Those Three Little Words

I roll out of bed quietly, making sure not to wake Penny, and I head out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

I’ve been up ever since Penny woke up at four with a bout of nausea. She dry-heaved into the toilet a few times, but that was it. I sat next to her the entire time, unsure of what she really needed, so instead of talking, I just made sure she knew I was there for her.

When she was feeling better, I helped her back into bed, and as she drifted off to sleep, I lay awake until my phone buzzed with a notification from my Uber Eats driver, letting me know that the food I ordered was delivered.

I move to the entryway of her one-bedroom apartment, across the semi-creaky floorboards, and over to the front door, where I quietly open it to find a paper bag of food on the doormat.

Perfect.

I scoop up the bag just as my phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen and see a text from Penny.

She’s awake?

And why is she texting me? Maybe she needs something. With the bag in one hand and my phone in the other, I bring my phone into view and read the message.

Penny: Oh my God, Blakley. I’ve had to fart so bad, and Eli finally left the room. Why is this happening to me?

I snort so hard, droplets of snot fly out of my nose. Oh shit, she’s going to be absolutely mortified when she realizes she sent the text to the wrong person. And we just moved past the awkwardness. I have a feeling this might set us back.

But . . .

I chuckle.

Why didn’t she just get up and go fart somewhere in private? Why did she have to wait for me to leave the room?

Something I’ll probably never know because no way in hell am I going to bring it up.

Nope, I’m going to pretend I read nothing. Ignorance is bliss.

I take the food to the kitchen just as my phone buzzes again. A grin spreads across my face as I reach for my phone and read it again.

Penny: I just farted again. I’ve never felt so light in my life. Do you think all the gas I’ve been having lately is the reason for the nausea? I think I’m going to ask Dr. Big Pecs.

Dr. Big Pecs?

Who the hell is that?

She never mentioned her doctor having big pecs, but then again, why would she mention that to me? And I know I shouldn’t care if she thinks her doctor has big pecs because that’s none of my business, but . . . how big are we talking?

Bigger than mine?

I have some decent pecs. I know I look good with my shirt off, so could they be bigger than mine? They have to be if that’s his nickname. So what is a doctor with big pecs doing sniffing around women’s vaginas? In my head, her doctor was some crusty old man who has to push his glasses up on his nose every few seconds because he never thought about getting them fitted properly. Where is Dr. Old Man? Also, is Dr. Big Pecs single?

I know I said ignorance is bliss, but . . .

Now I’m itching to have a conversation with her to get more information on this doctor, but then again, that would probably make her want to crawl in a hole and die of humiliation. I don’t want to humiliate her, but God . . . I want answers. Are his pecs real? Has she touched them? Has he offered to let her touch them?

Can I fucking touch them?

Jesus Christ, one mention of big pecs, and I’m losing my goddamn mind.

No, this isn’t about me. It’s about Penny, and even though it’s painful to set aside my big pec paranoia, I’m not going to make this about me—offer me praise, everyone—and I’m going to let it go.

I pull out the three boxes from the bag—two cinnamon buns and an assorted fruit medley that will be plenty for us to share. In addition to what I ordered, I make myself a quick protein shake because even on my day off, I need to be smart about how I treat my body.

After scouring the cabinets for plates, cups, and silverware, I pull the food out of the boxes, arrange them on the plates, and then set everything on the table. I considered making Penny some sort of warm beverage, but I’m not sure what she likes or what she can have, so I can always make it when she comes out here.

Which, by the way . . . when is that going to be?

She’s awake, I know that.

Could she be in the bathroom again? Could she be . . . airing out? *winces* Don’t want to disturb that process.

But what if she’s feeling sick again?

Maybe I should go check on her.

Errrr, but what if she’s changing or something? Or taking a shower?

Walking in on her doing anything like that might absolutely abolish any of our forward progress, especially after the fart text. I’d better just stay put and wait for her to emerge.

Checking highlights from yesterday on my phone, I note that the Polar Freeze are doing annoyingly well this year, and they are a force to be reckoned with. They arrive in a few days for a game, and I know there will be bloodshed out on the ice. I’d say they’re our biggest rivals because many of us have a history with the players on the team.

