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His muscles are stone against mine, and his grip is bruising in its intensity. He’s holding me still, his jaw clenched, and this is bad. We’ve been caught, sure, but I’m pretty sure Vic’s about to blow.
“Not a good time, buddy,” Vic says, but he’s still looking at me, eyes flashing fire. I’m sliding down the front of his body, tippy toes touching down on the sidewalk, but my husband doesn’t step back.
“Come on,” the guy says. “Can’t you spare a minute for your biggest fan? I’m sure your girl isn’t going anywhere. Who’d want to miss out on a fuck with the Victor Varg?”
I don’t have time to be offended, but Vic explodes into action. He spins, keeping me firmly behind him against the wall, and I can see the knuckles on his hands turning white and he clenches his fists.
“What did you just say?” His voice is low, deadly, But apparently our interrupting audience has zero sense of self-preservation, or he doesn’t know Vic the way I do.
“Chicks, am I right?” The guy laughs loudly, and it’s the wrong thing to do. Made even worse when he says. “I was hoping for an autograph, but I wouldn’t mind sharing your sloppy seconds. I bet she’d take both of us if you asked her real nice. A bit of screaming makes it more fun.”
In less time than it takes to blink, Vic has the blade of his hockey skate pressed to the other man’s throat. I peer around my husband. The man he’s talking to is only a few inches taller than me, and round in a way that tells me he is not a professional athlete. He has a receding hairline and glassy, bloodshot eyes that, along with the flushed face and smell, tell me he’s drunk. And Vic looks ready to murder him.
“What the fuck did you just say about my wife?”
Does it make me a sick puppy that his words send a rush of warmth through me? I’d assumed being caught would dampen my libido, but it’s doing the opposite. I’m ready to clock this asshole myself and fuck my husband over his unconscious body. Watching Vic defend me is doing something twisty to my insides.
“Shit man,” the guy says. “I was just messing around. It was a joke.”
“I don’t get the punchline.” Vic says, and I can hear the growl coating his words. I guess we’re both going feral.
“That’s because it wasn’t funny,” I say, slinging my arms around Vic’s waist. I rest my head between his shoulder blades, smiling into his sweatshirt. It feels good. Having someone stand up for me. I can eviscerate this toad myself, but with Vic, I don’t have to. In fact, I’m feeling so grateful I may send this jerk a fruit basket. Or some Arctic merch. At least a thank-you note.
“Beautiful and smart,” Vic presses his palm over the back of one of my hands, pressing my touch deeper into the firm plane of his stomach. “I suggest you leave now,” he tells the other man, “Before I get really mad.”
Whatever is on Vic’s face, the other guy must realize that he means business because he steps back, hands up in the air—I’m peeking around Vic’s middle because I’m nosy—eyes wide and darting from one end of the alley to the other.
“Hey man,” he says to my avenging angel, “relax. You can’t do anything to me, anyway. I’ll call channel five and ruin you.”
Vic sucks in air and his stomach goes rock hard under my hands. I’m torn between disbelief and laughter. Vic is beloved on and off the ice. His reputation is squeaky clean. He’s a man any parent would love to have their kids bring home. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him throw a punch. Not even during on-ice brawls. I also know we’re a trending topic with a mostly positive reception. There are very few people who would believe this drunkard’s version of events even if he strolled into the newsroom with a black eye and footage of Vic clocking him.
But I also know that Vic isn’t worried about his reputation.
He’s worried about mine.
Or, more accurately, the existence of my job if he and I end up on the news. Again. The trembling in his muscles, the flex in his jaw, the fist wrapped around his skates with the knife-sharp blades… He’s protecting me. He’s frozen because he can’t figure out the biggest threat.
“That’s a great idea,” I step around Vic and face down the man myself, “We can take a walk downtown together and tell our side of the story, too. In fact, we can go right to the police station and file a report with whomever is on duty.” I lean into Vic’s side, feeling his body heat clear through all my layers.
“What’s even better,” I say, “Is that I got that whole conversation recorded.” I wiggle my phone at the man. He’s turning an interesting shade of gray. Maybe we should contact Pantone and see if they’ll let us name it “Fear of Repercussion.” Gray. “I’m guessing Vic might get a pass for basically telling you to walk away after you asked him to help you rape his wife.”
“I didn’t—” the man is gasping for air, mouth gaping like a fish out of water.
I wiggle my phone at him again. “That’s not what this will say.” He loses even more color. “And let’s think for a moment, who do you think people are going to believe? A misogynistic drunk? Or a decorated professional hockey player with video and audio evidence on his side?”
I’m bluffing. I haven’t recorded a single moment of this interaction. I was too busy melting over my husband’s fierce protectiveness, but I’m betting that our friend here will believe it.
“You—you can’t record me without asking!” He’s switched from gray to purple. It’s not a better look for him.
“Actually, I can. This is a single party consent state. And I consented to it.” I smile my shark smile, the one Mads says sends people running for cover. “I know these things. My job is social media, after all. So maybe I’ll delete this when you walk away and leave us alone. Without an autograph.”
“Right.” The man nods. “I’ll just be going now. I’m sorry. So sorry. Sir. Ma’am. Fuck.”
Vic presses a kiss to the top of my head as the man disappears down the alley, moving faster than I’d have thought possible.
“You,” he kisses my temple, “Are magnificent.”
My heart is pounding, thundering away inside the cage of my chest, and I twist my fingers in the hem of Vic’s sweatshirt. Heat is pouring through my veins, I’m panting, and I know this is the adrenaline talking, but I’m about to drop to my knees to thank my husband properly.
