Page 72 of Holding Penalty

I start to hear fans yell my name and feel a crowd of people gathering and pressing close. Sure enough, members of the press who didn’t make the cut to get into the media room for post-game coverage are among them.

“Nash Miller!” A woman holding a microphone speaks up to get my attention, a cameraman trailing behind her. “Nina Rivera with Channel 29 News. Can we get your comments about the game?”

I swing my arm around Piper, tucking her against my side. She wants more evidence of us being together in public, so this is a perfect excuse to touch my wife the way I want to right now.

I rattle off some boilerplate response about the win being a team effort, our performance being the result of hard work and close study of our opponent, and my enthusiasm and optimism about the upcoming season.

Then another reporter steps up. “This is Mrs. Miller’s first game as well, isn’t it?” she asks.

“Dashwood,” I correct her. “She kept her last name.”

The reporter’s brow arches, like she’s caught onto something that she might be able to spin into a clickbait headline. “Oh? How progressive. And that’s something you’re okay with?”

I flash a smile at the camera. “Of course. I don’t care that my wife kept her last name. She should be proud of everything about herself, her name included.” I turn my head to look down at Piper, smile still on my lips. “But I sure as hell do like seeing her with mine on her back.”

33

NASH

Isuck in a sharp breath of air through my teeth and readjust myself for what feels like the thousandth time tonight, searching in vain for a comfortable position.

On the ice today, I felt invincible. I didn’t feel any of the exertion I put my muscles through as I skated like I was on fire, powered through body checks, rushed to intercept passes, and put my entire strength into every single shot on goal I took.

Until I got home, and the adrenaline wore off.

My back muscles are screaming at me. They’re getting their revenge for how much work I demanded of them during the game today, that’s for damn sure.

I haven’t minded sleeping on the couch at all since Piper moved in. It’s been perfectly comfortable. But tonight, with my back in this state, I just can’t find a position that works for me, thanks to the creases between the cushions and the uneven dips from where we’ve been sitting on it.

A grunt punches out of my chest when I twist in the exact wrong way, and a wave of pain travels from the small of my back down my right leg.

That’s not a good sign. I’ll have to talk to the trainers next time I go into the arena.

“That’s it,” Piper’s voice suddenly surprises me from the dark. “I’m willing to take drastic measures tonight.”

Furrows dig into my brow. “Piper, what are you talking about?”

Piper rounds the couch from behind and stands in front of me, and my eyebrows leap when I look up at her.

Piper is holding one of my practice hockey sticks in her right hand, hip propped in an I-mean-business pose, with a hard set to her jaw and determination in her eyes.

“Piper … what the⁠—”

She cuts me off with a sharp clip, “You’re sleeping in your bed tonight. And if I have to physically assault you with this hockey stick and chase you into the sheets, I’ll do it.”

I blink dumbly at her three or four times, standing there like some character in a fighting video game, her weapon at her side, outlined in the silvery moonlight. Finally, the full absurdity of the situation hits me, and I can’t help but laugh.

Until she shuts me up by swiftly bringing the hockey stick down so it strikes the armrest inches away from my head.

“It’s cute that you think I’m joking,” she says, nothing but seriousness in her voice. “Try laughing again.”

Even though this situation hasn’t become one iota less absurd, I somehow don’t have any laughter left in me now.

“I told you when you moved in—” I begin, getting ready to explain to Piper that there’s no way I’m letting her sleep on a couch while I hog the bed, but she sharply cuts me off yet again.

“And I told you you’re sleeping in your bed tonight, just now.” Whack. The hockey stick comes down on the armrest again, and I feel the whip of air from its movement. “Don’t play with me, Nash.”

Why does Piper threatening me with a potentially deadly object … kind of turn me on?