Me in particular.

I played with a guy in the American Hockey League, Remi Gasper. Fuck, I hated him so much, and the feeling was . . . is mutual. We have never gotten along.

Hell, I haven’t told anyone this ever, but the night Holden Holmes passed away, Halsey’s twin, we were out at the bars enjoying a few beers when Remi walked in. Seeing him immediately made me turn red. The guy plays dirty on the ice and will try to get away with everything. That night was no exception. He was making cheap shots at us, saying some bullshit things about our skills, and having no ability to let the insults roll off me, we got into it. Words were said, fists were thrown, and before I knew it, we were kicked out of the bar. Holden wasn’t a part of it, though. He kept away from the fight and ended up staying at the bar. A few short hours after, he got in his car accident. Had Remi and I not fought, there’s no doubt in my mind that Holden wouldn’t have chosen to drive home that night . . .

Fuck.

Just thinking about it makes me sick as Holden and I were pretty close. I still live with the guilt over that night, another feeling I work on with my therapist.

After that, I was hoping Remi would have some career-ending injury, but instead, he’s a defenseman for the Polar Freeze. Every time we’re on the ice together, cheap shots are thrown, and a guaranteed fight will break out. The fans, of course, eat it up. I fucking dread it.

I’m knee-deep in checking out highlights from the Freeze’s game last night when I hear a throat clear from down the hall. I look up from my phone and spot Penny wrapped up tightly in a fluffy, floor-length robe, long plaid pants, and from what I can barely see, a high-neck shirt. The only skin showing is her hands and face. Even her feet are covered by black slippers. We’re a long way from that hot-pink dress.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” I ask.

“Fine.” She pushes her toe into the floor, not making eye contact with me. “I, uh, I see that you have your phone.”

Oh shit, she figured it out.

“I do,” I say. How should I navigate this? Should I tell her I read the texts? Should I act like they never happened? I know one thing is for sure . . .

Don’t.

Fucking.

Laugh.

No matter how hard you want to. Do not laugh.

Also, don’t ask about Dr. Big Pecs.

“I see.” She moves a step forward. “Have you, uh, have you had your phone all morning?”

“I have,” I answer.

“Sure, of course you have.” Another step forward. “Did you happen to receive any text messages this morning?”

Now what should I do? Play dumb? Or tell her I read everything from the blasting of farts to the man with the pecs? The thought of ignoring it all is really appealing, but I don’t think she will believe me. Plus, we said we should be honest with each other. So I guess we’ll be breaking the ice this morning.

“I did receive some text messages. Some informative ones.”

Her lips purse together as her hands join in front of her, fidgeting.

“Did they happen to be from me?”

Solemnly, I nod. “I’m afraid they were.”

She closes her eyes and lets out a harsh breath. “Excuse me, I need to go stick my head in the toilet and wish this never happened.” She turns to head back to the bedroom, but I’m out of my chair in no time and stopping her from moving forward.

“Hey, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing that you should be sticking your head in a toilet over, that’s for sure.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Really? You don’t think anything was embarrassing at all about those text messages?”

The corner of my lips pull, tugging, desperately attempting to make me smile, but I don’t allow it. Keep it the fuck together.

“No,” I squeak out. “They were regular text messages.”

Don’t fucking laugh, man. She will never, ever be able to look at you if you laugh. She will never forgive you. Remain neutral.

She crosses her arms over her chest and juts out her hip. “You’re telling me that my, err, my text about an immense amount of flatus was a regular text?”

Why did she have to use the word flatus? I was doing fine keeping it together until she used that word. Now I can feel the grin spreading across my face.

Trying to tamp it down, I say, “Everyone has gas.”

She studies me, her eyes moving back and forth, and then finally she says, “I don’t like what’s happening.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to act like everything is fine when, in reality, let’s just call a spade a spade, Eli. I texted you something I’d rather jump off a cliff than you find out.”

