by Ciz, Alley
“I’m all for happy endings and shit,” Cali’s voice breaks in as he skates up to us, “but maybe you should cool it before this turns into a not-safe-for-work scenario.”
We do as he suggests, albeit reluctantly. Mels circles her arms around me, smooshing her face against my chest as she looks at my pain-in-the-ass friend. I drop my own arms, keeping her close with a hand spread over the large number thirteen on her back.
“Hey, Cali,” she says, speaking way more politely than I think he deserves.
“Hey, Broadway.”
I don’t have to see her face to know she’s smiling.
Around us, the arena sucks in a collective breath, and Cali stiffens beside us. A glance over my shoulder shows Nate skating toward us. The anticipation of what will happen when the two of us known rivals square off is palpable. Our shared connection has not been public knowledge, and my grip on Mels tightens.
Again, I can’t read the expression on his face, but a part of me wonders if we’re about to have our first fight before the puck even drops.
Mels straightens but keeps her hands anchored at my hips. I’ve never been more grateful than I am in this moment to not be one of those players who wears a shirt under his jersey. The feel of her fingers stroking the bare skin above my uniform pants is everything. It doesn’t help that I’ve been denied her touch—yes, that’s my own fault, I know—for over a month, and even that time in her dressing room wasn’t enough thanks to her buttinsky brother.
“I take it this was the song you needed to practice, Care Bear?” All the tension drains from Mels body at Nate’s easy tone. I’ll wait to see how this plays out before I relax my stance.
“Yup. Like I told you earlier, you either get on board with this or find a new train.”
I roll my lips in to stop a smile. I doubt gloating will do me any favors, but the struggle is real.
“All I want is for you to be happy.” Bishop reaches for her to hug. “As long as I reserve the right to kick his ass if he breaks your heart, I’m good.”
Yeah, never gonna happen, buddy.
The only reason I even walked away the second time was because of some misguided martyrdom. The only walking I’ll be doing now is down an aisle to wait for Mels.
Our little pow-wow is broken up by one of the refs. Nate and I share a nod of understanding as he and Cali skate off, but before I can do the same, Mels grabs my hand in both of hers.
“Wait.”
“Baby…as much as I want to stay, this is kinda my job.” My smartass comment gets me a pop to the chest.
“No shit, Sherlock, but I have to give you something before it.”
“Those type of things aren’t suitable for primetime TV, Sweet Potato.”
She rolls her eyes. “Stop being a perv.” My hand gets pulled under the too-long sleeve covering her own, and a few seconds later, something slides over mine and onto my wrist.
The grip on my fingers squeezes, and she blinks up at me expectantly. On my wrist, next to JD’s hair tie, is a new one, this one knotted at the end, and printed on the wide elastic are mini Mrs. Potato Heads.
I snort. We’ve obviously taken this potato thing to obscene levels. Her playing along, though? Just one more thing that proves she’s perfect for me.
Risking the wrath of my coach, the officials, and probably all sorts of fines, I scoop her into my arms, her legs automatically going around me, and we kiss again.
Cheers and the occasional fog horn sound as we kiss, creating all sorts of Pinterest inspiration with our very public display of affection.
Keeping her in my arms, I skate us over to the opening she entered from, not lowering her until we get there. I place one last kiss on her lips after I set her down.
“Hope you bought extra.” I hold up my arm, letting the material of my jersey fall away to reveal the elastics on my wrist. “Because I just got myself a new superstition, and you know how us hockey players are about our superstitions.”
“Don’t worry, I bought in bulk, All-Star.”
“I love you, Sweet Potato.” I shoot her a wink, skating backward.
“I love you too. Now go win.”
Like that was ever in doubt. After what just went down, I’m about to have the best damn puck performance of my life.
Epilogue 1
July
The Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays, and our squad tends to do it up big.
