The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

Rushing in after my eleven o’clock report, I drop my purse on the tile next to the door, fling my coat in the general direction of my coatrack, and kick off my furry boots that are a behind-the-scenes secret of news reporters. Unless we’re in the field, we only have to appear professionally dressed from the waist up. Underneath the in-studio desk, more often than not, Jonathon has on golf shorts or athletic pants with his suit and tie to do the top stories, Carlise has on yoga pants with her blouse to do local reporting, and we all have on warm shoes because the studio is kept a balmy sixty-five degrees to counteract the hot lights on the set. The only person who has to dress head-to-toe in film-worthy attire is Veronica, the weather reporter who walks back and forth in front of a green screen.

In my mismatched outfit of a sweater and collared shirt paired with stretch jeans, I barge into my bedroom. “Ten minutes, Joy. Get a move on,” I coach myself. If only I’d been faster leaving the station, I wouldn’t be rushing this much, but my producer and boss, Greg, wanted to talk about the NHL report, so I gave him some stats for my major league counterpart, Matt, to use despite it not being my job to do so.

Yanking everything off and dropping it to the floor in the general direction of my laundry hamper, I dig in my pajama drawer for something cute. “Red? Too aggressive. Pink? Too soft. Green? Too teamy. Ooh, yellow, perfect bit of sunshine for the gray December day.”

I pull the thin cotton cami over my head, adjusting my breasts so that my pearled nipples are both at the same level of attention, and then pull the matching shorts on. Well, shorts might be a generous descriptor. They’re more like fluttery-leg hot pants that leave a good inch of my ass cheek hanging out the hem. I spin to look in the mirror and grin evilly. “Irresistible.”

Not that Dalton is trying to resist me.

Except he’s in town tonight for tomorrow’s home game, and when I’d asked if we were meeting at his place or mine, he surprised me by suggesting a video chat. I’m not sure what that’s about, but I’ll be sure to find out tonight even if it takes a little teasing, taunting, and edging to get at the truth.

So yeah, maybe irresistible is exactly what I need.

My phone rings and I answer, though I keep the screen pointed at the ceiling. “Hey, I’m almost ready. Hang on.” I toss the phone to the bed and sprint for the bathroom. But I can hear Dalton yelling at me from the phone.

“What are you doing, woman? Take me with you at least. Your ceiling’s boring as hell and I wanna see you. Pick up the damn phone.”

I grin at my reflection in the mirror, enjoying this a little too much. I fluff my hair, run a makeup remover wipe over my face to take off the pancake makeup, and do a quick rinse of mouthwash even though Dalton can’t smell my breath through the phone.

“Joyyyy! Heyyy! Joyyy!” he’s shouting as I plop back on the bed.

“Be patient. I was almost ready, but I just walked in the door,” I explain.

His lips press into a flat line, one brow arched. “You coulda taken me with you. A bit of ‘glad to see you’ urgency would be fucking appreciated, ya know?”

He’s pouting and it’s absolutely adorable.

“I was . . . I mean, I am glad to see you. But there’s a certain degree of difficulty in dealing with me. One of which is my charming lack of time management when it comes to discussing hockey stats. Some might call it obsessive. I call it passionate.” I grin at him, letting my eyes drink him in the way his are virtually licking over the screen as he sees me for the first time tonight.

He’s already shirtless and lying back in his bed, ready for tonight’s voyeuristic activities judging by the heat in his gaze and the tightness of his abs. I can’t see below his belly button, but I’d bet he’s already thick and hard. Maybe even leaking if he pregamed a bit.

“One, you look gorgeous,” he says with a lick of his lips. “Two, were you talking about my stats? And three, a certain degree of difficulty?” That last bit is echoed with a significant dose of are you fucking for real right now? “You’re like an F5 tornado blowing through my life, except you bring orgasms, smiles, and good luck with your destructive force. Certain degree of difficulty, my ass,” he scoffs, smirking that sexy grin that I love to put on his face almost as much as I love wiping it off.

I’m not offended. Mostly because he’s right.