“Listen, it’s fine. If you want me to forget about it, I will.”

“Oh please, this is something you will always remember. The day the mother of your child texted you that she waited for you to leave the room so she could fart. That is a moment in a man’s life that he will remember until the day he dies.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, yes, you’re right. This moment will stick in my memory for a long time, but that’s a good thing.”

“How on earth is that a good thing?” she asks. “Do you really think I want to be recollected in your mind as the girl with the farts?”

“Because we crossed a line. Now you don’t have to wait for me to leave the room. If you want to fart, you can just fart.”

Her eyes narrow, and her finger reaches out and pokes me in the chest. “Over my dead body will I ever fart in front of you.” She then turns toward the kitchen, where she stops and sees the food on the table. She tosses her hands up in surrender and then turns back to me. “Look at what you did.”

Nervous that I did something wrong, like use her mother’s fine dining ware when I shouldn’t have, I look over her shoulder at the table setting. Everything seems to be in order, but I tread carefully. She seems to be highly emotional at the moment between the nausea and the farts. “Uh, is something wrong? Did I use the wrong plates?”

“Did you use the wrong plates?” she asks, her voice a next-level shrill. “No, you didn’t use the wrong plates, Eli. You freaking got me breakfast? Do you know how that makes me feel?”

Errr . . .

Can anyone help me out here?

I wet my lips and very carefully say, “Uh, bad?”

“Why on earth would that make me feel bad?” Tears well up in her eyes. “Getting breakfast, ugh, that was nice of you.”

Okay, so not in trouble?

But she’s crying?

Which, of course, makes me shrivel up like an old prune. I don’t do well with crying women. I don’t know how to act. Do I pat her on the shoulder, tell her “there, there, you’ll be fine”? Do I give her a hug and not say anything? Do I offer her a tissue?

What’s a man supposed to do in this situation? We went from farts to tears because I got her breakfast. This is way past my comprehension level.

So I decide to approach with caution. “I figured since I don’t have to skate until ten this morning and you have the day off, it might be nice to have breakfast together. I hope that’s okay. Honestly, if you want me to sit out on the balcony, I can do that.”

She nods. “Yup, that was thoughtful.” Tears stream down her face. “Very thoughtful. And here I am, acting like a grotesque human, telling you about my farts and Dr. Big Pecs.”

Yes, she fucking mentioned him. Here is my in.

Sure, it might not be the best time to bring him up, given the one-eighty in conversation we just had, but I’m dying to know more.

“How big of pecs are we talking?” I ask, trying to add a jovial tone to my voice.

She walks over to the kitchen, grabs a napkin, and dabs at her eyes. “I said I was grotesque, and that’s what you want to know? The bra size of my doctor?”

Something is happening. Something I don’t think I’m mentally prepared for. I’m pretty sure from what I’ve seen in movies and on TV that the professionals would refer to this as hormones. The ups and downs. The crying over something that doesn’t seem that terrible at all. If I could put my finger on it, that’s what I’d guess. Now if only there was an easy map that showed me how to navigate through said hormones.

“You’re not grotesque. You actually . . .” I study her. “You’re actually quite pretty in the morning.”

She stops dabbing her eyes, and they laser in on me. “Am I not pretty at night?”

Oh, shit.

“What? No, you are. You’re very pretty at night.”

She dabs her eyes again. “But you said only in the morning.”

Christ. Sweat trickles down my back. Reel it in, Hornsby.

“Well, that’s because not everyone can wake up as beautiful as you, especially after dry-heaving for as long as you do. A head in a toilet doesn’t scream beauty, but wow, you really show up with the prettiness . . . all the time. All the time pretty.”

There, that should do it.

“Is that a compliment?”

Uh, it was supposed to be.

Clearly, it was not a satisfactory one.

“I assumed it was, but judging by the disgusted sneer on your face, I’m going to say you didn’t take it that way. Okay, how about this. In case there is any kernel of doubt in your mind, I think you look nice, very pretty. No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, you’re always pretty. I don’t think you’re the least bit grotesque, or anything you do is grotesque. Not to mention, everyone farts, it’s a natural thing that occurs, and if you didn’t fart, well, that would be weird and grotesque. So congrats on what you called the flatus. Well done.” I offer her a thumbs up. “Now, I hope you join me for breakfast. I got cinnamon buns, and I know how much you like them.”

