“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I tell the reflection of Griffin in my mirror. He’s sprawled out in my bed, his feet hanging off the bottom edge and his arms folded behind his head, which makes his biceps look enormous. He’s watching me put on my makeup, and not resting the way he should before such an important game.
We stayed at his place last night after dinner with Dominic, and when he got up early to go into the arena for morning skate with the team, I came home, figuring I’d see him after the game because I didn’t want to interfere with his routine. Instead, he’d come knocking on my door by noon, asking why I’d left. We’d ended up in my bed for a while, just talking and cuddling, but it takes me a lot longer to get ready than it does him, so I snuck off to shower an hour ago. He’s been watching me ever since I came back in—with my face bare, my hair wet, and wearing nothing but my favorite silky floral robe.
And yet he doesn’t care. He sees me at my rawest, and the look in his eyes is just as hot as if I were dressed my sexiest. If that doesn’t help the ol’ ego, nothing will ... but I’m still worried about him and his routine.
“Afraid if I go to sleep, I’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream,” he confesses.
“You mispronouncednightmare,” I quip, setting down my makeup primer and turning around to face him. But he’s serious. I think this is bigger than us, or the upcoming conversation with my parents. This is about hockey. “Are you nervous about tonight’s game?”
He sighs heavily, heaving himself up to a sitting position with his elbows resting on his knees and his head hanging low. “I’ve wanted to win the Stanley Cup for my entire life. It’s been the one constant north driving me, even when life was so fucking bad that I wanted to quit everything. And now that we have a shot, I’m terrified I’m going to crash out in the first round.”
“One, I don’t think that’s going to happen. And two, what if it does?” I challenge.
He tilts his head to side eye me, deadpanning, “Your pep talks suck.”
I go over and sit down beside him on the bed. “You’ve already won, Griffin. Think back to when you first picked up a hockey stick. What did you want?”
“Stanley Cup,” he quickly answers.
“Okay, fair. But I know what Dom was like, and so I bet you wanted to go pro. You are. You wanted to play against the best of the best, and you are. You wanted to earn that cup, and you will. I have no doubt that a younger version of you will get every single one of his wishes. If it’s this season, awesome. If it’s next season, that’s okay too. You’ve wanted it, you’ve worked for it, and it’ll be yours. When it is, I’ll be screaming louder than anyone in that arena, because I am already so proud of you.”
“Still sucks.”
But he heard me. The Hawks have a real shot this season, better than any other in their recent history, largely in thanks to the great team they’ve built together. And I hope they win the Cup, truly I do. But tonight is game one of the playoffs, four grueling series to the end, and if Griffin puts too much pressure on himself from the jump, he will crash out. Mentally, if not physically.
And hockey is more mental than one would think, even for the team enforcer.
“Thanks. I think I’m gonna head out before you get dressed. I hate that skirt and don’t want to get pissed off before the game.” He stands, grabbing his wallet and keys from the nightstand.
But I stop him. “You hate my uniform?”
He looks darkly at said uniform, which is hanging off my chair, then at my legs. “It’s too damn short. That thing has taunted me for years, Penny.”
I press my lips together, fighting to hide my smile. “Hold on one second. Don’t leave yet.” I grab my uniform and disappear into the bathroom for one minute, pulling it on the way I have countless times before.
When I strut back into my bedroom, Griffin has his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set. “Hate that thing,” he spits out.
“Because you think my ass is hanging out or I’m gonna have a lip slip?” I guess, and he dips his chin, now staring at the skirt like it’s personally offended him. “Look,” I say, lifting the skirt up to reveal the tiny shorts underneath. “And my legs are covered in tights.”
That grabs his attention, and he zeroes in on my legs, looking doubtful.
Laughing, I stick my hand down my skirt to my thigh, showing him that the leg portion that sticks out beneath the skirt isn’t opaque. It’s flesh-toned leggings that definitely don’t show my ass. “If our legs were bare, we’d freeze in the arena. It’s not pond hockey, for sure, but it’s still a fuck ton of ice sucking up all the heat in the building.”
He touches the fabric. “I have studied—and I do meanstudied—you in this skirt, and never once realized it wasn’t your bare legs. It’s like sorcery.”
“The magic of women’s hosiery,” I say, spreading my hands through the air like a rainbow. “The more you know.”
And just like that, Grump-a-potomas Griffin smiles.
“See, I am a good pep talker,” I preen, poking his cheek. “Now, get out there and defend that goal, beat some guys up—preferably not a teammate—and make the Oil Riggers your bitch like the monster you are, Honey.” I purposefully use his hockey nickname, getting him into the right mental headspace for tonight. He’s going to do great, though. I have no doubt.
He nods.
“Would it help at all if I promise a victory blow job, with me wearing the skirt that’s apparently always driven you crazy?”
I can’t help but giggle a little at that. How did I never know? I’m not sure, but I truly had no idea. For years, I was completely oblivious. But now? It’s as obvious as the sun in the sky—big, blinding, and hotter than fire. That’s Griffin’s love for me, and mine for him.
“Are you fucking with me?” he asks.