I know I’m a lot. But I’m also not willing to shrink myself for anyone. I’ve dated guys who didn’t understand my obsession with hockey and would get mad when all I wanted to do for seven months of the year was discuss the games. I’ve dated guys who hated my sleep late, stay up later routine because it didn’t work with their nine-to-five schedules when I couldn’t do a standard seven o’clock dinner date. I’ve even dated a guy who asked if I was going to keep our house a mess the way I do my apartment. That guy looked completely confused when I replied that if he was worried about the mess, he could pick it up himself because it doesn’t bother me in the slightest and I wouldn’t be “keeping our house” any sort of way because we weren’t going to have one.

So, Dalton saying I’m difficult isn’t surprising. But when he says it, it’s with a smile that indicates he doesn’t mind and is up for the challenge . . . of me.

To that end, I might as well ask the one question I want an answer to. “Why’d you want to do a video chat and not meet up tonight?”

His smirk falls by degrees and he scrubs his hand over his jaw, which is scruffy with a short beard for this weekend’s games.

“Truth or I’m hanging up and taking care of myself on my own,” I warn, letting my fingertip trace a line down my sternum and circling around my nipple so he sees how hard it is. Not that I think he missed it when his eyes were drinking me in, but a little extra push couldn’t hurt.

He growls as he brings the phone closer to his face, not so I can see him but so he can see me and what my hand is doing better. “Because if I was there, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I’d fill that sweet pussy with my cock, fuck you hard into your mattress, make you come over and over until you’re a boneless mess. And only then would I come, making sure I stayed buried deep inside you so my cum wouldn’t leak out but would instead stay there all night long.”

“Holy fuck, why aren’t you here? That, let’s do that!” I answer vacantly as my mind paints the pictures he’s drawing with his dirty words. I lift my breast from my cami, plucking at my nipple.

“Because I don’t want you to think that me fucking you has anything to do with a superstition. It won’t. Not at all. It’ll be because we both want it. Want each other.” He lets that sink in for a heartbeat and then, with a gravel-rough voice, says, “I want you, Joy. Do you want me?”

It’d be easy to say yes. Hell, it’s the truth. But also . . . he’s not talking about desiring me. He means he wants me. For more than sex. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

“You’re terrifying,” I confess, not answering his question.

He nods, accepting my nonanswer like he understands exactly what I mean. “I’m also patient. And bossy, so show me both of those tits. Take your shirt off.”

He’s moving us back to safer territory, knowing I need it. Need him, but I’m too chickenshit to commit to more than something physical. Maybe this is what he meant by a certain degree of difficulty more so than my weird schedule, hockey obsession, or messy nature. I’m not scared of anything, except letting him in.

He’s good at reading defenses and creating them as a goalie, but I think he’s blasting his way through my defenses . . . as a man. And getting right into the tiny cracks and crevices I never fixed correctly. I threw a barbed wire fence around that damage, and that’s been enough to keep everyone else out. But not Dalton Days. For all the fight I have against him, that fence might as well be a four-foot chain-link defense that he can hop right over to poke and prod around wherever he wants.

I swallow thickly. He might be on the other side of the screen still, but tonight is something different for us. It’s more. It’s deeper. It’s . . . real.

“Tell me what it’d be like for you to fuck me,” I say, pulling off my cami. “Talk me through it.”

“I’d kiss you, using your hair to pull your head where I wanted so I could taste your lips, your neck, your skin. I’d suck at your neck, but not leave a mark there because it’d make you nervous on-screen.”

I trail my finger along my neck, smiling that he knows me that way.

“I’d hold your tits in my hands, squeezing and kneading them hard because you don’t like just a gentle touch there when you’re turned on. I’d pinch your nipples until they’re red for me. Do it, Joy. Pinch them hard. You can take it. You like it.”

I do what he instructs, hissing as I pinch both nipples and roll them between my thumb and index fingers. Instinctively, my eyes flutter closed, and I circle the pads of my fingertips over the abused nubs, but he clucks. “Nuh-uh, pinch them again. Harder.”

I crack one eye open to glare at him, but the stern look on his face says he wasn’t asking. I do it again, and this time, a cry wrenches from my throat, but my thighs are scissoring on their own and I can feel the throbbing need behind my clit. “More.”

I don’t wait for him. I push my shorts off, letting my room’s warm air brush over my bare pussy, and then I prop the phone up on a stack of pillows so he can see all of me.