She glances at the table and then back at me, and once again, her eyes well up and tears leak down her cheeks. Please let those be happy tears. I’m clenching my ass cheeks so hard, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. “I’m sorry.” She wipes at her eyes. Oh, thank fuck. “Things are just weird for me right now. And I don’t know how to control my emotions.”

Well, at least she recognizes that.

“It’s okay. No need to apologize for anything.” I walk over to the table, and I pull a chair out for her. “Take a seat, and I’ll get you a drink. Do you want coffee or tea?” The faster we can move past the circle of hell we just experienced, the better.

“Water is fine.” She sits down and scoots her chair in. I quickly fill up a glass for her and then set it in front of her before taking a seat.

“I wish these were from The Denver Biscuit Company,” I say, “but they will have to do for now. They’re pretty good. Gooey in the middle, which is all that matters.”

She pulls her cinnamon bun apart with her fingers and lifts a chunk to her mouth before taking a bite. Her eyes slowly close, and she leans back in her chair while moaning. “These are so good.”

Well . . . that’s, uh . . . that’s a sight.

The moaning.

The relaxed position.

It’s almost as if she just had an orgasm right in front of me, but I had nothing to do with it other than purchasing the cinnamon bun.

And I hate to sound like a fucking creep, because that’s how it’s going to come off, but hearing her moan like that takes me back to my birthday, to that night, the way she writhed on top of me right before I made us switch positions.

It’s hard not to think about that night, especially when I can honestly say it’s the best I’ve ever had.

And I don’t know if it’s because I’d wanted her for so long, or if it was because it was my birthday . . . or if it was because it was just her, but either way, sitting across from her in that buttoned-up robe outfit, I find myself wanting her all over again.

“Are you going to eat your cinnamon bun?” she asks, pulling me out of my reverie.

“Oh yeah, uh-huh,” I say as I dive into the bun with my fork. “So what are your plans for today?”

“Reading probably,” she answers.

“Cool. What are you reading?”

“A pregnancy book. You know, just so I know what to expect.”

“Oh, yeah. Do you want me to read it too?”

She vehemently shakes her head. “I’d rather you not know what’s happening to my body. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to keep that a secret.”

“It might help me better understand moments like we had this morning.”

She bites down on her cinnamon bun, leaving a dollop of icing on her finger that she licks off. Like the goddamn pervert that I am, I watch her intensely as she drags her tongue over her finger, envisioning what it would be like if it was my cock instead.

“I’ll give you the CliffsNotes,” she says. “The first trimester, I’m going to be an emotional wreck. I won’t be able to control any of my hormones, so if I’m laughing hysterically one moment and then crying my heart out the next, just know, it’s the little alien baby inside me that’s controlling my every move.” I chuckle at that. “And I’m also supposed to not feel great during the first trimester, which, check, I’ve got that covered.” She makes a check mark in the air. “In addition, I’m supposed to experience severe heartburn, feel incredibly bloaty, and as you might have guessed it from this morning, I’ll be quite farty. So that will be an utter joy for you . . . and me.”

“I mean, we can make the most of it. Do you want a designated fart zone? Somewhere where you can take care of business, thus an area I know to avoid?”

She stares at me blankly. What? I thought it was a good idea. When her nose curls in disgust, I know she disagrees.

“I’d rather accidentally let one out in front of you than have you know I’m going to a designated fart zone to let loose. Jesus, that would be humiliating. Could you imagine? Me entering a taped-off zone in the living room that you should never go near in fear of . . . God, I can’t even finish the sentence.” Her eyes connect with mine and pin me with seriousness. “There will be no zone. Nothing. Do you hear me?”

“Got it. No zone.” I hold my hands up. “That was a completely useless suggestion, and I should never have brought it up.”

