The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

The Moose win their next game.

And then again. And again.

At this point, I’ve seen Dalton’s penis five times, and each time the Moose have won the subsequent game, making this the start of a great season. Five and one, it’s a once in a lifetime start for the team.

It doesn’t get any less weird each time, but tonight is going to be extra strange. It’s the eve of a run of three away games, and after Dalton freaked out about me coming with the team so he could fulfill his superstition—sorry, “pregame routine” as he insists on calling it—I reminded him that FaceTime is a thing.

So yeah, I’m video chatting with his penis tonight.

That’s something I never thought I’d be doing, but here I am—sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, phone in hand waiting for it to ring.

Which it does, right on time.

I accept the call, and Dalton’s face fills my screen. He’s in bed, too, at whatever hotel the team’s staying at. He’s leaning back against the tufted headboard, one arm behind his head, showing off the full curve of his bicep. His hair’s wet and messy, his beard freshly trimmed, and his chest is bare. His pecs are big slabs of muscle, covered in a dusting of dark hair that’s short enough to reveal the tattoos on his skin.

“Hey,” he says, sounding tired. But I see the way his eyes scan over me on his screen.

Is it stupid that I chose a cute pajama set when I changed out of my workwear tonight? Yes, completely idiotic. Did I do it anyway, thinking the blue top would look good with my eyes? Also yes.

And given the way Dalton’s mouth ticks up at the corners and then presses into a firm line, I was right. Then again, I’m pretty damned sure he didn’t just flop into bed all shirtless and looking like a wet dream on accident. Or he might have, all things considered.

“Hey yourself,” I reply, trying to sound at least a little normal. “How was practice?”

“You don’t have to do that. I know you don’t give a shit.”

Okayyy. Not sure where that’s coming from. I mean, we’re not buddies. He’s not the person I’d call if I needed to bury a body or anything, but we’re usually at least friend-ly when we do the penis parade. Like friend-adjacent at a minimum. And when you add in postgame check-ins and conversations, we’re downright chums. I’ve talked to him more than my own brother or sister in the last few weeks.

But whatever. If he’s grouchy, it’s fine.

“What climbed up your ass and died?” I snap back.

All right, maybe not fine.

He slams his head against the padded headboard, thankfully moving his hand out of the way because he needs it to hold his stick. His hockey stick, I mean! He lays his forearm over his eyes and groans out, “Rough day.”

“You wanna talk about it?” He peers at me from beneath his arm, looking surly and like he definitely does not want to talk. So I pry like a crowbar. “I mean, how bad could it be? Did you throw up on the ice? Trip over your own feet in front of the other guys? Call Coach Wilson Daddy?”

“The fuck?” he grumbles, moving his arm back behind his head. But I see the tiny quirk of his lip, so fast I might’ve imagined it. Except I didn’t. I made a grumpy Dalton Days smile, and that feels like an accomplishment. “No, I didn’t puke, trip, or call Coach . . . that. But we’re starting a run of games and I’m . . .”

He trails off, not explaining what he is, so I offer suggestions: “Sore? Nervous? Constipated? Homesick?”

“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head. “Tell me about your day.”

He’s not fine, but he doesn’t want to share whatever’s bugging him. He’s retreating to his default mode of assholery, which is fine by me if that’s how he wants tonight to go.

But I haven’t forgotten the night in his truck when I saw behind the veil that is Dalton Days’s stoic, iceman exterior.

Despite that one-off peek at the Wizard, I’m not giving away my thoughts and feelings to him so he can shit on them and take out his bad day on me. If he wants quick and cold, call me Frigidaire. “Same old, same old. Five o’clock report, eleven o’clock report. And now I’m here, dealing with your cantankerous ass because, for some idiotic reason, I do give a shit.”

I fall back against my pillows, glaring at him through the screen.

And the son of a bitch actually smirks. “You’re pouting.”

I curl my lip, snarling like a pissed-off Elvis at him. “I don’t pout. But if you don’t want to talk to me, I’m not talking to you. Let’s get this over with. Show me your dick so we can both go to sleep.”

He’s quiet for three slow breaths. “I caught the stream of the eleven o’clock. You did great and looked good. Better than Milligan, for damn sure.”

Steve Milligan is the sportscaster for the major news network, and as such, basically holds local athletes in the palm of his hand, dangling coverage over their heads as incentive to deal with him. He’s an old school, you-grease-my-palm-and-I’ll-grease-yours type, and he has definite feelings about someone female being allowed in sports. Yeah, allowed. He’s said that actual word to me before. Talk about a don’t-meet-your-idols moment.

