The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Moose: 2. Devildogs: 0.

Tonight’s game was completely different than last night’s. Both teams were fighting hard for the win, but Dalton was on fire, batting shots on goal away like they were coming in slow motion and he had time to sip a cup of tea before they got in range.

He’s going to be completely insufferable, bragging about how kissing me was what made the difference, I think with a smile.

We didn’t actually get around to the penis parade last night, which surprised me given Dalton’s superstitious streak. In fact, neither of us got our underwear off because that would’ve led to a lot more than a peekaboo and we both knew it, but he said the intimacy of a kiss would be extra good luck. I guess he was right.

In a way, I can see what he means because having Dalton right in front of me, touching him and letting him touch me, was way hotter than our video voyeur sessions. And it wasn’t a kiss. It was kisses, lots of them.

Which means the ante of our tradition has gone way up. And the walls around my heart need to be even stronger so I can protect myself. Casual, meaningless, fun itch-scratching . . . nothing more.

The knock at my door isn’t entirely unexpected since the Moose are in town.

Still, I open the door with a frown plastered on my face to hide my smile. “What’re you doing here?”

Dalton grins and holds up a big brown paper bag. “I brought brunch. Pancakes for you, farmer’s omelet for me. And yeah, I got your bacon extra crispy, otherwise known as burned to those of us with tastebuds.”

I sniff loudly and sigh in bliss. Damn, he knows how to bribe me.

“Smells delicious, but doesn’t answer my question.” I tilt my head, challenging his verbal sidestep of what I asked.

He grits his teeth, but confesses, “Usually, I’d hang with Shep. But that’s hard to do right now. I’m not avoiding him exactly, because that’d bring up all sorts of questions I can’t answer, but I’m also not bro-ing out with him to talk about life and love over a beer.”

Shit. I hadn’t really thought about how much this would affect their friendship through the whole season. Selfishly, my focus has been keeping on Dalton’s and my activities a secret.

“Gotta eat quick. I have an appointment in thirty minutes.” I can’t tell him no after that plea for companionship. But I also mentally check a clock to see if I have time for this, even though I know I’m absolutely eating pancakes and bacon before I go.

“What’re we doing today?” Dalton asks in my kitchen as he pulls plastic boxes out of the bag.

I slam the drawer shut, not finding any forks, and instead open the dishwasher to grab two. I’m terrible at putting dishes away.

“Are those clean?” Dalton’s brow lifts dubiously as he scrutinizes the offered silverware.

“Of course they are.” He leans around me and points at the magnet on the front of the dishwasher, which is definitely showing dirty, but that’s only because I didn’t slide it to clean when I started it. “If not, it’ll build your immunity.” I lick my fork obscenely to prove the point.

He shrugs, but also adjusts his dick when I walk past. Maybe it was the fork-licking, or maybe it’s my yoga pants. Or maybe that monster he’s hiding is always a little uncomfortable.

Answering his earlier question as I sit at the bar-top counter, I say, “I have a private Pilates session with Rayleigh. What’re you doing today?”

“Going to Pilates.”

He sits beside me as I laugh, totally thinking he’s kidding. “I didn’t say pie and lattes, which you can’t have anyway, Mr. Protein Omelet. I’m going to Pi-lat-es.” I drawl it out extra long so he can hear the difference.

“Heard you the first time. I’ve got the day off from Fritzi, so I could use an extra stretch.” He shoves an enormous bite of omelet into his mouth, using the fork he questioned without hesitation.

I blink, thinking I surely must’ve heard him wrong. But he’s looking at me in complete seriousness as he chews. An evil smirk steals my face, and I rush to hide it so he doesn’t realize the hell he’s getting himself into. Making my voice sound totally casual, like Rayleigh’s sessions are no big deal, I say, “Yeah, you should absolutely come with me. It’ll be fun.”

We finish brunch quickly and go outside. He automatically walks to his truck and opens the door for me.

“We can’t take your truck. What if people see it at the studio?”

