Crying out. Thrusting up. Letting go.
Until I’m shouting and falling apart once again.
Later, after he slides next to me, he says, “You better make a lot of room in your calendar for me to do that again. And again. And again.”
I smile, but there’s an ache in my chest too.
Words likecalendarremind me of our eventual end.
This is designed to end. Of course it is.
Still…right now, I want to stay in the middle of it.
38
THIS IS NOT A REINDEER JACKING OFF
ROWAN
As the clock ticks off the final seconds, I crowd the Los Angeles forwards, stopping them from even trying to tie up this game. Until finally the horn blares and my favorite letter flashes on the scoreboard.
W.
I thrust my stick in the air, then high-five Wesley as he skates past me. “That’s how you do it,” he says.
“It fucking is,” I agree, but we don’t leave the ice. It’s time for another teddy bear toss. The team’s been doing them all throughout the game, starting with the first goal scored. When we nabbed that point, fans tossed toys and stuffed animals onto the ice that we picked up to donate to local toy drives. They did it again with our second point. And now, with the win, fans shower down more toys, basketballs, board games, and of course, stuffies, tossing them, carefully in some cases.
My eyes are on the brunette in the first row. She cocks her arm and launches a stuffed missile my way. It lands with a skid near my skates. I scoop it up, laughing when Irealize what it is—a stuffed raccoon. I give a chin-nod her way.
She waves back and I puff out my chest as my teammates and I glide across the ice, picking up more toys. There’s just something about your woman coming to your game. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it’sfake. Pride rushes through me—she’s here, rooting for me, watching me. That feeling spurs me on as I drop toys in big buckets the ice crew pushes along the rink. Near Isla, in the first row by the players’ bench, Leighton snaps pics that’ll go up on the team’s socials.
When we’re done, I’m about to head for the gate. But fuck it. What’s a little fake-dating without a kiss with my Christmas girlfriend? I hop over the boards and beckon her to come closer. She weaves down her row, reaching the edge of the bench as I tug off my gloves.
“Good game, Bishop.”
“This will make it even better.” I tug on her red snowflake scarf and pull her close, planting a hot, possessive kiss to her lips.
Leighton whistles.
Some of my teammates shoutget a room.
I flip them the bird, all while kissing my former matchmaker a little longer.
When I break the kiss, I wiggle my brows then jump back over the boards and head through the tunnel to the locker room, where I rip off my helmet and toss my jersey in the bin.
“Good job, boys,” Miles says when he comes in a few seconds later, sounding exhausted from the game—but the good kind of exhausted.
“Thanks, Dad,” Wesley teases.
Miles rolls his eyes. “I’m not even a dad.”
“But you have dad energy.”
I swing my gaze to Miles. “Can confirm.”
“Fuck off,” he mutters.
“Hey, is that any way to talk to the guy you took under your wing?” I toss back, since I can dish it out too.
