"You knew because you went to her show?"
"No." He grins. "I knew because she basically called me a stalker when she saw me in the audience, and I loved it."
I rub my gloved hand over my helmet. "So…she insulted you in public, and you liked it?"
"Pretty much."
I eye him sideways. "You ever think maybe you just have a humiliation kink?"
"Man, fuck off," he growls, and then laughs again. "But shit. Honestly? If she's doing the humiliating, I'm down for it."
"Jesus Christ."
"You'll see how it is," he says, slapping me on the back. "When you love a woman, every goddamn thing she does is either adorable or sexy as hell, even shit that would piss you off if anyone else said or did it. That's how you know you're fucked."
I grunt in response, not entirely sure he's wrong. Emelia gives me shit, and I'm here for it. If anyone else did it, it'd piss me off. But she isn't anyone else, is she? She's Emelia.
Fuck me running. I am in love.
This is a problem. Not because I don't want to feel it. I'm absolutely on board with falling for her. I think I knew that the minute I walked into her office. It's a problem because she isn't there yet. Hockey is my wheelhouse. Making someone fall for me is not.
How the fuck am I supposed to make a goddess fall?
Maybe Google can help.
Google is no help. It gives lame-as-fuck advice like "be your authentic self" or "create positive shared experiences". My authentic self is a pain-in-the-ass professional athlete—her least favoritething. And fucking my kid into her would be an excellent shared positive experience. It's also one likely to get me murdered.
I toss my phone onto the hotel bed to scowl up at the ceiling, contemplating the merits of voodoo. I quickly decide I probably shouldn't go that route. I mean, it could undo whatever magic her cootie catcher put into the universe. Best not to risk it.
"Jesus Christ," I groan. I'm losing my mind. I fell for a goddess and immediately lost it. No wonder Kingston is always smiling now. He's dicking down his girl every day, living in this weird, happy bubble of fuckery. It's unnatural for motherfuckers like us.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message.
I reach for it, then sit straight up, grinning like an idiot when I see Emelia's name on the screen. She's texting me.
No.
She's thinking about me.
Future Wife: I sent your team the contract.
Me: Interesting.
Future Wife: ??
I scoot back against the headboard, getting comfortable.
Me: You were thinking about me.
Future Wife: Do you even live in reality, Royce?
Me: Admit it, you were.
Future Wife: Was not.
Me: Liar. You didn't have to text me to tell me you sent over the contract, but you did.
Future Wife: Yes, I did. I NEED YOU TO SIGN IT!!
