The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

“Fuck, Joy,” I groan. I press away from her long enough to rip my sweatshirt over my head and toe my tennis shoes off. My sweats get shoved down my thighs along with my underwear, leaving me in all my messy, postgame nudity. All the while, Joy is undressing herself, throwing her sweater toward the mirror, wiggling her jeans off and sending them flying toward the lamp, and I don’t even know where her bra and panties go. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she’s nude, she’s ready, and she loves me.

She loves me.

I climb over her, and she welcomes me with open arms and spread thighs. Taking both her hands in one of mine, I press them to the bed over her head, and she curls her hips to line herself up with me. I guide my cock into her in one deep thrust that has her grunting gutturally when I bottom out. I’m a lot to handle in this position, but she takes all of me, her walls fluttering and squeezing my length as her eyes roll back in her head.

“Say it again,” I order, gripping her jaw and pulling her attention to me, not just what I’m doing to her.

“I love you,” she recites. I reward her with another deep thrust. “Oh fuck, Dalton,” she cries.

But she’s a quick learner, and soon she’s chanting “I love you” over and over as I pound mercilessly into her. I hold her still, wrapping her tightly in my arms, making her take it hard and fast and deep, until her panted breaths are hitting my chest as she tries to find enough oxygen in the small space between us.

“You feel how much I love you too?” I demand, and she nods mindlessly.

“I . . . feel . . . you . . . everywhere,” she manages to moan out between strokes.

Her hips are bucking beneath me, trying to match my punishing pace, and I create enough space between us to swipe my fingers over her clit. I’m getting close to the edge, but I want her pleasure first, so I fight it off as best I can, delaying the inevitable.

“Tell me what I want to hear as you come for me,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

My fingers blur, my hips piston, and my heart stutters when Joy cries out, “I love you, Dalton.”

It’s too much to bear and I come, too, exploding with her. There are stars flashing behind my tightly closed lids, but I spit out an answer for her: “I love you too, Joy.”

“Shower?” I ask, only half sure I can walk as far as her bathroom. After two periods of hockey and the intense lovemaking we just did, I’m pretty sure I’ve pushed my hips and thighs to their limit. Fritzi’s gonna have a field day with me tomorrow, and I’m already cursing that little silver metal muscle massager thing he digs into my back and hips.

Joy groans grumpily, snuggling into my side with her cheek against my bare chest and tightening her thigh’s grip on my leg. “Nuh-uh, I want to just lay here forever.”

“I probably smell like a sweaty locker room and stinky hockey pads,” I admit. “I didn’t shower after talking to Coach, just changed and bolted.”

She looks up at me sharply. “What’d he say?”

I sigh. “The usual. A lot of ‘what the fuck,’ but ultimately, that he expects better of Shep and me because we’re role models for the team. He’s disappointed in us. Said DeBoer did well and that maybe he’d replace me with him if I didn’t get my shit straight.”

Joy pushes up, looking at me in horror. “No! He can’t do that!”

“He can”—I chuckle—“but he won’t. I had an off night, and DeBoer did great . . . because I’ve been working with him. But Coach knows I’m still better, for now. One day DeBoer will be ready, but it’s not today.”

I smile because once upon a time, I would’ve refused to admit that, but now, it comes easily. I’ve accepted that it’s the truth. I’m good, maybe even great. But I’ll have my turn, my chance, my shot, and then I’ll fade away like most players do, and it’ll be someone else’s turn. And shockingly, I’m okay with that.

“Work with him on spotting and predicting to his stick side. His reaction time is crap, and he’s going to get taken advantage of if that doesn’t improve,” she says, relaxing back into me.

A laugh erupts from deep within my belly. This woman, who just confessed her love for me, took my cock like a champ, is now giving me coaching advice for another player. She might be the perfect woman.

Scratch that. She is the perfect woman, for me and me only.

“Will do. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that you analyzed his play and found weaknesses.” To be clear, DeBoer won’t like that one bit. It’ll piss him off. Not because it’s Joy, but because he’s in the “I don’t have weaknesses” phase. I was there, too, but I’ve outgrown it. Or I’m outgrowing it at least.

“What about Shepherd?” she asks quietly. “Did he say anything else?”

I run my fingers up and down her arm, silently trying to soften this blow for her. “It’s gonna take some time, and I don’t know if it’ll ever be the same.”

“It’s my fault, so let me try to help,” she suggests.

I have no idea what she’s considering. Probably locking us in a cage, forcing us to make friends . . . or kill each other. Actually, she’d probably lock herself in a cage with Shepherd, so that he’d have to listen to what she wants to say. That’d have a better shot than me and him because one of us would definitely die. And I don’t know if Joy would forgive me for killing her brother, even though she threatens it with scary regularity.

“We’ll figure it out,” I assure her.