The majority of the offseason is typically spent down the shore. Maddey lives here year-round, my sister and Jake have a huge house a few away from hers, Sammy and Jamie are around, Gage used some of his winnings to get a house for his family, and I share another with a bunch of the guys. This year I’ve been splitting my time here and in the city since Mels needs to be there for the show. Not today though.
We arrived late last night, driving straight here after Mels was done with her performance. With her show dark every Monday and Broadway doing the same for the holiday, she took the Sunday between off to spend the next three nights here before we need to return.
Usually the festivities are held at Jake and JD’s, but this year we will be starting off at my place because today is my “Cup Day.” As is tradition, after a team wins the Stanley Cup—yes, the Storm won, and not gonna lie, I’m a little offended you doubted it—each player gets to have the Cup with them for a day.
JD and Skye have been bouncing off the walls—more so than usual—over the social media gold they will be able to capture. The video of the Cup being used to baptize my nieces during Jake’s day with the Cup when the Blizzards won is still one of the most watched Cup Day videos on YouTube.
For a trophy that can only be handled by people wearing white gloves until it is presented to the winning team, it is almost appalling the treatment it goes through after.
Beer has been drunk from it, cereal has been eaten out of it, dogs have dined from it, and it has gone swimming and to strip clubs. One of the craziest stories from when the Storm won the Cup back in the 40s was that they burned the mortgage from the Garden in it after paying it off. The resulting extinguishing of the fire by the players peeing on it has been attributed to the fifty-three-year gap until our franchise’s next win. It’s also probably why Lord Stanley’s Cup travels with a chaperone.
I haven’t figured out what I want to do yet, but I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’m going to focus on the naked woman draped over my chest like I’m her personal body pillow.
Breathing in the familiar scent of bubble gum, I run my fingers through the pink locks fanned across my arm, content to lie here. My season may have ended, but our schedules haven’t gotten any less hectic. The press and publicity that’s followed winning the Stanley Cup for me and a Tony Award for Mels has been insane.
“Mmm, that feels nice.” Mels stirs in my arms, her body rubbing deliciously along mine as she stretches.
“Yeah it does.” I roll so she’s on her back with me hovering over her. Her dark eyes are still a little hazy from sleep as I smooth a thumb over that freckle I love so much.
“Do we have to get up?” She nuzzles into my touch, following the movement of my hand.
The muscles in my stomach jump at the feel of her fingertips tracing the grooves outlining them.
“We have about an hour before the Cup is due to arrive.” I place a gentle kiss on her forehead, cupping the back of her head.
“Mmm,” she moans again as I start to massage the back of her skull, the sound traveling straight to my already-hard-from-morning-wood dick. “Whatever will we do to pass the time?” Her teeth nip at the bump of my collarbone.
Hooking one of her legs over my hip, I settle myself between her lush thighs and grind against her with a mutual groan. She’s already wet, the heat from her center pulling me in like a beacon.
“I could probably come up with a thing or two if I had to.” I tease her with both my words and by running my tongue up her neck to her ear, letting the ball of my piercing drag along her sk
in in the way she’s admitted drives her wild.
“Jase.” Her hips thrust against me and I slide through her wetness, the lips of her pussy wrapping around my sensitive head as it bumps over her swollen clit. “Don’t tease me.”
Like that’s gonna happen.
Rolling my hips, I do exactly that. Up and down, I have to grind my teeth each time the crown of my cock flicks over her. She’s panting and I’m leaking precum like a spout.
“Jason,” she growls. I smile into her neck at the use of my full name. It’s cute how she does it any time she wants me to know she means business.
“Fine, ruin all my fun.” I pull back with a pout.
“If you think this”—she grinds against me with a squeeze of her strong dancer legs—“isn’t fun, you’re doing it wrong, All-Star.”
Really? I had to go and fall in love with a woman who was meant to be a Covenette—AKA a total smartass. Hello, Pot. Nice to meet you. I’m Kettle.
“You should know better than to challenge me, baby.” I curl my hands around her ribs, my palms leaving a trail of goose bumps down her belly as my fingers press into her back, skimming down it. Her skin is like the softest silk, and a part of me feels bad for abrading it with the rough callouses on my fingers.
