Fall with Me (Playing for Keeps, #4)

by Becka Mack

You’re not my line, Lennon. You, honey? You’re my after.”

It’s her favorite thing to do when we’re lying here, following the shape of the mountains on my chest, brushing her fingers over the Northern Lights, pressing her lips to every star painted over my heart. There are exactly thirteen, one each for me, Lennon, the guys and girls, and the kids, with plenty of space to add more down the road. And right there at the top, is Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, watching over us.

Lennon holds up the denim jacket, bedazzled to shit, just like the ones the girls wore to the Stanley Cup Final. There’s an embroidered camera stitched on one arm, a honey pot on the other, stars scattered throughout it, and an orange and white cat.