He looks at his truck like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Probably think I’m fucking Rayleigh.” He has the small amount of decency to cringe as he says it. “Besides, I won’t fit in your tin can car.” He points at my Mini Cooper, and I imagine him folded up to fit in the passenger seat. He’d have to hang his legs out the side window and his head out the sunroof, and that might be a little more noticeable driving through town.

“Fine,” I concede.

Thirty minutes later, on the dot, we’re walking into Rayleigh’s studio.

“Uh, heyyy, Joy. Dalton,” Rayleigh greets us, looking confused at the appearance of a sudden guest for our session. She’s wearing a bright-red sports bra and leggings set, which means today’s private session is going to be intense and punishing.

I can’t wait to see how Dalton handles this.

“Hi, Rayleigh. Hope you don’t mind, but Dalton wanted to tag along. Said he had the day off from workouts, so a ‘nice stretch’ would be good.” I do finger air quotes as I meet her eyes, and she instantly knows I want her to work the shit out of him.

Pilates isn’t the aerobics queen “stretch with a plastic hoop” shit most people think of. It’s no joke, and Rayleigh is serious about her craft, priding herself on finding muscles you never knew you had and working them until you cry or plead for mercy. Or both. And of course, she does it all with her trademark positivity.

“Nope, I don’t mind a bit. Shall we?” If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d think her eyes have an evil twinkle as she waits for us to remove our shoes and put on grippy socks before guiding us into her space.

I watch Dalton’s reaction as he walks in the studio where Rayleigh has several reformer machines lined up. I expect him to look a bit fearful of the long, table-like carriages and various straps and bars, and am secretly ready to give him a hard time. Who’s scared now?

Instead, he looks . . . excited?

“Cool place,” he tells Rayleigh. “This all yours?”

She beams, her pride in her business visible. “Yep, this is my baby. Been here for a year and growing exponentially every month. If people in town hear I’m training a Moose, even more will come.” She claps her hands in anticipation.

Dalton reaches for the back of his neck, his lips screwed up in a grimace. “Uh, about that. Might have to keep my guest appearance on mute. Sorry.”

He doesn’t explain why, and Rayleigh cuts her eyes to me, silently asking approximately 112 questions at once. I shake my head ever so slightly, and she lets every single one of them evaporate in an instant. She’s solid, and I trust her not to gossip, which is basically the town pastime, other than watching or playing hockey. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to bring Dalton here, for his sake or mine.

“Okay, then. Let’s warm up. Joy, take your usual machine. Dalton, this one will be yours.” She leads him to the one beside me. “We’ll start on our backs, feet on the bar.”

She runs us through a foot warm-up, a bridge series, and then a core burner to get things moving and liquid as Rayleigh likes to call it. And then the real fun starts.

At one point, we’re standing on the stationary platform at the end of our reformers and Rayleigh tells us to step our dominant foot forward to the carriage. I know what’s coming, and this is going to be good.

“Yes, now slowly . . . slowly . . . slooowly . . . start to release your foot forward. Maintain hip placement toward the front.”

Dalton throws a wink my way and then slides right down into splits a gymnast would be proud of. “Ta-da!” he brags.

Rayleigh smiles sweetly and tells him to stand back up. “Now, do the splits slowly. We’re looking for time under tension. Each millimeter of stretch is also an opportunity for strength.”

That’s not as easy as popping down into splits, and before long, Rayleigh has made us slow-split and return to standing multiple times in various configurations. By the time she instructs us to switch sides, my quad and hamstring are screaming and shaking. Equally as important, Dalton doesn’t look quite so cocky now.

“That’s different from on the ice. There, it’s all about fast-twitch muscle response and being able to split fast without injury. This slow shit has me shaking like a stripper.” Dalton lightly punches his leg to relieve the stress, but grins like he’s enjoying himself.

“It gets easier with practice,” I say sweetly, showing off as I slow-split and then fold my upper body forward toward my knee, using my outstretched arms to stay balanced.