“Why?” Her neck arches with another deep inhalation of bubble gum.
The tips of my fingers overlap as I anchor myself on her hips, tilting them ever so slightly, allowing me to push inside her with my next thrust.
With Mels on the pill, we’ve ditched the condoms, which only heightens every sensation—the heat, the wet velvet covering me like a glove, each ripple set off from my groin brushing her swollen nub.
“Hope you don’t embarrass easily.” Another pump and I’m seated to the hilt.
Her ankles lock at the small of my back. “I live with Zoey and Ella.” Not for long, I think. “Embarrassment was conditioned out of me years ago.”
“Good.” I dig my fingers into the plump curves of her ass, holding her lower half off the bed. “Because I’m about to make you scream the house down.”
All thoughts of the people I share the house with—including both our brothers, at the moment—vanish as we get lost in each other. I may be on top, but my baby gives as good as she gets.
Nails scrape my back, and anyone who isn’t around to catch the soundtrack of what is happening behind the locked door to my bedroom will know how we spent our morning.
Air puffs against my neck with every breathy moan she exhales.
I want so badly to latch onto the pulse point on her neck and mark her. If the tongue-lashing I received over the beard burn my playoff beard left on her is any indication, I doubt a hickey would be well received.
Ask me if I give a fuck.
I don’t.
“Jase.”
Sparks go off with the burn of my scalp from her hands clutching at my hair.
“Mels,” I groan.
Though my pumps are lazy, sweat trickles down my spine.
“Jase.”
“Mels.”
My baby may be underneath me, but she doesn’t let that stop her from meeting me thrust for thrust.
Legs squeeze.
Hands clutch.
Nails scratch.
Teeth bite.
My balls draw up tight, the tingle at the base of my spine begins, and I’m not going to last much longer.
Swiveling my hips, the new angle hits that sweet spot inside her. I’m not stopping until she’s wailing my name like one of those high notes she’s famous for.
Collapsing to the bed, I roll us so she’s on top again and not crushed beneath my weight, tracing unidentifiable patterns in the perspiration coating the pearls of her spine.
She expels the most contented sigh, and already my magic dick is readying for the second period of play.
I couldn’t tell you how long we stay in a tangled mess of sheets and naked limbs before reality rears its ugly head with a pounding on the door.
“Yo, lovebirds,” Cali shouts. “The Cup is here.”
“Yeah, so put some pants on and let’s do this thing,” Tucker adds.
Mels buries her face in my side at the sound of someone gagging, and it only intensifies when we hear Nate complain, “Really? We may not hate each other anymore, but I don’t need to be hearing this shit about my sister.”
The day of the Tonys, Nate and I had a come-to-Jesus moment, getting all the shit between us out on the table. In the month since, our rivalry is almost unrecognizable.
I’m torn between wanting to stay in bed with my girl—hello! She’s naked—and rushing from the room. I feel like Sean and Carlee on Christmas morning with how excited I am.
The slap of skin rings out when Mels tap-taps my chest. “Come on, All-Star.”
“Hmm?” I hug her to me.
“You’re practically vibrating right now. Get up. Put some pants on like Tuck suggested and let’s go get the Cup.” She extracts herself from my hold, slipping into one of my Storm t-shirts and a pair of cutoffs. “I already know the first thing you can do with it.” She kneels on the edge of the bed, leaning over me.
Glittering onyx eyes look at me with so much love my own heart swells. She doesn’t have on a stitch of makeup and her pink hair is a wild tangle of sex waves, but she’s never looked more beautiful to me. I love this woman so damn much I can barely stand it at times.
Pushing one of her errant waves behind her ear, I ask, “Really, Sweet Potato? And what’s that?”
She places a kiss on the tip of my nose, pulling back with a smirk. “Brush your teeth with it on the counter.”
“Are you saying I have morning breath?” I feign offense.