“Well, you don’t have to say it like that. I know you were trying to be nice, and I appreciate it, but if we can just move on from all that stuff this morning, that would be great.”

“Fair, we can do that for sure. I just have one more question.”

In a deadpanned tone, she says, “Is this about Dr. Big Pecs?”

“I just need to know how big.”

“Ugh, you’re annoying.” She takes another bite of her bun and answers, “They jut out a few good inches past his chin.”

“A few inches?” I ask incredulously. “Seriously?” I glance down at my chest and then back at Penny. “Do my pecs extend past my chin?”

She picks up her glass of water and takes a sip. “Not like Dr. Big Pecs.” She shrugs and then goes back to her cinnamon bun.

“Do men experience crazy hormones as well?” I ask. “Because I’m feeling pretty emotional and inferior about Dr. Big Pecs.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “His head is too small for his broad shoulders. He has a whole Beetlejuice shrinking head thing going on, so you don’t want his pecs. You are perfect as you are.”

My brows raise in surprise before I lean forward on the table. “Perfect, huh?” I waggle my eyebrows, which only causes her to shake her head at me. “Tell me more about that.”

“You’re perfect, Eli, but you could afford to learn how not to snore at night.”

I sit taller, appalled. “I do not fucking snore.”

And once again, with a grin on her face, she just shrugs her shoulders and continues to eat her cinnamon bun.

What-the-fuck-ever . . . I do not snore.

“HAVE YOU EVER HEARD ME SNORE?” I ask Taters as I close my notebook. We skated for an hour this morning, grabbed some food, and then sat down to review some videos. It was nauseating having to watch Remi skate around like he’s some sort of god on ice.

“What?” Taters asks as he stands from his seat.

“We used to share a hotel room. Did I ever snore?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“No reason,” I answer casually even though I feel the least bit casual about it. I need to know. After Penny’s comment, I can’t be sure if she was teasing me or not, and when I went to ask her again, she just went into the bathroom to take a shower.

It was infuriating.

Taters studies me as we make our way toward the parking lot. “She told you, you snore, didn’t she?”

“Yes.” I sigh. “But I can’t tell if she was saying it just to piss me off or if she meant it, and now I’m feeling self-conscious.”

“And we can’t have you feeling self-conscious. That would be an absolute detriment to your ego.”

“I know,” I say, causing him to laugh. “So did I snore?”

“Like you were sawing wood for an entire colony.”

“What?” I nearly shout. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Bad, man. Really bad. I considered telling you, but you were struggling that season, so I didn’t think I should pile that kind of blast to the self-esteem. But yeah, you snore, and loud.”

What the actual fuck?

Taters pats me on the back. “You got the pretty face and the talent. Something had to be wrong with you.” And then he pushes through the door to the parking lot and throws up the peace sign. “See you tomorrow.”

I tuck my notebook under my arm and go straight to my car, where I take a seat and pull up my phone. I spend the next half hour researching ways to stop myself from snoring. To hell if I’m going to be a hindrance to Penny’s sleep.

“I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND why they have to make the show so blue,” Penny says as she stands and stretches her arms above her head. My eyes immediately fall to the small patch of skin that comes into view as her shirt gently rides up her stomach. “It’s so hard to see. Don’t they watch the show themselves? Shouldn’t they be like, oh, that’s a heavy blue filter, maybe we should change that?”

I release my gaze from her exposed skin and stand as well. “I think they’re going for a psychotic vibe with the filter.”

“Well, job well done.” She shivers dramatically and wraps her arms together. “God, after sweating all day, I’m freezing now.”

“Do you want me to make you some tea?”

She shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I think I’m just going to get under the covers.”

“Okay.”

When she starts toward the bedroom, I follow closely, and just as we reach the door, she looks over her shoulder. “You don’t have to go to bed as well.”

I shrug. “Nah, I’m tired.”

“Okay. You can use the bathroom first. I’m going to change into some warmer clothes.”