“All right, Pilates Princess,” Dalton says easily, but still there’s an undercurrent of appreciation in what he’s witnessing. “I see you.”

Rayleigh guides us into the next segment, changing her lingo for Dalton’s sake. “You’re basically going from plank to down dog, but the floor glides back and forth beneath you. Here, watch Joy.”

I do the move she’s requesting, making sure it’s my best attempt ever. When I’m out in a plank position, I risk peeking over to see if he’s impressed. Instead, I fumble a bit because he’s definitely looking at my ass. And not even being subtle about it. He’s basically leaning off his machine to get the best view possible of my butt cheeks clenching tight.

“Pervert.” The accusation holds no heat, and in fact, I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to hide my pleased grin.

“Proud, card-carrying member of the Joy’s Chapter of the Pervert Club. In fact, I’m aiming for Member of the Month for December, but I’ve got to make up some ground after a sketchy November,” he says, sounding disappointed in himself. “More leering, less whistling.”

A bark of laughter escapes before I can stop it, and my form falls apart. Luckily, I manage to get a foot to the ground so I don’t break my face on the carriage. “Member of the Month?” I echo through my laughing fit.

He chuckles, flashing me a one-sided cocky smirk. “I didn’t even mean it that way, but when you put it like that, I’m pretty confident I’m always that Member of the Month.”

“Dalton!” I exclaim, my eyes jumping to Rayleigh. But he doesn’t seem to care given he simply shrugs and moves into position for his own down dog to plank flow.

And yep, I look at his ass too. It’s a nice one, and I’m convinced I could bounce a quarter off it and hit the ceiling.

Rayleigh stays professional through what can only be described as a clusterfuck of a session, with us bantering, putting each other’s form down while simultaneously staring at each other’s bodies and trying not to lose focus.

“And two more . . . two more . . . two more . . . and pulse,” Rayleigh says almost sixty minutes later.

Dalton’s been a good sport through the whole thing, and watching him try all the exercises has been entertaining as hell.

And arousing.

He’s sexy as fuck, his body a prime example of what training and care can do to the human form. Not that I care about what he can bench or how many calories he eats in a day. My only thoughts are “Can he pick me up and throw me around while fucking my brains out?” and “How well could he eat me out?” Neither of which are likely to be found on Fritzi’s training plan.

“She forgets how to count around the number two,” I tell Dalton faux-sadly as I watch him fight to keep pace with Rayleigh’s counting. He’s sitting in a V-position, balancing on his ass with his legs up in the air, pulsing two handles out at his side in a fly move. The straps are spring-loaded with the maximum resistance the reformer provides, yet Dalton’s been doing the move with ease, at least until Rayleigh started doing her usual challenge to exhaustion.

It’s for his own good. But I’m enjoying the view.

“See anything you like?” Dalton asks through gritted teeth.

“Hmm,” I hum thoughtfully. “Not really. You’re kinda sweating everywhere and it’s gross.”

It’s not. Despite the rivers of sweat running down his face, gross is the last word I’d use to describe Dalton. He looks rough, tough, and strong, but the sexiest thing about him has been his willingness to try new things with an open mind.

I prejudged Dalton, assuming he would talk down the workout’s intensity, or call some of the moves stupid the way Shepherd would, but he’s done nothing of the sort. He’s been respectful and kind to Rayleigh, and funny and flirty with me.

As we wrap up at the end of our hour, Rayleigh asks, “I’ll see you this week for our usual session?” Her eyes dance to Dalton before returning to me.

“Yeah, Wednesday morning. Thanks for putting up with us today. Hope he didn’t annoy you too much.” I throw a thumb out, pointing at Dalton as if he deserves all the blame for today’s unusual session.

He freezes, the towel he’s swiping over his face covering his mouth, which seems to be hanging wide open given the amusement in his eyes. “Me? I’m not annoying,” he argues, laughing at that absurd claim. His laughter turns into an arrogant grin as he lets the towel drop. “I’m awesome!”

