The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

We won. We fucking won. Not only that, nothing got past me again.

Final score: Moose: 5. Americans: 0.

“Hell yeah!” Shepherd shouts, working his way around the locker room to high-five everyone. When he gets to me, he grabs my head and plants his forehead against mine. “I told you, man! We’re dominating this season! All. The. Way.”

He continues around the room, not realizing the tsunami of shit our win has started. It worked. I don’t know why, and it’s not my place to question it, but showing Joy my cock gave me luck, confidence, and the ability to defend like Patrick Roy.

This is bad, so bad.

I get cleaned up as slowly as I can, dressing at a pace only a snail would envy, and when I can’t put it off anymore and am the only person left in the locker room, I throw my duffel bag over my shoulder. I take a steadying breath before walking out because I know Joy will be in the hallway, hoping for one-on-one live interviews with the team for the eleven o’clock report, and I don’t know what to say to her.

It worked?

Thanks again?

Uh, we have another game tomorrow night, so . . . your place or mine?

Fuuuck. Shepherd is going to eviscerate me if he finds out where I’m getting my newfound confidence and luck. But that’s an issue for future me, and even then, it’s not enough to make me stop. Not when I played the way I did tonight.

In the hallway, I’m surprised to find . . . no one. Well, Joy’s cameraman is packing away his gear, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She’s not here. My breath escapes my lungs in a rushing whoosh of relief. Or is it disappointment?

The cameraman throws me a chin lift. “Great game, man.”

“Thanks.”

I walk out of the arena to the parking lot, scanning the space around me. I could lie and say I’m looking for overzealous fans or dangerous drivers, but the truth is . . . I’m looking for an annoying, mouthy, pain in my ass good luck charm who’s nowhere to be found.

It’ll be a quick night at Chuck’s since we have a game tomorrow. We Moose like to party, but the team’s responsible about it. One beer, a grilled chicken plate, three glasses of water, and I’ll be out, heading home to hit the hay for my ten very necessary hours. Back-to-back games are rough. When we’re on the road, we can sometimes go straight from the locker room to our hotel rooms, order room service, and crash. Bus ride nights are worse, but not too bad because the boredom helps you drift away. I just have to stretch more the next day.

At home, we’re expected to make an appearance at Chuck’s. Usually I don’t mind, but tonight I have another stop I need to make before my head hits the pillow—Joy’s.

All so I can show her my penis.

How did this become my life?

“Days!” a multitude of voices call out as I enter. Except that it comes out in cheer voices, making it sound like Deeeeeeyyyyyyzzzz. When I was a rookie, one joker would add “Nutz!” to it, but that shit stopped quickly once people realized I wasn’t someone to fuck with.

I lift a hand, waving to the gathered fans. It’s not so crazy in here tonight since it’s a regular game, not the season opener. That’ll help speed things along.

I go straight to the bar and order a Moose special. The bartender hands over my light beer and a huge glass of water. “Five on the chicken. I’ll bring it to your table.”

I nod in appreciation, turning to take my drinks to the Moose area in the corner.

“Double fisting it like a good boy?” Randall Hanovich, our right defender, asks as I sit down. I spy his own water glass and margarita seltzer in front of him and tap the neck of my bottle to his can. Fritzi would be proud of us for following his strict hydration rules.

“Still drinking that sour girlie crap?” I ask, scrunching up my face in disgust.

He takes a long swallow from the can. “Aah. Better than your horse piss.”

That’s an argument waiting to happen, but we both get distracted when a waitress shows up with two grilled chicken and veggie plates. Ravenous after the game, we start shoveling it in, basically swallowing it whole.

Before long, my plate’s empty, my stomach’s full, and I only have one little issue to resolve before I can go to bed.

Thankfully, I won’t have to go as far as I thought because the solution is sitting three tables away with my best friend. Her brother. My biggest obstacle in my quest for mental balance.

Randall’s talking to a guy on the other side of him, probably forgetting I was there, so I don’t bother excusing myself when I get up. “Shep. Joy,” I say as I move to their table. “Hell of a game, man.”

“Hell of a game?” he repeats, a stupidly wide grin making his eyes seem extra big. “That’s all you have to say? You were a brick wall out there, nothing getting through you.” Quieter, he says, “DeBoer better get used to warming the bench with you playing like that.”

Shep knows DeBoer makes me nervous. I was him once—cutthroat, ready, sure that if I could only get a chance, I could show everyone what I was made of. I’d like to think I’ve grown since then, and have a bigger picture view of the game, the team, and the season. It’s not all one block at a time, living in the moment. It’s a culmination of every block that makes a great goalie. Still, the idea of getting DeBoer off my ass, even for a minute, is a relief.