But Dalton watched the news. Watched me. Took the time to go to our silly little website, click the link to our streaming channel, and watch the live telecast. I’m not only shocked, I have no words.

“If Milligan’s the bar, it’s on the fucking ground. But thanks for watching,” I finally say.

“Milligan can suck a hairy, wrinkly nutsack,” he spits out, “and choke on the pubes.”

“On that, we can agree.” I can’t help but grin at the venom in his tone and creative imagery.

“He did some hockey chatter tonight,” Dalton explains. “It wasn’t particularly complimentary to yours truly.”

Ah, so that’s what’s bothering him. Before I can tell him to ignore anything Milligan has to say, he jumps back to my broadcast tonight. “You go to the North game?”

I nod, letting him goad me into sharing my night. It’s probably a good distraction from whatever shitstorm Milligan stirred up in Dalton’s head, especially when he’s going up against the Bishops tomorrow night. They’re tough competition. “Yeah, right now, I’ve got high school football, basketball, and hockey, and North had two games tonight, so I could cover both in-person. Plus the AHL games, which I prefer because hockey’s my passion.”

Matt, my coworker at the local station, does the coverage for college and major league games, and then there’s Milligan’s report on the metro news that covers it all again, plus does a deep dive into the NFL games with a thirty-minute breakdown.

“Mine too. I don’t know what I’d do without it. Hockey’s all I’ve ever been good at,” Dalton says, sounding almost wistful and embarrassed at the same time. “Playing pro is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“No plan B, huh?” I grin, understanding exactly what he means. I’ve seen that hyperfixation in the mirror, only for me it was broadcast journalism. “We’re already living the dream in a lot of ways. If you’d told fifteen-year-old me that I’d be a sportscaster for the local news, I would’ve been ecstatically bouncing around like a lunatic. I bet you’d be the same way if someone told teenage Dalton Days that you’d make a career out of hockey, no matter the league.”

“Yeah, but every time I step on the ice, I worry it might be the last time. Which is terrifying because the pro carrot’s been dangling for so long, just out of reach, that I’m not sure what’d happen if it wasn’t still there,” Dalton says. “Or worse, I couldn’t play at all. That’s what Milligan was alluding to—that I’m hoping to go out on a high because I’m obviously on my way out.”

This again? I swear he’s like a dog with a bone. Or an athlete with a one-track mind and a healthy sense of his own mortality, sports-wise. I’ve figured out there’s only one way to attack one of his self-doubting moods, and I never would’ve expected it. Humor. If I can get him to lighten the hell up for a single minute, he turns back into the cocky, egotistical pro he’s earned the right to be.

I rub my finger and thumb together. “Waahh, waahh, waahh. Let me play a tiny violin for poor Dalton Days, the goalie with the best stats in the league, who’s in the best shape of his life and playing better than he ever has. Poor you. Now who’s pouting?” I look at him accusingly through the screen, and he laughs. “That’s what I thought. Quit pity-partying and start feeling yourself like the arrogant asshole you are. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but you’re killing it on the ice. Act like it. Repeat after me . . . I’m Dalton Fucking Days.”

He grins, his teeth beautifully white and surprisingly all present and accounted for, an oddity in hockey players. “I’m Dalton Fucking Days.”

“I eat, breathe, bleed, shit, and live for hockey.” He arches a dark brow, but repeats my words. “And I’m gonna go out on the ice tomorrow night and block every puck that comes my way like the badass goalie I am.” He echoes me again. “And then I’m gonna send Joy Barlowe a big thank-you flower arrangement—no roses!—because she put up with my grumpiness after her own long day of work.”

Instead of that last bit, he sighs happily, a weight seemingly lifted from him. “Thanks, Joy.”

“No problem, Dalton. Now show me what you’re working with.”

He laughs, but then meets my eyes through the screen. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”

I freeze. He’s right. I never call him by his first name. He’s Days or Dalton Days or the Moose goalie. “Is that okay? I mean, I can try to stick to Mr. Days if you’d prefer some formality, but it seems a bit late in the game for that when I know the tattoo on your left cum gutter is your own jersey number, which is ego on an entirely new level.”

Yeah, I’ve seen several of his tattoos at this point—all over his chest, his arms, and his hips. There are others I haven’t seen, and probably never will, but I definitely gave him hell for having his own jersey number, telling him that it was the equivalent of tattooing your own name by your penis. He was less than amused at my analogy.

