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But it’s not my only place.
“You played great, baby.”
I turn, see Stefan standing in the hall, his skin a little pale, body a little thin, but…okay. He’s just finished his treatment, and tonight, the team ran a fundraiser for the charity Stefan and I started that supports local cancer patients.
“Did you want to go home?” I say, tilting my head back down the corridor. “I’ll just zip through the stuff I need to with Frankie, and?—”
“I’ll stay.”
I bite my bottom lip. “It’s late, honey.”
“I’m okay.”
“But you’ve had a long day and?—”
“I feel like celebrating.” He pushes off the wall. “I’m done with this shit, and”—he winds his hand into my hair, gently tilts my head up, lightly brushes his lips over mine—“my woman played her ass off tonight. So, you’re going to do what you need to do”—another brush—“and then we’re going to get ice cream and stay out all night celebrating like teenagers.”
I still, heart pounding in my chest. “What about Rox?”
“Tiff took her home,” he says and then gives me a smile—his smile. The one that never fails to make my heart skip a beat. The one that always makes me feel like I’m home.
From the first time I saw it in the parking lot of this very arena.
To right now, standing close, the cool air of the rink clinging to my cheeks.
“Okay, then,” I say, running my fingers over the stubble of his beard. “Pucks. Workout. Shower.” My mouth quirks. “And then ice cream.”
A tug of my hair. “You’ve got a deal.”
I laugh. “It was your idea.”
Another tug. Another sexy smile. “I know. That’s why I like it. Now”—he tilts his head toward the ice, toward Frankie, who’s standing at the blue line with a bucket of pucks in front of him—“go and work on that glove hand.”
“Rude,” I say, laughter bubbling up inside of me.
But I listen to the order, and I step out onto the ice, skate toward Frankie who nods at me. “Ready, kid?” he asks, dumping over the bucket of pucks, using his stick to send them scattering in all directions.
“I’m ready,” I tell him.
But I don’t skate to the crease, not until he looks up and meets my eyes.
“I’m ready,” I say again.
He stills, a puck just in front of his stick, and looks at me, really looks at me for a long moment, seeming to study the very depths of my soul.
And then his mouth quirks up, and he sends the puck shooting off to the side.
“Well, then, kiddo, I cannot wait for you to put the rest of us coaches to shame.”
* * *
Tiff
“Your total is $23.26,” the cashier says, tapping on the register’s keyboard, the computer screen above it changing as rapidly as her fingers move.
Clickity-click. Clickity-click. Clickity-click.
She pauses, glances up.
