He took my hand and walked away. I was probably just as stunned as everyone else in that room. But man do I love to repeat the question. I hope I’m quick enough on my feet to think of something like that when I face the press. Unlikely, since my best comebacks don’t come to me until hours later. It’s a special kind of personality that can come up with a response on the spot like that.
Shortly after that, Lo had a video conference with his new coach and, like me, he made it clear that he’s not going to betheir token gay guy. He’s not their new showpiece to advertise their inclusivity, either. The fact that he used my words had me grinning on the other side of the room.
Honestly, I think both teams will respect our position. I’m not sure if they understand why we feel this way, but I’m hoping in time more people will.
Lo pulls me against him, pressing his lips to my jaw. His teeth run along my skin before he gently sucks on me, sending chills through my body.
“You ready?”
I look down at my Speedo and snort. I’m always chubbed around this man so a Speedo feels like a really bad decision. But I love this one because of the way it fits around me. It does a remarkable job at containing my cock in a very flattering way.
It’s also got a lot of sentimental value, being the only article of clothing I wore when we got married on the beach last month. Yes, we did that. We have the tattooed rings on our fingers as a permanent announcement to the world that we’re married.
“We’re going to need to wear shorts too,” I point out. “Not sure this is the first impression I want to give your new team.”
Lo shrugs. “We can wear them, but I’m not swimming in shorts. I’m not sure who the self-conscious schmo was that decided men need to wear loose-fitting clothing in the water, but they’re not comfortable.”
I laugh. “Fine.” It’s not like I don’t disagree. Definitely do. I always feel tangled and like they’re hindering my swimming. Like something is wrapped around me, pulling me under the water.
“Have you talked to anyone from Toronto?” I ask while we’re slipping into shorts and shirts.
“Just Casey,” Lo says. “When he invited me over.”
“It’s cool that they included you, right?” I ask.
Lo nods. “I’m going to choose to believe that it is.” He turns to face me and holds up a key. “And when we leave there, we’re going to our new house.”
I grin. It feels too big and giddy.
The house Lo bought in Toronto is an hour and forty minutes from mine, door to door. But it’s still a commute we’ll have to work around, which makes it inconvenient at times.
So while we were driving from his new house to mine after he got the keys, we had the brilliant idea to buy a house halfway between the two. We closed on a house in Niagara Falls. Just a small place—single bedroom, only 900 square feet. It’s a stopping point where we can commute every day—fifty minutes. People do that all the time. Some people travel longer than that to work.
It’s a trial house. I feel kind of foolish calling it that—a trial living with my husband. But that’s not the part on trial. It’s the commute that we’re trying out. Neither of us has ever traveled more than twenty minutes from our homes to our respective arenas. Almost an hour could be really rough. Especially on late nights.
But we made a schedule with a spreadsheet and shit, noting which days we’ll meet in the middle. On the late game nights, we’ll likely stay at our own places. But for practices and shit? We’ll commute. It worked out that something like 60% of the time, we’ll be sleeping under the same roof. In the same bed.
I’ll be able to wake up to my husband most days during the regular season. There’s nothing better than that. Nothing.
We load the bags and bedding and shit we’ll need for our new house into Lo’s car and climb in. His new house in Toronto is pretty sweet. Very modern with sharp, clean lines and a spectacular view. He lives on a hill that affords him a beautiful panorama of the city.
The drive to Casey’s house is short. It’s massive.
“Do you think he has a big family like Meddy?” I ask.
“No idea. I know just as much about these men as you do, babe.” He puts the car into park and leans forward to look out his windshield at the big house. “But my frugal heart hopes he isn’t living in this big thing all alone. That’s ridiculously inefficient.”
I nod. We open our doors and step out. There are already more than a dozen vehicles there, parked in neat rows, evenly spaced. I wonder if they did that on purpose. Glancing at Lo’s car, I’m glad to see that he parked within the grid too.
Lo takes my hand and we head for the front door. We can hear voices and water splashing from the backyard of the house. The smell of grilled foods fills the air and makes my stomach growl. Lo looks at me and I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile.
His smirk in return makes butterflies swirl in my stomach, just as they always do.
The doorbell is loud and deep. It sounds like it belongs in a castle or a haunted mansion. I can feel the sound in my bones.
There’s always that awkward moment when you show up to someone’s house and ring their doorbell and you wonder, what if they don’t hear it? Then you’re left standing there awkwardly. Do you ring again? Do you walk away? Are the neighbors watching? Will they call the cops on me?
But the door opens. and I recognize Casey Wilcox. Buffalo has played Toronto enough times that nearly all their players are familiar.