“DeBoer? He doesn’t have a chance of getting off the bench when Coach Wilson has you as an option,” Joy declares confidently. “Your save percentage is twice his, and you see the shots coming a mile away because you have more gametime experience than he does, which makes your reaction time noticeably faster. Pshaw, no way DeBoer sees ice against the good offenses in the league right now. I mean, he’ll get reps when Coach wants you to have a night off, but knowing Wilson, that’ll be pity time exclusively.”

I grow hard as steel in my jeans at hearing Joy talk hockey.

I’m well aware that she knows her stuff, and I have watched her sportscasts since she took over at the local station. Usually it’s to see her take on the Moose, but she reports on several sports with knowledgeable insight. But her talking positively about me? A whole different thing. Especially when it’s about the one thing I love most—hockey.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice feeling a bit rough. I shift in my seat, not liking the way my zipper is digging into me, but it does remind me. “Wanted to say hey before I left, but I do need to head out. Got some things I need to do before tomorrow’s game.”

I give Joy a pointed look, hoping she catches on to my top secret signal because I can’t exactly say Can you take a look at my dick again? in front of Shepherd. She smiles, her eyes alit with what seems to be mischievousness, which I pray means she understands and is agreeable.

“Yeah, get some sleep. I’ll be behind you shortly. Need to eat really quick first,” Shep says, lifting a hand toward the waitress. When she meets his eye, he mimes eating from a plate and she nods.

“I’m going home too,” Joy tells Shepherd, standing up. “Congrats on the win, bro. Check the play around twelve minutes into the second period. The biscuit pass was smooth as silk. You need to be ready for that next time.”

Shepherd blinks and reaches for his phone, already taking her advice to heart.

Together, but not, Joy and I walk toward the door of Chuck’s. I feel an urge to place my hand on her lower back, but this isn’t a date. We’re not leaving together. We just happen to be leaving at the same time, for me to flash her. Which is completely normal.

Except it’s absolutely not.

Outside, the moon is high in the sky, giving everything a blue tint, and the fall chill has turned downright cold. Joy huddles deeper into her jacket. “I’m tired. Can we do this in your truck or something so I can go home?”

I’ve never heard a woman so uninterested in seeing my cock before. If I’m honest, it kinda hurts my feelings. Or it would, if I had any feelings where Joy Barlowe is concerned other than annoyance, irritation, and frustration.

But I can’t show that—the hurt or the exasperation. I need her.

“Yeah, climb in.” I open the door to my truck, and she climbs in like she’s done this before, automatically reaching for the handle by the windshield and stepping on the running board. For a split second, a flash of jealousy shoots through me and my heart rate spikes.

Whose truck is she used to getting into?

I’ve never known Joy to date anyone, and fuck knows, Shep would be shouting that from the rooftops before hunting the guy down. He’s protective of his sisters, especially Joy, who hangs out with mostly dude-bros because of her job.

It takes me walking around to the driver’s side and getting in myself to realize that she rides with Shepherd sometimes and we have the same type of truck. His is all jacked up like he’s going off-roading at any minute, whereas mine’s straight factory build, but it’s the same design, with the same hand and foot holds.

In a single breath, I feel stupid. I have no right to be jealous over who Joy Barlowe spends time with anyway. It’s her business, not mine. Our arrangement is purely transactional—she looks, I play well, done deal.

“You’re not seriously worried about DeBoer, are you?” she asks as soon as I slam my door.

I shrug, not used to sharing my thoughts with anyone. Joy doesn’t seem to give a shit about what I’m used to, though, and digs into my sore spot without hesitation.

“He’s good. I’ll give him that,” she admits, “but he’s green. He’s not ready for the top offenses in the league yet.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Yet,” I snap at her, not wanting to hear a compliment about the guy who probably has at least three different plans to get me out of his way. “He’s fresh, malleable, and hungry. I’m stuck in my ways, which if the other team does their homework on me—and we both know they do—they can play to my weaknesses. I’m the old dog that can’t learn new tricks at this point.”

Angry at the progression of time and my inability to stop its incessant march, I slam my hand on the steering wheel. Joy doesn’t so much as flinch at the aggressive, physical outburst, but the subsequent silence in the truck is heavy. I stare out the windshield, not wanting to see the judgment in her eyes, even if I deserve it.

“I’ve never said that aloud before,” I confess quietly after a minute. “Sorry for—” I wave my hand at the wheel, not sure why I’m apologizing since I don’t give a shit what she thinks. Or I shouldn’t. But it feels like the right thing to do.

Joy reaches over and touches my hand gently, her fingertips light against my skin as she soothes the sting from both the slam and the uncharacteristic emotional overflow. “These are magic. Don’t mistreat them or take them for granted.” I lift my eyes to meet hers, but it’s too dark to see if she’s being serious or fucking with me. Knowing her? It’s fifty-fifty either way. “And you’re not that old. What are you, like, forty? Forty-five? Haven’t you heard? Forty’s the new twenty, so you can totally learn new tricks. We’ve got this thing called the internet now. You can use it to learn all sorts of things.”