She takes off toward the dresser, so I go to the bathroom, where I take care of my business and brush my teeth. We just spent the past two hours watching Ozark, and I found myself glancing over at Penny from time to time, watching her reaction. She’s very much into the show, emotionally invested. She clutched a navy-blue throw pillow the entire time and while commenting with little oohs and ahhs every once in a while. It was cute.

She’s really become more animated around me, which I appreciate. It makes hanging out with her easier and actually really fucking enjoyable. She has a funny personality, and when she’s not freaking out about a text message she accidentally sent and is relaxed, I feel this need to get to know her even more.

I walk out of the bathroom to find Penny sitting on the bed in a pair of long johns and a thermal-wear long-sleeve top.

“Ready for your trip up to Alaska?” I ask her with a teasing grin.

“We aren’t that far from it.” She stands and moves past me. “I foresee myself shedding these clothes in the middle of the night. Please don’t freak out if my shirt whacks you in the face, it’s just the hormones.”

“Take off all the clothes you want.”

Once again, she rolls her eyes at me and then retreats to the bathroom. That’s when I go to my side of the bed and reach under it, pulling out my Breathe Right strips. There won’t be any snoring tonight. I fix one over my nose, and just as I’m getting it in place, Penny steps out of the bathroom and sinks herself into the bed, under the sheets.

With my strip in place, I turn over just as she turns toward me, and the moment her eyes land on the Breathe Right strip, she tilts her head back and lets out such a loud laugh that I feel myself wince.

“You know, it’s not kind to laugh at somebody who is trying to make a change,” I say, dabbing at my strip, keeping it in place.

“Oh my God, is that for the snoring?”

I nod. “Yeah, and if this doesn’t help, I found a doctor who can help me.”

Another guffaw.

A clutch of the blankets and then . . .

Tears of joy stream down her cheeks.

She’s laughing so hard that she’s actually crying. Talk about a fucking blow to the ego.

“Wow, you sure know how to make a guy want to off himself.”

She laughs even harder and holds her stomach now. “Oh my God, that’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a fucking Breathe Right strip. It’s not like I’m wearing a Darth Vader mask to help me breathe better at night.”

She waves her hand in front of her as she attempts to catch her breath. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it? They don’t make these in a nude color. They really should because white is just so obvious.”

“No.” She swipes at her eyes, collecting her tears. “It’s that you actually went out and got them.”

“Uh, yeah, because I don’t want to keep you up at night. It’s bad enough you wake up with nausea.”

She laughs some more, and between her giggles, she says, “I was . . . kidding, Eli. You don’t snore.”

“What?” I say, lifting to a sitting position on the bed. “You were fucking kidding?”

“Yes.” She laugh-cries some more, her handle on the humor slipping further and further as she attempts to gather herself, but it’s not working.

I snag my phone from the nightstand and shoot a quick text to Taters.

Eli: You fucker! I bought Breathe Right strips.

I rip the strip off my nose and toss it to the ground as my eyes water from the pull of the adhesive just as my phone dings with a response. While Penny continues to laugh, I read the message.

Taters: HAHAHAHAHA. Oh fuck, that made my night.

Eli: Go fuck yourself.

I plug my phone back in and turn toward Penny, who’s finally starting to settle down. “You are an asshole.”

She chuckles and then lifts from the bed and pulls her shirt over her head and drops it to the side, leaving her in only a tank top. It’s a loose tank top, so it doesn’t cling to her top half. Rather, it gently molds around her hard nipples.

“Oh, I’m hot now. See, I told you I’d be taking my shirt off.”

Yeah, I only wish there was nothing under it.

“Glad I could once again make you hot and bothered.” I lie down and turn toward her, tucking my pillow under my head.

“Are you referring to the night we were together?” she asks.

I nod, and since she left her nightstand light on, I maneuver over her and turn it off, shrouding us in darkness. There’s just enough light coming from the city for me to see her face.

“Yes, I’m referring to that night.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who made you hot and bothered.”

“What night are you remembering?” I ask. “I had you eating out of my palm.”

“Are you delusional?”

“Are you?” I ask.

