Ford: A wave will do.
Skylar: You’re so not fun.
Ford: I’m so fun. Like I was last night when you begged me to spank you.
Skylar: Great reminder! I’ll hold up a Spank Me sign.
I laugh, shaking my head at the memory as I push open the gate and skate onto the ice. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her to actually hold up aSpank Mesign. As I glide across the cool surface, I can’t resist. My gaze drifts to center ice—right where she’s standing, waving, and holding up a sign.
And I nearly trip on my skates when I read the big, bubbly letters—yellow, outlined with black.I’d Knock So Hard To See That.
I fight off a smile the entire time I’m warming up from the insider joke. But also from the color. And when it’s game time, I do everything I can to channel my River Ranger mentality and push her out of my mind.
We’re down by one with nine minutes left in the game. I’m battling it out in the corners with a Phoenix defenseman, who’s shoving me into the boards. He jams an elbow into my ribs. A sharp, bone-rattling ache lances through me. But I put it out of my mind and jab my stick toward the puck.
Ha.Take that, asshole.
I’m off and racing away from the big guy. I’m faster—that’s the job as a forward. I leave him in a spray of ice, passing the puck to Bryant in the neutral zone.
My teammate flies down the ice, full speed ahead. Bryant closes in on the net with our defenseman Rowan Bishop flanking him. With one swift move, Bryant lifts his stick, and smacks that little black disc. In no time, it zips past the goalie and lodges into the twine.
“Yes!” I shout, racing down to high-five Bryant as the lamp lights. “Let’s do it again,” I shout, since we’re not there yet.
“We’re gonna get another,” he says.
“We fucking will.”
We skate over to the boards for the line change. Once I hop over, I hazard a glance across the ice.
Skylar’s on her feet, cheering the goal, jumping up and down.
My chest floods with endorphins. From the goal, I think. Or maybe not.
Because these heady feelings don’t dissipate. They seem to spread as Skylar’s red hair tumbles around her heart-shaped face, her cheeks bright, her eyes probably full of mischief and excitement. She looks so damn good in my jersey.
I just can’t stop looking at her.
Briefly, I remember Brittany coming to games. Shealways wore my gear too, but looking back, there was something performative about it. Something she seemed to enjoy about being a hockey wife.
With Skylar, it feels real. Like that joy over the goal came from deep within her.
I have to keep reminding myself it’s not real. But it’s getting harder especially when we win, and I impulsively skate over to her and do the very thing she asked me to do. I blow her a kiss.
Well, it’s forSan Francisco Neighborhoods.
That’s what I tell myself.
But I know the truth. It’s for me.
“Yup. Called it. Our boy ishap-hap-happy,” Bryant sings in the locker room, flinging his jersey into the laundry bin.
I scowl. “Never pretended I wasn’t.”
Miles scoffs as he unties his skates.
Tyler laughs, while icing his shoulder.
“What? I’m not the team grump,” I argue, nodding toward our defenseman Rowan Bishop—the one who took that title from Max Lambert.
