Later that night, Jamie is sitting across the kitchen table from me although dinner is long gone and cleaned up, leaving us to spread our work out. Homework for him and some bookkeeping for me.
“Yeah?” I ask, not quite looking up because I’m twitchy, trying not to see how close the Iceguard are to a puck drop.
I want to run to my room and watch the game, watch Monroe, where I can fixate without an audience. I’m a ridiculous dad with a crush. I’m too old for this. Too grumpy.
“I was hoping to watch the game. I’m done with this.” I look up and he’s not only done but all packed up as well.
“Oh, of course.”
“Are you okay, Dad?”
I blink at him. “Perfectly fine. Why?”
Jamie tilts his head like he’s really studying me. “I don’t know.”
“Go,” I tell him with a smile and a ruffle to his hair, standing up from the table and closing my own work. “I know you want to call Arch.” They’ll yell at the game together and gossip like my grandma did at the beauty parlor during any pauses in the action.
Jamie rolls his eyes. “It’s not a phone call, Dad. It’s just our gaming console. I explained to you how we talk over it.”
“Right.”
He takes off, but I hear him pause on his way up the stairs, as though maybe he was turning around to watch me.
My palms are damp and I have to remind myself I’m doing nothing wrong, nothing strange. I often do work while the game is on. Since it’s the PHL, the game is streamed, so I set up like normal, which means plopping down on the couch that’s up inthe second-story loft while Jamie sprawls on a six-foot beanbag I bought him last year. It may look pretty standard for us—him chatting with his friend and me with my glasses on and computer open—but I don’t see a thing on my laptop.
My eyes fixate on Monroe. He’s having a good game and he’s sleek on the ice. Fast. Smart. He has the team working with him too. They are where they need to be on the ice more than they aren’t.
Monroe plays hockey the way God intended—all out, no pause, no give, just a fight for the puck and then the puck in the net. Repeat. I swear he doesn’t even see the other team, not as people, they’re just obstacles in his way. Something to overcome.
There’s a two-point lead into the third period, which means next to nothing. Hockey can turn on a dime and is so low scoring that it’s impossible to really relax. A two-point lead can be insurmountable or nothing at all. It all depends on the game that night.
Since it’s a stream, the polish of watching an NAPH team on ESPN or something isn’t there, which makes it more real somehow. The camera follows Monroe as some guy is trash talking him as they come back to the ice after the first period. Monroe’s smirk is visible as he just smiles and nods back at the guy, and he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.
Holy hell. Right there on television. The strip of skin I’d seen a hint of at my kitchen table morphs to display the rounded edge of an ab muscle, the hip bone of his sculpted V, and a tantalizing trail of dark hair that leads down to his pants.
Fuck.
I adjust how I’m sitting on the couch, not that it matters because I’m so hard it’s difficult to be comfortable. I keep my laptop strategically placed.
Jamie is ten feet in front of me, caught up in the game and discussing it with Arch in a voice that’s way too loud. I gulp my water . . . anything to get myself back under control.
I haven’t been affected by someone like this in years. Maybe never. But that trail of dark hair into sinfully tight hockey pants was the hottest thing I have ever seen.
Chapter nine
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Riley: Spotted Roe and Thatcher sitting together at Jamie’s game again. Sharing snacks. I’m talking hands in the same popcorn bag
Alex: Roe brought the snacks.
Stan: Thatcher brought two drinks
I’m exhausted after our two weeks on the road. Road games are long. Longer than they used to feel.
I played solid. No big saves or big plays, but nothing disastrous either. My knee twinged when it shouldn’t have, but I didn’t let that affect my performance, so I see it as a good sign. Maybe things are looking up.
