Mine.
I want every person here to look at her and know she’s Jack Murphy’s girl.
“Murph, you’re gonna crash into the boards if you don’t stop staring at her,” Alex teases, skating past me.
Bosko stops next to me and taps his stick against my shoulder. “You’re gone, man. Just admit it.”
“Fuck off.” But I can’t stop smiling.
“Let’s win. Head in the game tonight,” Boskos reminds me, slapping a hand on my shoulder as I spin away. “No fighting. We can’t afford to lose you.”
Izzy told me that last night on the phone. Told me she liked me too much to have me forget her. I teased her back, insisting she’d be fine with forgetting the dumb hockey jock who hangsaround her bookstore. I meant it to be funny, but it fell flat. I swear she was going to cry, so I changed topics.
Okay, fine. The topic was me, my cock, and those pictures she sent me earlier in the day in new pink lingerie.
And while that was great, it still didn’t sit right with me when we hung up.
The game starts, and I lock in. I assist on the first goal. Late in the third period, I steal the puck at center ice, blow past their defense, and bury it in the net. The arena erupts, and my teammates pile on me, but my eyes are already searching the crowd.
There. Izzy’s on her feet, screaming, hands in the air.
I point at her. Just for a second. Just enough that she sees.
I’ve scored hundreds of goals. Game winners, overtime clinchers, highlight reel shots that get replayed for weeks. But this one feels different. I want to be good for her. I want her to be proud of me.
After the game, I shower in record time. Alex told me Molly was going to bring Izzy down with the rest of the WAGs so we could all go out to dinner. She’s in the hallway outside the small waiting room for family, hair a little messy, eyes bright.
“You’re such a showoff?—”
I don’t let her finish. I’m on her in three strides, backing her against the wall, hands framing her face, kissing her.
“Hmm,” she sighs into my mouth.
When I pull back, she’s breathless. “Amazing. That was… you were amazing.”
My forehead presses to hers. “You’re wearing my jersey.”
“You noticed?”
“Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
Her cheeks turn that delicious shade of pink, her pulse racing under my palms. “I’m getting a pretty good idea.”
My hands slide down to grip her hips, hauling her closer. “Let me show you. To be clear.”
She glances around. “Jack, we’re about to go to dinner?—”
“I don’t care.”
I drag her into an empty equipment room down the hall and lock the door. I pin her against the wall, hands everywhere, mouth on her neck. She’s trying to catch her breath, trying to be reasonable.
“Jack, someone could?—”
“Let them.” My voice is rough against her skin.
She gasps when my hand slides under the jersey.Myjersey. “You’re crazy.”
Seeing her in my jersey, my name on her back, strips away every layer of control I have.