“Oh, you mispronounced it,” I tease, and without thinking, I pat his chest. “It’s awww-full-of-shit.”

I feel the vibration in his chest as he growls—at my touch or the tease?—and try to pull my hand back before Rayleigh gets the entirely wrong idea. But Dalton grabs hold of my hand, keeping it there so I can feel his heartbeat slamming against my palm as his dark eyes hold me in a trance.

The ease with which I touched him shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. It feels comfortable and right to help myself to his chest, his bicep, his smile. But I don’t let myself kiss his full lips this time, not even when they lift into a smile and I can feel the zinger coming back.

“If I’m awww-full-of-shit, then you’re a cuntcake—sweet to taste and pretty to look at, but will rip your soul out if you’re not careful.” His tone is light and jokey, but it feels like there’s a thread of something deeper in the way his eyes are locked on mine.

Rayleigh gasps, offended on my behalf. “I’d prefer if you didn’t use that type of crude language here. Especially about my friend.”

I can’t help but feel glowy inside. She’s a great friend, albeit quite unaccustomed to the way guys show familiarity and camaraderie. That’s not surprising, though, since she doesn’t spend time around men the way I do.

I get that Dalton’s giving me affection with what would seem to be an insult, but what I heard was sweet and pretty, along with a reveal that he’s still scared of me and what I make him feel. That’s a big deal for a guy like Dalton to admit to, and honestly, a bolder vulnerability than I’ve given him at this point.

“Crude, yes,” I tell Rayleigh. “And I’m sure he’s sorry”—I prompt Dalton, who mumbles an apology while nodding regretfully—“but I’m not offended by it. Hell, just because I have a vagina doesn’t mean my balls aren’t bigger than his anyway.”

Rayleigh blinks rapidly several times as though we are the most confusing people she’s ever met and what I said makes zero sense. But Dalton understands and fights to hold back a laugh. “She does have big balls,” he deadpans. “Waltzes right into the locker room to give the guys hell anytime she wants, has me on a dick leash, and even her brother is terrified of her. Though that’s probably because she’s tormented him since the day she was born.”

I jerk my eyes to his, first because of the dick leash comment, but then suddenly wondering what Shep’s told Dalton about me. I hadn’t considered that he might have some preconceived notions of his own about his best friend’s sister.

Rayleigh still seems unsure, but she takes her cue from me and when I smile to let her know everything’s fine, she shrugs. “Okay, see you Wednesday.”

I’m sure she’ll have questions for me then, but I push that worry to the back of my mind as I wave goodbye.

At my building, Dalton parks and gets out to open my door. He escorts me right up to my apartment, his hand on my lower back the whole way creating a buzzing sensation all up and down my spine. I freeze at the door, not knowing what he expects. “Um, want to come in?”

We both know what will happen if he does.

His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips and then back. I watch that cocky smile create tiny lines at the corners of his twinkling eyes. “I think I should go . . . this time. But Joy . . .”

He tilts my chin up gently, moving in with confidence that I’m going to let him kiss me. He’s right. I want his lips, his tongue, his hands on my body. I want his cock. Desperately.

But he kisses me, and I can’t be disappointed in that. Not when he sips at me, savoring me to the point that a growl rumbles in his throat, and his hands roam over my body, squeezing here and there as if he’s memorizing every inch of my flesh through the thin layer of spandex that’s keeping him from touching my actual skin.

Too soon, he pulls back. “Today was fun. I can’t wait to do it again.” His grin this time is boyish, almost shy, which is something Dalton Days is not.

Before I can say anything, he steps away, striding down the hall and leaving me breathless and needy. Before the corner, he looks back, waves, and is gone.

I press my fingers to my kiss-swollen lips, feeling the smile there, and then hold them over my heated cheeks.

I think this was my first actual date with Dalton Days. A date . . . with an athlete.

I wait for the dark pit of fear to form in my gut, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel warmth spreading everywhere.