He cranes his neck just enough to see the screen. “Uh. My alarm. We have thirty minutes.”
“To get to the rink?” I smack his chest lightly. “I told you naked yoga wasn’t a good idea.”
“No.” He smiles against my throat. “You’re right. It wasn’t a good idea. It was an excellent one.”
“You’re supposed to be the responsible one. Not the other way around.”
“What can I say? You’re rubbing off on me.”
I shove him away and climb out of bed. “We both can’t be irresponsible. One of us needs to keep track of time and schedules.”
“It’s not my fault. I can’t concentrate when you’re riding my cock and moaning my name.”
I spin back toward him, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, then cross the room and loop my arms around his neck. “Are you talking dirty to me?”
“Yes. And we’re definitely going to be late.”
I laugh as I yank on my jeans—then immediately abandon them for leggings because they’re infinitely better. Needing a hoodie, I open the closet and dig through it, pushing aside hangers until my fingers hit something familiar. Stiff. Khaki.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, pulling it free. “It does exist.” I hold up the khaki suit like a sacred artifact. “You’ve been hiding this from me.”
Miles groans and reaches for it. “We’re going to be late.”
“No,” I counter, dodging him as I clutch it to my chest. “What’s late is me only seeing this now.” He lunges again, but I pivot, laughing.
“If I put it on later,” he bargains, clearly desperate, “can we go now?”
I consider it for half a second. “Absolutely.”
He yanks the suit from my hands before I can change my mind and tosses it onto the bed.
I meet him in the middle of the room and wrap my arms around his neck. “I love you.”
“No.” He smirks. “You love blackmailing me.”
“Oh, I promise,” I murmur, brushing my mouth over his, “I’ll make it up to you.” He kisses me—quick, laughing—and for a moment, everything feels chaotically perfect and right.
We arrive at the rink a few minutes into the first period. Miles leads the way as we slip past clusters of parents and kids in oversized jerseys to claim a spot on the cold wooden bench. I exhale, heart still racing and hair a mess. Miles bumps his knee against mine, and I smile to myself.
Beck is on the bench in his new coach’s jacket, crouched to eye level with one of the kids. He’s exactly where he belongs.
Miles leans forward. “I don’t know much about hockey.”
“Neither do I. But we’re here for Beck.”
Miles shifts his attention, straightens, eyes narrowing slightly as he peers toward the glass. “Hey,” he says under his breath. “Is that?—”
I follow his gaze to a woman standing near the boards, hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat, watching the bench.
Maggie.
“Huh,” I murmur. “I wonder why she’s here.”
The kid Beck’s been talking to points toward the glass. Maggie looks up, spots him, and lifts her hand in a small wave. Beck glances over and gives her a brief nod.
I blink. Miles blinks. We look at each other.
“Do they—” I start.
