal conversation in the hallway, or do I need to bear witness for later testimony about your state of mind?”

“I need to show you my cock.”

He says it so matter-of-factly. Like he’s telling me the weather outside is lovely tonight. No, not that heartfelt. Like he’s telling me the sky is blue, grass is green, and two plus two is four.

“What?” I laugh, sure I must’ve misheard him.

He turns to me, emphasizing his points with his hands. “I need. To show you. My cock.”

Nope, that’s what he said. Exactly what he said. I jump up from the couch and march to the door, yanking it open. “Get out.”

“Wait. I’m doing this all wrong,” he says and sighs. I tap my foot, crossing my arms over my chest as I glare pointedly out the door.

Shiiiit. I’m not wearing a bra either. I wonder where I threw that when I got home. Oh yeah, it’s on the kitchen counter where I dumped it while the popcorn was popping.

Dalton’s eyes drop, and I realize that my arms-crossed pose has probably highlighted my free-boobing state because this oversize T-shirt only disguises that fact when it’s hanging loose. “Eyes up here, mister.” I snap my fingers, then point at my eyes.

To his credit, he jerks his eyes to mine. “Let me explain. I swear it’ll all make sense if you let me explain.” He holds a hand out toward the couch, inviting me to sit on my own damn furniture.

Eyes narrowed, I close the door and walk back over, taking my time to sit down, arrange my blanket, and only then, give him a glance worthy of Queen Elizabeth looking down on a peasant. You may speak, I say with my eyes, though my mouth stays primly shut for a change.

I owe it to my home team to hear him out because if our star goalie has crossed over to some world where dick-flashing is normal, Shepherd needs to know. Especially given Dalton’s unexpected and illogical exhibition at Chuck’s a few days ago. I know the players are under a lot of stress, but I never would’ve thought Dalton would be the one to succumb to it.

But it seems like he has.

“Thank you,” he says, sounding like the words are glass shards on his tongue. “As I was saying, all the guys have routines, good luck charms, stuff like that—”

“Superstitions,” I offer helpfully.

“I don’t like to call them that,” he corrects.

I tilt my head and say airily, “To-may-to, to-mah-to. Do you need hair from a guinea pig or eye of toad or something? I could hit up the Google for you.”

“Joy. Focus,” he orders harshly, making my name sound like a curse. “I need to show you my cock.”

“We’re back to that? I thought you were kidding!” Well, I hoped he was. It’s not that I’m against seeing Dalton Days’s dick again. But it’s probably not good for my vibrator’s life expectancy because that fella’s been getting a workout worthy of a CrossFitter while I fantasized about a certain big, pierced appendage. But not the man it’s attached to.

Is it possible to be dick-attracted but man-repulsed? Apparently so.

“I’m not joking. Unfortunately,” he grumbles. “I’ve thought about it from every angle possible—”

“Same,” I say, shaking my head sadly, as if his penis has haunted my nightmares. Dick Attack on Mars!

“Wha—?” he asks, probably confused since he can’t hear my inner train of thought. “The opener was my best game ever. I felt good, played well, and we won. Then the Ice Truckers game was a shit show at best. I felt like I was forgetting something the whole time, and Shepherd suggested I compare my pregame prep between the two. There was only one difference.”

He looks at me like I should be able to figure out the very obvious answer, and slowly, I reply, “Me seeing your dick?”

“Yes!” He seems relieved that I understand. “So, can I . . .” He motions toward the crotch of his sweatpants.

Absolutely not! That’s what I should say because the very idea is preposterous. Offensive even. He can’t go around showing off his penis to people—especially me—for no good reason. Because seriously, me seeing his one-eyed monster is not the reason he played well for the opener. It’s because he’s a great goalie. His stats alone bear that out.

But I’ve been around athletes enough to know that sometimes logic and reason don’t matter. These are people who won’t wash their underwear during a winning streak, despite sweating their balls off in them for three hours per game. If he thinks it makes a difference, it will. Call it the power of the placebo effect.

Am I actually considering allowing this?

Unbelievably, I am. Maybe I’m a true-blue, loyal Moose fan. Maybe it’s really not that big of a deal after spending years in locker rooms where guys would intentionally flash me in an attempt to punish me for daring to be a female sports reporter. Maybe I wouldn’t mind another lookie-loo at perfection. That last thought I shove way down deep, not letting it fully form.

Fine. This is happening.

Act cool, Joy. No big deal. Just a penis. Juuust an example of penile perfection. Nooo big deal, at all.

I grin and lean against the couch cushions, spreading my arms out along the back. “By all means, whip it out.”

Despite being given not only permission, but an open invitation, he hesitates.

“Shy all of a sudden?” I tease. “I wouldn’t have thought the great Dalton Days would have any qualms about flashing flesh around. Just another night, right?”

He swallows thickly. “I didn’t exactly think this through, and never dreamed you’d actually agree, so thank you. But it’s weird, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and this is . . .” He waves his hand around my apartment, but I think he means our current situation rather than my home.