“I can see how wet you are. Pinch your tits again. I want to see what your pussy does.”

I drift my hands back up and pluck at my nipples before tweaking them hard again. I don’t need him to tell me that a rush of liquid heat pulses from my core in response because I can feel it covering me.

“If I was there, I’d slick your honey up to your clit, circle it over and over. Slow . . . slower . . . at first,” he coaches me as my movements follow along with his words. “Tap it. Give that clit a little love tap.”

I do, using the flat of my fingers to tap, tap, tap, and the sharp sensation drives me higher.

“Use your fingers, Joy. Pretend they’re my tongue because I’d lick and suck and devour you. I haven’t been able to get your taste off my tongue. I want it again so fucking bad.”

Feeling naughty, I slide my finger down to my entrance, gathering my arousal to show him, and then slowly, I slide my own finger into my mouth, sucking the hot liquid from its length as if my finger is his cock. “I’m sweet,” I whisper.

“I fucking know,” he groans.

His hand’s moved out of view, and I pull my finger free and point. “Let me see you too.”

He angles the phone, and I can see that he’s already shoved his shorts off and is slowly stroking his hard cock, using his pre-come to ease his way. “Get lube and pretend it’s me,” I tell him.

The phone moves for a second as he props it up, and then I can see him pour a generous amount of clear lube into his hand before he smears it up and down his length.

“Fuuuck, Joy. I want to be inside you,” he groans.

“Tell me,” I remind him.

The veins in his neck stand out for a moment as a wave of pure pleasure washes over his face. But he blinks it away and growls, “Get your toy. You’re gonna lie there like my pillow princess and let me fuck you hard and deep.”

I grab for the drawer of my nightstand and hold up Woody. “Ready.”

He chuckles darkly. “Baby, you’re not ready for me. Yet.”

A shiver runs down my spine and goose bumps pop out along my flesh. Needy, I don’t wait for his instruction and slide the toy inside my body as far as it will go. “You feel good inside me, Dalton.”

“It’ll be even better when it’s really me,” he promises. I open my eyes, meeting his, and something powerful zings between us. We’re both imagining that we’re together, that his hand is my pussy and my toy is his cock, but there’s so much more to what we’re doing and what we’re thinking. “It’s okay, Joy. Don’t overthink it. Fuck yourself. Keep your eyes on my cock so we match the pace. We’re doing this together.”

I nod, sliding the toy in and out of me in rhythm with his strokes up and down his length. I use my other hand to tease over my clit, adding even more sensation, but I get too close, too quick. “I’m gonna come,” I warn him, half expecting him to tell me to stop.

“Good girl. Right there, keep going,” he grunts.

My eyes roll back as my lids flutter closed. I squirm my way through the explosion, crying out my pleasure as stars erupt behind my closed eyes. Panting as I float back to awareness, I force my eyes open so I can see Dalton come.

He grins evilly. “Keep going. I’m almost there,” he orders through gritted teeth.

“I already did,” I say in confusion.

“Come for me again, Joy. We’re doing this together,” he explains, repeating his earlier words. “Keep going. Hard, fast, deep. Now, Joy.”

His hand is jerking up and down his shaft, nearly out of control, and I rush to match his intensity. It’s more than I can take after coming so hard, so recently, but I do it anyway, wanting to be the sight that pushes him over his own edge.

“You feel so good, Dalton. Fuck me hard,” I plead, using his words against him. He was telling me precisely what he would do if he was here, and I want him to imagine that’s exactly what he’s doing. “Does my pussy feel good wrapped around your cock?”

“Fuuuuck, Joy,” he grits out. With a harsh, shuddering groan, jets of cum spurt out of his crown and up his abs.

I don’t stop what I’m doing. My own dirty talk and seeing him explode for me has gotten me to the edge again too. “I’m coming again,” I moan as I shatter, this time even harder, though I don’t know how that’s possible.

As we both pant to catch our breaths, grinning stupidly, I reach for the towel I did remember to bring with me from the bathroom. I use it to wipe my fingers and then lay Woody on it and meet Dalton’s dark eyes. He’s also cleaned up and looks relaxed and happy.

“You feeling good about tomorrow’s game?” I ask, getting comfortable against my pillows. “You should be after that.” I grin, pleased with myself.