“Sooo bad.”
She squeals when I grab her, flipping her under me again and laying a kiss on her so hot neither one of us is able to give a damn about morning breath.
The Cup can wait a few more minutes. The woman in my arms is all the trophy I’ll ever need.
Epilogue 2
I’m all for a good improv prompt, but even I don’t know how to respond when my boyfriend’s sister and surrogate sister smother me in hugs for going viral all before my morning coffee.
The fact that I managed such a feat without being properly caffeinated was a stroke of luck. I mean, how was I supposed to resist snapping a bathroom mirror selfie of a shirtless Jase brushing his teeth, me doing the same next to him in his Storm t-shirt, the Cup in a place of honor on the bathroom counter. The whole scene screamed Instagram.
Since then it’s been a flurry of other Cup Day photos. It started with Lyle filling it with Jase’s favorite coffee from his shop and putting the Storm’s logo in the foam on top. Yes he used a stencil for the letters, but he freehanded the crossing hockey sticks behind it and the thundercloud on top, as well as the lightning bolt trailing off the R.
“It’s so pretty,” I gush.
“Thanks, doll.” Lyle wraps an arm around my shoulders and I snuggle into his side. I took an instant liking to the flamboyant barista. The way he unabashedly flirts with all the guys makes for great entertainment.
Jordan and Skye are snapping dozens of pics while they can.
“It’s almost a shame for you to drink it,” I pout.
“I made an entire pot, so you might want to share or you could end up vibrating,” Lyle advises.
“If you start to vibrate, just hold yourself against Mels,” Becky calls out from the living room.
“Oh yeah, we ladies do love us a good vibration,” Zoey adds, proving once again how dangerous it is for the two of them to be in the same room together.
“Pfft.” Vince bro-nudges Jase. “My boy doesn’t need vibrations to get his girl off.”
“That’s what the piercing is for.” I shoot Cali the side-eye for the boast, but he only wiggles his tongue at me, making me blush. A quick glance at Jase only gets me a wink, and I heat for an entirely different reason.
“Oh yeah. It’s all about a good piercing,” Tucker brags. The
testosterone in the house is creeping toward a gag-inducing level.
“How would you know, Tuck? You don’t have your tongue pierced.” Ella peers over as if looking for confirmation.
“Not the type of piercing I’m talking about.” He shoots a wink at Skye. “Right, Bubble?”
Skye doesn’t deem his comment worthy of a response, but the pinking of her fair skin gives her away.
“All right, assholes.” Jase claps his hands to get everyone’s attention, but before he can continue, two squeaky voices start volleying “Asshole!” back and forth. Jordan smacks him upside the head for her cursing two-year-olds.
“I can’t even.” She facepalms.
“You know I told your brother once I was going to change his text handle to that,” I say in a show of solidarity.
“Oh, that would have been a good one.”
“No-no.” Jase wiggles a finger between me and his twin. “There will be no teaming up of my other half and my better half.”
Jordan and I shrug.
“Anyway.” The look he gives me promises all sorts of dirty things. “Grab a straw and line up to help me finish this. This Cup has things to do and pictures to take. It can’t be doing any of that filled with coffee.”
With eight guys drinking, the coffee is gone in no time, and the Cup is promptly washed and dried for the next task.
There are poses of Jase holding it over his head and Nate feigning sadness. The bromance that has formed between my brother and my boyfriend would disturb me if it didn’t make my life easier.
Unless they decide to use their newfound love of each other against me, I’m keeping my mouth shut.
Jase and Cali eat spaghetti à la Lady and the Tramp to show their Storm solidarity, and then Jase pretends to play tug of war with the Cup against Jake, Ryan, and Tucker.
Before the Cup is used to hold Jase’s hotdogs in their—I kid you not—hotdog eating contest, one of the last pictures is Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head lounging on a mini hockey puck float in the “pool” they created inside the Cup, and in between the toys meant to represent us is my Tony Award.
