Lucky Hit

by Hannah Cowan

He blinks innocently, and I lose it. My loud laugh breaks through the night, but I can’t stop. Watching a six-foot-three Hulk of a man pout might be the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen.

“That beer better be clean, Knoxville. You got me? If she drinks something—”

“You get excited when you pick it. Your leg starts bouncing, and you smile.”

“I like you, Ava. Enough that the sight of you wearing another guy’s clothes makes me see red.”

“I’m not the guy to tell you what to do, but please wear mine next time.”

“Nothing you could tell me would change the way I think about you, Ava. That’s a promise.”

“For proving that the trash is indeed fully capable of taking itself out.”

“Promise me you’ll wear it. I need my girl wearing my jersey in the stands, or I might lose the game.”

“I’ll be screaming your name in the stands,” I breathe. His grin is pure sin. “Go crazy, baby. It’ll be good practice for later. See you soon.” And then he’s gone.

“My body hurts, Ava. Don’t make me beg,” he whispers once he’s standing right in front of me.

The tattoo is a scene of sorts—a memory. It’s set in the middle of winter, with piles of fluffy, white snow and tall, bare trees sitting along the bank of a frozen lake. A young boy dressed in full hockey gear is winding up his hockey stick, ready to shoot the puck into the nearby net. Hutton is written across the back of the boy’s jersey, above the number eleven. My dad’s lucky number and now mine. Yet the most meaningful part of the tattoo is the cross hidden between the trees and behind the snowbank. It’s hidden because written on the cross is the date my father passed away.

“Not too loud—you don’t want everyone to hear, do you?” She shakes her head, watching me, hungry with desire. “Good girl. Now, let me eat.”

This girl is my world, my sun and fucking stars. She has me—all of me—in the palm of her hands, and I don’t think she even realizes it. “You’re mine, Ava,” I hiss through my teeth. She clenches around me, and a growl rumbles in my chest.

“I love you, Octavia Layton.” Her eyes blaze. “I love you, Oakley Hutton.”

“I’m going to marry you someday,” I murmur, biting down gently on the side of her throat. She gasps, grinding down on me.

“I’m going to give you my last name, and we’re going to have a life together. A family. You and me and however many kids you want.”