Page 40 of Dirty Fighter

It’s nice.

Flashing a wink, he pops the brush back in his mouth and finishes up. He snuffs the candles and climbs in beside me just as another crash rattles the world around us.

“Think your teammates are having as much fun as we are?” I ask in the darkness.

I swear, I can almost hear him smiling. Which makes me smile too.

“No idea what they’re up to right now, but as of this afternoon…” The bed shifts, dipping hard enough that I start to roll into him.

Laughing, I put my hand out to brace myself, but instead of meeting the mattress I end up with a handful of⁠—

“Oh God!” I yank my hand back like it’s on fire.

“Whoa there, handsy lady,” he chides, with this deep laugh as he shifts again, bouncing the bed enough for me to realize just how careful he must have been to this point.

“Sorry, sorry!” And because I have to ask, “Was that…”

“Yes. The rumors are true. My hockey ass is the stuff of legend.” And then, before I can respond, he’s propped a pillow against the headboard and is holding his phone in front of us as it powers on.

“Your phone still has a charge?” I gasp, forgetting about the way my hand is still tingling from contact with what was a truly legendary ass, or how that fizz of sensation seems to have migrated to my belly.

“Enough to show you this. Scoot up here.”

I’m too excited by the prospect of a peek at technology to do anything but pull up my pillow and settle in beside him as he navigates through his photos. I want to slow him down, look at the pictures he’s taken and see what he sees. Who he spends time with and what he thinks is worth saving. But there’s something he wants to show me, and according to his phone, he’s using the last four percent of his battery to do it.

“So like I said, I don’t know what they’re up to now, but here’s what they got up to after they left. Lattner is the younger guy from yesterday.”

“Called me a stripper. Baby face with the man-bun. Boy Bun.”

I look down at the messaging thread, or maybe these are screenshots saved for posterity.

Lattner

How many bee stings are too many?

“Oh, that can’t be good,” I whisper, following the path of Jason’s thick finger down the feed.

“Just wait.”

Wexler

NOT asking for a friend

Vaughn

I’ll check with Natalie

“Wexler was the guy with the mop of dark hair. He was with me at the funeral. And Vaughn’s this grouchy marshmallow married to Coach Baxter’s sister. She’s a physical therapist.”

Rux

How many stings are we talking?

“Our captain.”

Vaughn

She says if you have to ask, it’s too many