She’s kidding. Teasing me about my age, which if she’s aware of my save percentage, she knows is a mere thirty years old. Hell, she probably knows my age, height, weight, salary, birthplace, and career progression up to the Moose drafting me. But she’s also letting me off the hook for my emotional dumping, and I appreciate that more than she realizes.

I can’t hold back the laugh that bubbles up. It sounds rough and foreign even to my own ears because I can’t remember the last time I truly laughed out loud.

“Inter-net?” I echo, feigning an old-man quiver in my voice. “Is that some sort of newfangled thing you young’uns are doing? Like the Google?”

Acting perkier than I’ve ever seen her, Joy bounces in her seat and Kardashian-drawls, “Oh yeah, it’s like totally awesome. We can talk, and do dances, and watch videos. You should check it out. It’s hawt.”

It breaks the tension, and we’re both chuckling. It feels surprisingly good, like a knot in my chest relaxed. And when Joy smiles like she feels better, too, I can’t help but admit, “You’re not as bad as I thought you were, you know that? Somewhere way beneath that attitude, you’ve got a good heart. I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

“Happy to oblige. But keep the good heart thing on mute. I’ve worked hard for my reputation as a ballbusting bitch and can’t have you going around telling people I’m all soft and kind, doing charity work and shit.” She sounds sassy as fuck, any tenderness evaporated into the night, and I’m glad she can’t see my grin.

Somehow, the awkwardness about our situation is gone. Like we’re just two people with this one little thing to do before we go on about our nights. “So . . . shall we?” I say, gesturing to my crotch.

“Sure. Show me what you got, old man,” she quips.

I chuckle again, the sound erupting a bit smoother this time. But it dies off with the ziiippp of my zipper lowering. I slide my hands inside my boxer briefs and lift myself over the waistband.

“Days?” Joys whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I can’t see it. It’s too dark.”

Fuck. It’s not like I can throw the overhead light on in the parking lot of Chuck’s. The last thing I need is someone seeing me and Joy in my truck with my dick out.

“Hang on,” she says. “I’ve got it.” And then there’s a spotlight from her phone’s flashlight shining right on my cock while the rest of the truck remains dark. “Perfect. Uh, I mean, now I can see.”

“It is perfect, ain’t it?” I tease, not even half sure she was complimenting me. Despite her mouthiness and assurance that this is no big deal because she’s got dick-xperience, I get the feeling Joy wouldn’t know what to do with something like me. Or maybe that’s because my only framework of her has been through Shepherd’s perception of his sister. But I wonder if there’s more to her than he knows because I don’t think he’d expect her to do what she’s doing for me.

“I guess. If you like long, thick, pierced cocks, it’s fine, I suppose,” she replies, sounding less than impressed. Her eye roll is virtually audible.

I grip my shaft in my hand, stroking up and down a few times and getting harder with every pass. I wish I could see her eyes, see what she’s thinking when she looks at me. “What do you like, Joy?”

“Tiny ones. Like little-bitty Vienna sausages that don’t hurt when they slide into you like that monster would. I bet girls can barely walk after a night with you, and if they can, they’re probably bowlegged for life. Or worse, ripped and ruined.”

I freeze, encircling the base with my thumb and finger and squeezing hard at the thought of thrusting into Joy and ruining her for any other man. Where did that come from? Wherever it is, it needs to go back there because that’s not happening. That’s not what this is at all. But also, she said something important that I need to address. “I’m not a complete asshole. I can be gentle and patient. I know a woman needs a little more prep to take me, so I’ve gotten really good at foreplay. Fingers, tongue, whatever she needs so that by the time she gets my cock, she’s begging for it.” My fingers dance along my length, base to crown and back down again.

“Beg? You make them beg?” I’m pretty sure she means it to sound accusatory, but I’d bet my left nut she doesn’t hear the undercurrent of longing in her voice. But I do.

And that’s a dangerous game to play.

“I don’t make them do anything. They just want me.” It’s the truth, bold and crude and hard.

It dashes cold water on Joy. The flashlight turns off, and she clips out, “We good?” Not waiting for an answer, she reaches for the door handle. “Good luck tomorrow night.”

The slam of the closing door sounds so final that my heart stutters. What’s worse is my cock jumps, pre-come sliding down my length. I was basically jacking off in front of her and am closer than I’d like to admit to coming.

My cock argues with me as I shove it back into my jeans and close my zipper. The constriction hurts, but it’s a pain I need. A reminder that this is a favor Joy’s doing for me, a good luck thing, and I need to treat it—and her—with kid gloves.

Or else my season’s fucked.

And so am I.