“Feeling good about a lot more than that,” he murmurs. “We’ve got the Rockets Saturday and Sunday, but we’re off the first part of the week. You wanna come over late on Monday? After you get off from the station.”

He’s asking for a lot more than Netflix and chill, and we both know it.

“Yeah, I think I can do that,” I say, though I’m internally screaming both yes and no at the same time. On one hand, I know I’ll get exactly what Dalton just promised me, and I want that desperately. On the other hand, it won’t be a casual one-night fucking, and I’m not sure I’m ready for more. Even so, I don’t change my answer when he peers at me, silently asking if I’m sure. “Yes. Monday.”

“Good.” He looks . . . relieved?

He really thought I was going to say no, didn’t he? For some reason, that hurts. I don’t want him to doubt me, even though I’m all sorts of confused about what this might mean.

“Well, good luck tomorrow night. I’ll be watching,” I tell him.

“You’d better be.” He adds a wink, looking more like the cocky, arrogant bastard I’m used to. “Good night, Joy.”

“Good night, Dalton.”

But after he hangs up, I stare at the dark screen of my phone, seeing my own reflection there. I look . . . happy.

Sunday night, I go to my parents’ house to watch the game and eat dinner. But mostly to watch the game, even though we both have the subscription service that lets us watch all the games—national, regional, major, minor, college, and even some high school. What can I say? Our family’s thing is hockey.

“Honey, can you take this to Dad?” Mom asks, handing me a casserole dish covered in foil.

“Yep, on it.”

In the living room, Dad’s got the coffee table set up buffet-style with chips, dips, bowls, and more. But he quickly rearranges to make room for the dish I hold out. “From Mom.”

“Here,” he tells me, pointing to a newly cleared space and a trivet.

I set the dish down, then pull off my oven mitts. “What else?”

We both peer at the spread, not imagining a single thing we’re missing. At least not from the table. I still miss Hope at our watch parties, but she’ll be home in a couple of weeks for Christmas. I can’t wait to see her and fill her in on things here at home. Mostly with me and Dalton. I get the feeling she’s gonna brag about being right, but I can’t find any irritation about it when I’m too blissed out from orgasms and excited about our date tomorrow night.

“C’mon, Lorie! They’re already singing the national anthem,” Dad yells toward the kitchen.

Mom rushes in, placing her hand on her heart respectfully but still eyeing the table like Dad and I didn’t already check it over. As soon as the song’s over, we sit—Mom and Dad in their respective recliners and me on the couch—and start reaching for snacks, starting with chips and onion dip.

“How do you think tonight’s gonna go?” Dad asks me, shoving a loaded chip into his own mouth.

Our family has grown up supporting Shepherd’s hockey dreams, constantly replacing and repairing gear, going to tournaments, hiring private coaches, and scheduling our entire lives around his seasons. In a lot of families, the other kids would feel slighted or neglected. But not with Jim and Lorie Barlowe as your parents.

I can say without hesitation that they spent as much time, energy, and cheerleading power on Hope and me as they did Shep. I’m sure it helps that my first love is also hockey, just in a different way, but they made sure we never felt at the mercy of our brother’s passion. They went to my debate tournaments, watched my news reporting in college, and were my biggest and loudest supporters when I got the sports reporting position at the local station as a fresh graduate with a year’s internship under my belt helping Matt prep his reports. They literally held a watch party at our house for my first official five o’clock report, and they haven’t missed a single one since.

They respect my knowledge, analysis, and insight more than any other reporter, especially where hockey’s concerned. And definitely more than Shep’s own self-evaluations, which tend toward “of course we’re gonna wipe the ice with them” no matter who the Moose are going against. For him, it’s pep talk and much-needed hype. My job is to be more truthful with what the odds actually are, and I think Dad especially appreciates that.

“If they play like last night, it’s in the bag. Shep seems to be feeling himself like usual.” I roll my eyes at my brother’s ego, which is absolutely warranted but annoying to live with. “Voughtman’s on his side like superglue, and Pierre made a killer slap shot last night, so I think he’s ready to shine. Miles and Hanovich kept a lot out of the goal themselves, but they paid the price for it. Thankfully, Dalton walled off the rest. All in all, I think we’re a shoo-in for a repeat victory.”

