The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

December 31, 11:59 p.m.

Half of Maple Creek—including most of the Moose players and of course Joy—is here, and all around me, people are reveling like New Year’s Eve at Chuck’s is the pinnacle of celebration.

Joy and I have been playing it cool, arriving separately and mingling with the crowd, but my eyes have found hers again and again throughout the night. Especially as she and Rayleigh strut their stuff in a bunch of different line dances.

I’m not letting this moment pass though.

“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Happy new year!”

Sneaking up behind her, I snake my arm around her waist and spin her so her shoulders are to the wall of a dark corner. I completely block her from sight with the width of my back, ensuring nobody will know it’s the one and only Joy Barlowe pressed against me. She lets out a whoop of surprise that quickly turns to a laugh when she sees that it’s me.

“Dalton! You’re gonna get us busted!” she insists, but she’s smiling playfully.

I love that I’m the one who puts that look on her face and fills her blue eyes with happiness because she does the same damn thing to me. I swear I’ve never smiled so much in my whole life as I have these last couple of months with her. Joy has turned me from a single-minded hockey asshole into . . . well, a man who now thinks of two things: hockey and her. I’m still too much of a jerk in general, but never to Joy.

It’s growth, or at least it feels like it is because instead of cold inside, I feel alive with possibility and ready for the future. Or at least the start of the new year.

“Your mouth is the first thing I want to taste this year,” I murmur as I dip down to press my lips to hers. She tastes like beer, lip gloss, and dreams I never dared to imagine. As much as I’d like to take things deeper, she’s right and I don’t want to get us busted in the middle of Chuck’s tonight, so I let her go before I’m ready.

Actually, I’m caring a whole lot less about that and wish we could go ahead and tell Shepherd about us. I’m ready to get to the angry part, let him pop me in the jaw to get the fight over with, and then start fixing shit between me and my best friend because I’m so far gone for his sister that there’s no other way this plays out. He’ll have to accept it because I’m not going anywhere and neither is she.

Hopefully, Joy will be ready for that soon too.

February

“I’m playing better than ever,” I tell Joy, “all thanks to you.”

She shakes her head, still not believing in my superstition, but more than willing to go along with it on the night before games. Or any night. Or morning. Or midday. Basically, any time that we can coordinate our schedules to talk on the phone or, even better, be in the same place at the same time.

I wish we were together tonight, especially since it’s Valentine’s Day, but I’m on the road for a doubleheader, so it’s another late-night hotel room video call for us.

“Not sure I have anything to do with it, but I’ll happily take credit if you’re handing it out. How’re you feeling about tomorrow?”

She’s not asking as the sports reporter and won’t be sharing my quotes on-air. She cares about me—mentally and physically—my season, and the team, and we both know tomorrow’s game is a big one. We’re playing the Beavers again, and given the way we beat them last time, we’re hoping to sweep both games. It’ll be a huge confidence boost for the guys because the Beavers are playoff-ready, so if we can knock them down in the standings, it’ll mean we have a good shot at both drawing some attention in the last weeks of the regular season and securing a playoff spot for ourselves.

“Like a solid brick wall,” I brag, holding my arms out and flexing just a little for her. In some situations, that level of arrogant boasting would be obnoxious, but in sports, you gotta be your own best hype man. Trusting your training, believing in your talent, and letting the muscle memory work for you are all key, but it starts in your head.

She points at me through the screen, her blue eyes fierce. “That’s what I’m talking about. You go out there and make those Beavers your bitch. Pound ’em into the ice, no mercy.”

I swear I try to keep a straight face. I really do. But a snort ungracefully escapes my nose. “Did you just tell me to pound the beavers mercilessly?”

She freezes, her finger still pointing, but her mouth drops open in shock as she mentally replays what she said. Slowly, her lips lift into a smile, and one brow arches sharply. “Well, one beaver only. Speaking of . . . Happy Valentine’s Day, Dalton.”

She moves the phone out so I can see more than just her face, which changes everything about this call.

“Holy fuck, Joy,” I growl.

She’s wearing a lacy red bra I can absolutely see her nipples through. Her panties, or at least what there is of them, match the bra, but they’re more string than fabric.

I bring the phone closer to my face, wanting to examine every last detail and commit them all to memory because she is my biggest obsession. And that’s saying something because for the first time in my life, a woman ranks above hockey.

“I miss those tits,” I murmur. “They’re my damn kryptonite. Show me those and I’m a fucking goner for you.”

“These?” she purrs, pulling the bra down to rest below her gorgeous breasts. “You like them better than my pussy?”

I groan, letting my head fall back against the headboard that’s way too far away from her. “I don’t think that’s a fair question. Let me see it and we can find out together.”

Her smile is pure, unadulterated, devilish lust. “Show me you first.”

Well, yes fucking ma’am.