“My what?” he says.

“Cum gutter.” I point to them on the screen as if he can tell where I’m indicating. “You know, Adonis belt, V lines, dick framers. The grooves that make girls stupid.”

His grin is pure sex. “You like those?” He holds the phone back, running his hand down his six-pack to the indentation I’m talking about.

I swallow hard. He looks so good, and I’m starting to hate him incrementally less.

In fact, when we actually talk, I enjoy our conversations, and the regular orgasms that come from masturbating after every time I see his penis don’t hurt. Or at least they don’t hurt in a bad way.

Is that an unhealthy habit to get into? Absolutely. But I can’t help it. He’s beautiful and sexy, and it’s been a while since I’ve had sex with someone other than Woody.

“They’re . . . fine. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing,” I stammer. I could fry an egg with the heat coming off my cheeks, and I can see in the tiny image of myself on the screen exactly how pink they’re turning.

“I think I like you calling me Dalton,” he says, his voice husky in a way that sends shivers down my spine.

I can’t see his hand. He’s dropped it out of the camera’s view, but I know he’s touching himself.

“Let me see.” I’ve said those three words to him before, and seen him several times at this point, but this time feels different. It feels like something well beyond a superstition. This is . . . personal.

He angles the camera down, his rock-hard cock filling the screen in a super-close-up that makes me gasp, but then he adjusts and I can see his shaft laying against his abs, and up his chest to his face. His eyes are dark and half-closed as he stares down at the camera, stroking his hand up and down his length slowly.

“If seeing it is good luck, what do you think this is?” I whisper, not sure what I’m saying.

He groans, gripping himself tight. Pre-come leaks from his head and I watch, utterly captivated by him. He slips his hand over his crown, gently pulling on the piercing there, and I lick my lips.

“Does that hurt?”

“No, feels good,” he moans. “Are you touching yourself too?”

He knows I am.

I slipped my hand beneath my pajama shorts when I saw him start to jack off and now my breathing is too fast, and though I’m holding back noises of pleasure as I circle my clit with my fingers, I’m sure he can hear how wet I am. I can’t stop the sounds of my pussy sucking my fingers as I plunge them inside myself, timing the thrusts with Dalton’s strokes down his cock.

I nod.

“Let me see,” he demands, but I shake my head. He groans in disappointment but doesn’t stop stroking. “Are you close?”

“Yesss.” My brow is furrowed, my toes are curling, and I can feel everything in my body pulling to a central point behind my clit.

“Fuck. Let me hear you at least. Say my name,” he orders roughly.

I move faster, fucking myself with my fingers, my eyes locked on his hand moving up and down, up and down, and that shiny silver ring moving with every stroke. And I explode.

“Dalton—” I cry.

His neck muscles strain and his bicep goes hard, both highlighted in the sharp relief of the hotel’s bedside lamp.

“Fuck. Fuck. Joy.” His answering shout is guttural and groaned as jets of cum violently shoot from his cock, covering his abs as he reflexively curls in on himself.

Both panting, we come back to ourselves, and meet each other’s eyes. The confusion mixed with bliss in his is likely mirrored in my own.

Wow!

What did we do?

How soon can we do it again?

That can never happen again.

“It’s running down your stomach,” I offer as his mess goes right where I said it would. To the cum gutter groove on his abs.

“Shit.” He reaches off-screen, coming back with what I think is a T-shirt. He wipes at his belly and then rubs it over his now soft, but still large, cock. “That was—” He stops, like he doesn’t know what to call what we did.

“Sexy as fuck. And a really bad idea,” I answer.

He sighs in relief. “Yeah. Both of those,” he agrees, moving the camera higher so I can see only his face, as if modesty just became a thing he’s concerned with.

“We should—” I say slowly, not sure where my sentence is going.

“Yeah—”

I have no idea what we’re agreeing on. Doing it again? Never doing it again? Pretending that didn’t happen?

“Well, uh . . . you should probably go to bed. I know you’ve got a big day tomorrow, and Fritzi will want you to get some sleep.”

He nods, looking off to the side. “Yeah. Seven a.m. call time.”

“Good luck tomorrow, Days.” I use his last name intentionally, thinking we could use the distance it provides.

“Thanks.”

And, both looking shell-shocked, we hang up.

Did I do that? With Dalton Days of all people? I’m not sure I even like him! So why was it the hardest I’ve come in a long time?