The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

That’s with shrinkage? Holy shit! I’m well on my way to hell in a handbasket for the dirty, filthy thoughts I’m having about the goalie of the team I’m here to report on.

When my boss, Greg, told me to see if I could catch any of the team for last-minute insights about the season, I was pissed. I’ve already talked to the guys of the Maple Creek Moose throughout the preseason, had an on-air interview with Coach Wilson, and completed my own stats-focused analysis of last season in preparation for the opening game report.

Now? I might have to send Greg one of those fancy fruit baskets where they cut the pineapples into flowers and dip the strawberries in chocolate, because without his annoying reminder that as a woman in sports reporting I have to work three times as hard to be taken half as seriously, I wouldn’t have this particular image to store in my mental memory bank.

And that would be a shame. A real shame. Because Dalton Days is hung.

Not that I’m a girth queen or length snob. Hell, I’d like to think I’m more into sweet talk and romantic gestures than penis. But his is . . . pretty. And scary. And looks like a disco stick I’d like to take for a whirl.

Except he’s completely off-limits.

I’m a sports reporter, and as such, privy to locker room behind-the-scenes action. The fact that I’m even seeing Dalton like this shouldn’t be a big deal in the slightest if I’m sticking to my completely professional capacity.

Not to mention, he’s friends with my older brother, Shepherd, and since Dalton joined the Moose five years ago as the replacement for a beloved goalie, he’s earned a reputation as a ladies’ man. That’s putting it nicely. Honestly, Dalton comes with warning labels like “player” and “man whore,” but now I can see why. Who wouldn’t want a little taste? A single night of fun? A challenge to see how deep I could take him?

I mean . . . someone might think that. Not me specifically. No, not Joy Grace Barlowe. I’m not that girl. Nope. Not. That. Girl. At all.

“Um, is it growing? Like, right before my eyes?” I wonder aloud, sounding like one of those late-night Chia Pet commercials.

Dalton looks down at himself like he has no idea.

He has to feel that, right? He’s got a third leg hanging between his thickly muscled thighs, and it’s rising through thin air like a flag being erected on the moon. His hands are even on his hips, framing it like the masterpiece it is.

One small step for man, one giant erection for mankind.

“You’re staring. He likes the attention,” he snaps, cupping himself with his hands. “Perfectly natural.”

“So I hear,” I murmur, implying that I know all about his reputation, both on and off the ice.

I should be getting my angel halo any second now because like the total good girl I am, I don’t mention that the piercing looped into his head and out below his crown is still peeking out around his wrist. Because he’s that big.

I mean, does a vagina even accommodate semitruck-length dick without a ruined cervix or bruised back wall?

Okay, that halo might be on back order given that train of thought. But I should at least get a participation award for not pointing it out aloud.

Dalton Days doesn’t get embarrassed. He’s a machine, cold as the ice he skates on, showing no emotion. A little attention from me can’t be the thing that does him in. But I swear his cheeks blush—the slightly scruffy ones on his face, not his ass, which I can’t see since he’s facing me fully.

“What do you want, Joy?” he growls, grabbing a pair of black boxer briefs from his locker and stepping into them.

Tragically, his penis disappears into the cotton, and though I can still trace the outline of his shaft, the thin fabric is enough to helpfully rouse me from my dick-drunk stupor. “Opening night,” I answer, as if that’s a logical response to his question.

“What about it?”

I sigh and something clicks in my brain, sending me into the professional mode I pride myself on. “You know what. Comment? Concerns? A quote for the people? Or should I run with ‘duh, I guess I’ll try to stop the little black circle things before they go in the net’?” I tease, making him sound like he’s taken a few too many shots to the head.

Being professional in the sports world is different than being professional in something like banking. I’m expected to be more Bro than Polite Polly, push for answers to hard questions when challenged, and be comfortable refusing to back down against testosterone-fueled men twice my size, even when they could squish me like an annoying gnat if they wanted to.

“We’ve already done this preseason commentary,” he says with a sigh, but at my sharp look, he relents. In a bored tone that speaks to practiced repetition of his answer, he adds, “The Moose are ready. We’re gunning for the playoffs this year, same as always. This year? The cup’s ours. No doubt.”

“And I can bet the farm on that?” I challenge. I don’t have a farm, nor a gambling habit, but I want to test the waters of how sure Dalton is because I’m going to quote him on tomorrow’s news.

I’ve heard Shepherd’s take on things, mostly around our parents’ dinner table on Sundays, but you can’t take a word he says at face value. He’s always the best, the brightest, the winningest, the star . . . at least in his own mind. Or so he says. He’s definitely the best at one thing—putting on a good face. But if you know where to look, you can see the worry in my brother’s eyes, the way he clenches his hands when the season’s not going well, and the tightness in his jaw when the good people of Maple Creek offer consolation instead of congratulations. He’s Mr. Good Times Guy on the surface, but he’s got a deeper edge than most would expect. I’m not sure that’s the case with the team’s goalie, who seems cavalier at best, apathetic at worst.

“You can bet your nonexistent ass for all I care,” Dalton retorts. He’s pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie, and now sits to put on his shoes and socks. For some reason, seeing his bare feet feels more intimate than seeing his dick, and this time I can feel a blush creeping up my neck.

Once he’s fully dressed, he yanks a duffel bag from his locker and stands. “I’ve gotta eat and get to bed before nine p.m. Coach’s orders,” he announces, taking three strides toward me. He stops directly in front of me, giving me a once-over expectantly. “So are you coming, or is there something else you want?”

I bark out a laugh at his audacity. “I’m not going out with you, Dalton One-Night.”

He chuckles, then leans lower to whisper hotly in my ear. “I didn’t ask you to.”

With that, he walks past me, through the locker room door, and into the night, leaving me alone to replay what he did say.

Gotta eat. Get to bed. Coach’s orders.

Shit. He didn’t ask me to fuck, but to get out of the damn doorway. I assumed, probably because of his reputation. And maybe because I was wishing I could take a spin on him and be passed out by nine in a blissful, post-orgasmic haze. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that.

But it’s not happening tonight either. Or anytime soon. And especially not with Dalton Days.

“Ugh, what an asshole,” I growl out to the now-empty room.

Despite the mess I made of the last few minutes, I take my career seriously. It’s the one thing I’ve always wanted to do, and I’ve fought my ass off to be on the local news at five and eleven. I’m still only slated to cover the lower-level sports in our area, like high school and the minor leagues, but it’s an honor I don’t take lightly, and I’m well aware that there will always be people who think I got the job on my knees because I’m young, pretty, and female.

To be clear, those were reasons I almost didn’t get the job. Not why I did, which were things like my lifelong love of hockey, college degree in broadcast journalism, and ability to verbally go toe to toe with damn near anyone.

I’ll spend tonight the same way I have the last few weeks—rewatching videos of last season’s games and comparing the athletes to what I’ve seen in the public practices, typing up bullet-point notes, and preparing reporting chatter that’s fresh and on point, with insightful inferences and engaging accuracy. I wouldn’t dream of providing less. The athletes, viewers, and fans deserve my best, and I won’t let them, or myself, down.

And after all that work, I’ll fall asleep curled up with my only bed companion—a body pillow—giddy for opening night. Because as much as it’s a fresh opportunity for our Moose to potentially get called up to the majors, it’s an opportunity for me too—to have my reporting noticed. And that’s the goal: to eventually be handpicked to report on college and major league games, first locally and later as the face on nationwide networks. But for now, I’m still a baby reporter, with only a few years under my belt, so it’s a long-term goal.

Just one I have my sights laser-locked on.