“No, I remember it like it was yesterday. We were eating pie, and I sucked on your finger. In your head, you pictured it as your penis in my mouth.” I chuckle because that’s incredibly accurate, and we never discussed this. She just knows guys. “You practically squealed with delight, and then I sat on your lap, and the night was history after that.”

“I didn’t squeal.”

“I heard your mental squeal.”

“Telepathic, are you?”

She nods with a smile. “Totally, specializing in hearing guys moan in their minds.”

“Wow, quite a gift you have. But that wasn’t when the hot and bothered portion of the night began.”

“Oh, you think there was a different moment?”

With a cocky grin, I say, “I know there was a different moment.”

“Oh please, enlighten me. I have to hear this.”

“It was when we were at the bar.”

“Trust me, nothing but awkward tension happened at the bar.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Something happened.”

“What was it?”

Grinning, I reply, “When I leaned over and nibbled on your ear.”

She goes to respond, but then she shuts her mouth and gives it some thought. When her eyes dart away from me, I know I’m right.

“See, told you. I’m the one who got you hot and bothered, and you just followed suit.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re the reason we’re in this predicament right now? Sharing a bed as friends and nothing more while I run through the gauntlet of emotions and internal body temperature?”

I shake my head. “No, the blame rests on the condom company. For if they’d done their job, this never would have happened. In fact, I believe we should start a slander campaign to dismiss them from their duties they are clearly not accomplishing.”

“They have warnings on the box.”

“I’m quite aware of the warnings.”

“And you should have doubled up on protection with one more condom, then maybe we wouldn’t have been in this situation.”

“If I’d doubled up, I’d have felt absolutely nothing.”

She shifts her pillow under her head. “Trust me, from the way you were pounding away, you would have felt something.”

I chuckle. “Pounding, huh?”

“Please, spare me. I can’t afford to offer you another compliment. Your ego is already big enough as it is.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“Because it is.”

“Ego is not a bad thing, it’s confidence.” I stare into her playful eyes and realize this is exactly what I’ve been looking for with her. The same fun, teasing behavior we’ve shared before. It’s what made me attach to her that night. Sure, the dress was the main show, but the joking with her, that was icing on the cake. Girls flirt with me—throw themselves at me—wherever I go. But it’s because I’m Eli Hornsby, Agitator defender. Not simply because I’m Eli. A guy who doesn’t want to be fawned over, but likes a good laugh.

“There’s a huge difference between being confident and having an ego.”

“I can agree to that, but don’t you think it’s almost a requirement to have an ego as a professional athlete?”

She shakes her head. “No, take Holmes for instance. He is very humble and doesn’t parade around like a buffoon searching for compliments, and he’s one of the best in the league. Some might say he’s paving his way to the Hall of Fame.”

I’d be shocked if Holmes wasn’t considered for the Hall of Fame whenever he retires. He has a while until that happens, but it just goes to show how great he is.

“You think I act like a buffoon?”

She smirks. “Sometimes.”

“Yeah, well . . . you slept with me.”

That makes her laugh out loud. “That’s the best comeback you can muster?”

“Unfortunately, it is. My brain is only partially functioning at night.”

“Well”—she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—“that would explain all the late-night hookups.”

“Haven’t had one since you,” I admit, which of course wins her undivided attention.

“You haven’t had sex since the night we were together?” she asks in such a stunned tone that I almost find it mildly insulting.

“I haven’t.”

“Seriously? Wow, I mean, I’ve hooked up with at least eight guys since then, all of them far more endowed than you.”

“Is that so?” I ask. “And when you say you’ve hooked up with eight guys, do you mean eight flag poles? Because that’s the only thing bigger than me.”

She howls out with laughter and shakes her head. “Guys are so predictable. You mention penis size once and they claim they have the biggest penis in the hemisphere.”

“What can I say, I’m not all that different from the rest, other than my obvious good looks, addicting charm, and killer skills on the ice.”

“To name a few.” She scratches the side of her nose. “We all know what you’re good at, so why don’t you tell me something you’re not good at, or something you’re insecure about?”

“If you’re looking for a flaw, you’re going to need a magnifying glass, because you won’t find one without.”

