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The fact that Britta is four million miles out of my league hasn’t stopped me from threatening my teammates with certain death if they ever asked her out again, however.
My mother raised me to be an unholy terror on the ice but a gentleman as soon as I take off my skates. Like a fucking Canadian should be, she’d say.
My husband is ripped to shreds. And thick with it. Uhh. Daddy? questions my brain.
“Can you please try and piece together what you’re feeling and communicate it to me?”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll even pretend we’re just friends while I’m nine deep, ringing your bell.”
Can you not see that I’m starving to death for you? Can’t you tell I missed you so horribly that my family couldn’t even make me smile?
“Do you want to be in trouble with the hockey gods?” I press my mouth against her ear. “You’ve got one right here, sweetheart.”
“Made you off limits, Britta. It’s a rule that is rarely invoked among the group. But once it’s done, it’s fucking done.” He leans over until our foreheads are a breath apart. “If you don’t like it, then stop being my dream girl.”
“You don’t have to stop me from looking at anyone but you, because I don’t want to look in the first place. Put parental controls on my phone, my laptop, block porn sites. Track my location. Lock my dick in a cage. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you realize I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here. I’ll make you feel secure until you realize it’s only ever going to be you.”
“Learn to love me too,” I demand, in my own vulnerable state where my head and heart and lust are in a jumble, and I have zero control over what comes out of my mouth. “Love me like I love you.”