“If it helps, I’ve seen dozens of them.” I shrug in indifference and then laugh when his eyes go wide in surprise. “Guys like trying to shock me when I’m in their domain, thinking I’m gonna be impressed or something. But it’s really not a big deal. Locker rooms are sometimes like the deli counter at the supermarket. Kinda boring after a bit.”

“You seemed impressed by mine. It’s pretty great, yeah?” he brags, a cocky smirk returning to his face.

I groan in revolted annoyance, but then I impulsively ask, “Is this how you flirt? How you talk to women to get them into your bed?”

His cheeks turn a shade of pink I wouldn’t have thought possible for a man like Dalton. Surprisingly, it’s adorable, which is not a word I would ever think to use for him. I usually describe him as cold, unflinching, or menacing, but that’s on the ice. In private, like this, he seems slightly less terrifying. Very slightly.

“I don’t usually have to ask. They offer,” he rumbles, sounding embarrassed by that fact despite his reputation being well known.

“And you dive right in? Or wait . . . let me guess . . . you let them hop on and do all the work? Typical.” I roll my eyes and I swear he growls. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me. You want to show me, I’m telling you that’s fine. Just do it. I’ll take one for the team.”

He sighs like the weight of the world is resting on his broad, overly muscled shoulders. “Fine.”

Dalton pulls his sweatshirt up, exposing the bumpy ridges of his abs, and tucks the gathered fabric beneath his chin. Then, with both hands, he pushes the waistband of his sweats down until his third leg basically falls out over the elastic.

And I do mean fall. It’s too heavy, too long to do anything but succumb to the will of gravity.

And I stare. There’s no pretending I don’t. It’s impossible, like trying to avoid looking at a piece of art that’s right in front of you. My eyes are laser-locked on his crotch. I was sure my memory was playing tricks on me. That there was no way he could be that long, thick, pierced, and perfect. But he is.

I should go ahead and order another vibrator now because I’m totally gonna burn out Woody, especially with new mental snapshots to use as spank bank material.

“Is there like a time limit we’re aiming for?” I whisper, not moving my eyes. “Or, like, if it matters, you were hard last time. Does that make a difference for your superstition?”

I’m joking. Sort of. Trying to make an awkward situation a little less strange.

But Dalton takes himself in hand, giving his length a tight stroke. “You’re right. I was hard. I should try to mimic the circumstances as much as possible. For good luck.” His voice sounds rough, but I don’t dare lift my eyes. I don’t want to see the victorious smirk on his face or gotcha sparkle in his eyes.

Because there’s no denying that whatever tonight was, he won. For all my mouthiness, I’m the one gobsmacked and staring at his dick like I’m ready for a hot dog eating contest.

“You’re licking your lips,” I hear him say.

That breaks the in-cock-tation spell I must’ve been under, and I force my eyes up. “I was not!” I argue, but I wipe my finger over my lip in case there’s any drool.

He doesn’t look happy about my response, though. His eyes are dark, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his jaw set in stone as he readjusts his clothing, tucking himself away, while my pussy cries in disappointment. “I should probably get going,” he says, sounding unsure as he takes a step toward the door.

“Yep, flash and dash.” I mean it to sound light and flippant, but it comes out a little desperate. Still, I throw the blankets off and, stepping over the piles of clothes, follow him toward the door.

“Thanks, Joy.”

I freeze with my hand on the doorknob and risk looking up at him. Fuck, he’s huge. I’ve never been this close to him, which sounds extra weird now that I’ve seen his penis twice, but the two of us crowded in my tiny entryway area is absurd. He towers over my five-five frame, and is easily twice as wide as I am. Not to mention, he has a presence that’s dark and dangerous.

You’re in danger, girl! I hear the movie quote warning in my mind, coming straight from my subconscious to the forefront of my brain. Dalton Days is dangerous, but not in a threatening way. I don’t think he’d ever hurt me, but he’s bad for my steadiness, something I’ve fought hard for and am ridiculously good at faking.

“No problem, Days. Good luck tomorrow night,” I say politely, as if I loaned him an egg for his pregame omelet, not let him show me his penis. I even hold up my fist for a friendly bro-bump.

He clears his throat awkwardly, bumps my knuckles with his own, and then he’s gone.

I lean back on the closed door, nearly panting with need and confusion. One thing I can deal with easily, the other, not so much, so I virtually run for my bedroom. I fling myself across my bed as I dive into my nightstand drawer.

“Woody, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your nights are numbered. A few months at best given the season just started and dick-flashes are apparently part of Days’s pregaming now. I promise that though it won’t be a long life, it’ll be a good life. At least for me.”

At least before I have to upgrade you to your industrial-strength big brother. Emphasis on big.

It only takes a few seconds of buzzing over my clit and I come hard, never even getting the length of the vibrator inside me. Floating in the blackness of bliss, I grit my teeth, refusing to say his name. But I’m picturing Dalton’s penis, that’s for sure.

His beautiful, perfect, big dick.

If only it didn’t come with him. Too bad I can’t Mr. Potato Head him and keep the one part I like while trashing the other ninety-nine parts I don’t. Like his irritating mouth.