Dad cuts his eyes my way, most of his attention still on the screen, to nod agreeably with my assessment. Mom beams at me proudly for the quick synopsis of yesterday’s game and tonight’s odds. But a quick glance shoots between them before they focus on the television again. I’ve seen that look before when Hope and I have entire conversations in the span of a single blink, and I wonder what they told each other. Probably something cute and lovey-dovey, knowing them.

After last night’s game, I waited for Dalton’s call, half hoping he’d show up at my door instead. I even considered getting dressed up and heading down to Chuck’s to celebrate with the team, and maybe, possibly, see if I could lure Dalton back to my place or his. But ultimately, I stuck with the plan. They won the first game against the Rockets but have one more to go, so Dalton needed his pregame ritual, not the added pressure of doing more with me for the first time.

Or at least, that’s how I sold it to myself when I didn’t go out and instead curled up in bed because it was either that or admit I was chickening out.

And when Dalton finally called, I knew I made the right decision. He looked exhausted. Happy to see me, but exhausted. I basically talked him through touching himself the way he did for me the night before, getting us both off quickly so he could rest. But he kept talking, rehashing the game, which was obviously heavy on his mind.

Dad adds to my game report, “As long as Wilson stays off the ice.”

Eyes wide, I nod back, remembering Coach Wilson yelling from the bench last night. They’ve gone at it before, but he was acting as if there’s something personal between him and the Rockets’ Coach Jenkins. Even though Jenkins ignored him, it was a bad look for Coach Wilson, because everyone watching at home could read every word, like take ’em down, fuck them, blockblockblock, and some other gritted-teeth, growled instructions that probably couldn’t be aired.

“Right? What’s his deal with Jenkins? There’s no history on the ice I could find, other than the one go-round they had last year. Is it something off-ice?”

Dad shrugs dismissively. “Sometimes guys are friends and something happens to make them enemies. Might be something small, might be something huge, but it’s never the same after.”

“Wait—” I say, startled at Dad’s revelation. “Wilson and Jenkins were friends? When? I’ve looked through their whole history and didn’t see anything like that.”

Eyes never leaving the screen where Shepherd has the puck and is going hard and fast toward the Rockets’ goal, he murmurs, “High school, I think. Maybe a little before.”

Shep fights for an open shot or pass, but gets blocked by the Rockets’ left defenseman, who drops his shoulder and slams into Shep’s chest. We hold our breaths to see if it’ll be the start of a fight, but Voughtman receives the pass, shoots wide, and play continues on.

“You mean those grown-ass men, who are in charge of a whole team, are playing some grudge match about who got the biggest piece of cake at lunch forty years ago? Using their players like marbles on the playground?” I accuse.

Dad chuckles. “Wars have been fought for less.”

I shake my head, in awe at the complete and utter stupidity of men. “As long as nobody gets hurt for their dick-measuring contest, I guess it’s all good,” I huff sarcastically.

Mom’s head jerks my way, and I grin around the whole chip I’m shoving into my mouth. She doesn’t like it when I use crude language, but she gave up on trying to control that a long time ago. She learned that I’ll listen to her, smile like I agree, and then do whatever the fuck I want, and realistically, I don’t speak nearly as bad as Shepherd does, and Mom wouldn’t dream of trying to wash his mouth out with soap since he’s a solid foot taller than her and she couldn’t reach his mouth unless he let her.

Besides, game talk is a different beast.

We watch the game together, yelling at the screen as if the players can hear us coaching them, supporting them, or telling them what dumbasses they are. And before long, the hard-fought game is over.

Moose: 3. Rockets: 2.

We won. But it was close. Too close. Dalton was solid for the first two periods, but the Rockets were relentless, and the third period was too tight for my own taste.

Almost as soon as the game’s over, the metro sports show starts, starring none other than Steve Milligan. I roll my eyes at his annoying, smarmy face, but listen to his analysis of the game regardless. Admittedly, it’s mostly so I can disagree with him, but I’m professional enough to admit that there are things I could learn from the man with decades of experience on me. Even if he’s a total asshole.