She makes a gagging noise. “If you need help, I’m more than happy to offer my opinion.”

“Oh, you think I have flaws? Please, delight me with what’s wrong on my person.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the truth.”

“Try me,” I challenge her.

“Okay, well, besides the snoring . . .” I roll my eyes and she giggles. “I’d have to say your strength in skating backward is average at best.”

“Excuse me?” I say, sitting up on my elbow so I can look down at her. “Okay, I thought you were going to say something like I make weird noises when I eat, but you’re going to lie there and insult my skating?”

“I warned you.” Her smile stretches across her face. It’s adorable. It’s refreshing. It makes me believe that we’re going to be just fine. That we could very much be good friends.

“There’s no way I believe you, not unless you have concrete evidence. I fell for the snoring, but I’m not going to believe you when it comes to my skating.”

“You do realize I grew up helping Pacey get to where he is, right? I spent many weekends out in the driveway shooting slapshot after slapshot at him until it was too dark to see anymore. I’ve also dated a few hockey players in the past, not to mention I’m an avid fan. I wouldn’t second-guess my knowledge. I know a lot more than you probably think.”

Uh . . . now I’m starting to think she’s actually serious.

Quietly, as if I say it too loud, the hockey gods might hear me, I say, “Wait, are you being serious? You really think my skating needs work?” When she just gives me a slight shrug, panic swirls in my chest. “Is it my weak calves? I fucking try to build them up as much as I can, but I can’t seem to make much of a dent without causing issues with my ankles. Do you think that’s it? Fucking weak-as-shit calves.”

She slowly brings the blanket up to her mouth, covering it from view. Why is she blocking her mouth? Why are her shoulders slightly shaking? Wait . . . is that a smile I see?

I tear the blanket away from her mouth to see a grin spread so far over her face that I actually gasp. I gasp way too loud, as if I just caught my lover cheating on me. But instead of a lover, it’s a new friend trying to shit on my hockey skills.

“I swear to God, woman, if you’re joking, I’m going to make sure your life is a living hell.”

She laughs now and brings the blanket up and over her head, shielding herself from my deathly glare. My eyes attempt to burn holes through the white sheets, but I fail miserably despite my brain playing tricks on me, making me think I see the start of some smoke.

“Penny Lawes, lower that blanket this once.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Penny . . .”

“May I remind you, I’m pregnant, with child, your child, and things I might say could be out of context. I can’t control the emotions.” She peeks over the top of the blanket. “You do have smaller calves.”

Nostrils flared, I slowly say, “I suggest you take that back, Miss Lawes, or you’re not going to like what happens next.”

“And what perchance is going to happen next?”

I give it some thought. Normally, if we were romantically involved, I’d do something like pin her down and claim her mouth, but we’re not going down that path, therefore, I need to hit her where it hurts.

“You know how there’s a whole cinnamon bun in the fridge?”

Her eyes widen with surprise. “You wouldn’t.”

I shrug. “I have no problem doing the dirty work. You know, unless you want to take what you said back . . .”

She rolls her eyes while lowering the blanket. “Fine, I was only kidding. But you do realize that you are quite perfect, and it’s annoying. Therefore, I need to find fault somewhere, even if it’s a lie.”

I lie back down and stare at the ceiling. I might seem perfect from the outside. I’m not going to lie here and say I’m not attractive. I know that I am—that’s not being conceited, it’s just facts. And my hockey skills are clearly good enough to warrant a starting position on a professional hockey team. And I’m a decently nice guy as well. But there’s a lot about me that is not perfect. I have my flaws, and I know them quite well.

But just because I have them doesn’t mean I need to bring them to Penny’s attention.

I loved my mom dearly, but growing up before she passed away, all I heard about was my father’s inadequacies and her frustrations with him. Penny seems like a good person, and I don’t think she’d do the same, but either way, I don’t want to feed her fodder.

I’d prefer to remain perfect in her mind.

“Well, keep looking for faults,” I say in a teasing tone. “I doubt you’ll find any.”