“And in minor league news, the Moose barely squeaked by the Rockets’ defenses, winning their doubleheader matchup—”

I throw a chip at the screen, knowing it won’t make it across the room. “Squeaked by, my ass,” I snort.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asks, getting up to pick up my mess.

I stand, taking the chip from her and putting it on my napkin. “You don’t have to clean up after me, Mom. I’ve got it. That guy irritates me.” I glare at the television, where Milligan is talking favorably about Shepherd at least, but he’s still making it seem like they won accidentally, not because they played their asses off.

“Steve Milligan?” Mom questions, looking at the screen. “Really? I think he’s handsome.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Dad grumbles.

I sigh. “If you two are gonna pick a fight so you can have makeup sex, I’m gonna go.”

Mom laughs, sitting back in her chair. “You don’t have to go anywhere, honey—”

“Yet,” Dad interrupts her, teasing, “It’s still early. But don’t hang out too long.”

Mom swats the air in the general vicinity of Dad’s hand. “Jim, hush. Don’t run her off. Joy, what’s wrong with Steve Milligan?”

She truly wants to listen to me, but Mom and Dad are also making flirty eyes at each other like I’m not right here, able to see them plain as day, or am too stupid to know what sexy eyes are.

My parents love each other. A lot. They also love each other. Also, a lot.

All three of us kids have stories of walking into the kitchen and finding them kissing at the sink, or Dad smacking Mom’s ass when he thought we couldn’t see, or talking in poorly disguised code about “staying in” all weekend.

It’s cute, adorable, and gross, all at the same time. Mostly, it sets the bar really high because that’s what I want. What we all want. So far, Hope’s the only one who’s found it.

Maybe not the only one.

“Milligan’s a misogynistic blowhard who wouldn’t know hard work, talent, or athleticism if it bit him on the ass,” I explain, lumping quite a few issues together but unable or maybe unwilling to give Mom the college-level length the subject deserves. “He shits on players who are doing their absolute best just for viewership and hasn’t done his own analysis in forever. That’s for the peasants to spoon-feed him. He’s barely a fan at this point, much less an expert.”

“Well damn, girl, tell us how you really feel,” Dad says, barking out a surprised laugh.

I guess I haven’t spit out that much vitriol about Milligan before, but after he hurt Dalton’s feelings, I’ve been even more contemptuous about the man than I already was. I’m also not going to examine why I’m angrier about Milligan hurting Dalton than I am about him treating me like an annoying female fly in his sports soup.

Mom glances at the screen, then back to me. “I guess he’s not that handsome after all.” When I meet her eyes, she gives me a quick wink of support. If I’m anti-Milligan, she is too. Out of the side of her mouth, she whispers, “Do we like Matt at the local station? He does a good job on the NHL games.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Mom. Matt’s great. I like working with him.”

She grins happily, but then she throws a chip at the television the way I did. “Change it, Jim. We don’t care what this . . . um, blowhard has to say.”

Thankfully, Milligan’s not even talking about hockey anymore, much less the minor league Moose vs. Rockets game, so when Dad changes the channel, I fake a yawn and a double-arm stretch. “I’d better get going anyway. I know you’ve both got work in the morning.”

I stand, moving to pick up Mom’s chip of support and drop it on my napkin too. “I’ll help get this all picked up.”

Mom and Dad both rise, shooing me off simultaneously. “We got it, honey. Be safe driving home this late. Love you!”

They basically shove me out the front door, waving as I get in my Mini Cooper parked in the driveway. Before I have time to back out, the front door’s already closed, the porch light’s off, and I watch Mom and Dad’s bedroom window go bright as they turn on that light.

Yeah, they’ll clean up the living room mess. Later. At least they didn’t get right to it in the spilled chip mess.

It’s a good thing they’re such great parents. Otherwise, I’d be icked out. As it is, they’re pretty much couple goals, and I love that for us Barlowe kids. Good examples lead to high expectations. Of course, high expectations can lead to disappointment. But they can also lead to pure happiness. I’ve seen it in Hope’s case, and I have every belief I’ll achieve that too. One day.

Maybe it’ll start tomorrow?

I don’t fight the smile that steals across my lips at the hopeful thought that doesn’t seem quite so scary now. Of course, it’s scary that it’s not scary, but I’m having faith . . . in myself, in Dalton, and in . . . gulp, us.