“Like you’re trying to solve me. Figure out how I work.” She traces a finger along my jaw. “Same look you get when you’re studying game film.”
“That’s very romantic, comparing you to hockey footage.”
“It is for you. Everything comes back to hockey with you.”
“Not everything,” I protest.
“No? What about that time you explained why my orgasms reminded you of a perfect power play setup?”
“That was one time. And it was a very good analogy.”
“You’re not going to mess it up,” she says firmly. “We’re not going to mess it up. We’re in this together, remember?”
“Together,” I agree, pulling her closer. “I like the sound of that.”
We spend the rest of the morning in bed, talking and touching and learning each other’s bodies all over again. By the time I have to leave for practice, I’m reluctant to go.
“It’s just practice,” she points out, laughing at my obvious reluctance to get dressed.
“I know. But I like being here with you.”
“I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Now go, before Barrett benches you for being late.”
Practice is brutal, as playoff practices always are. Barrett runs us through systems until we’re all ready to drop, then makes us run it again. But even with the physical exhaustion, my mind keeps drifting to this morning. To the way Goldie looked in my shirt, the way she felt in my arms, the way she handled those Instagram messages without getting jealous or insecure.
“You’re in a good mood,” Roman observes as we’re changing after practice.
“It’s a good day.”
“The domestic life suits you,” he says, and there’s no mockery in it. Just observation.
“Yeah, it does.”
“Team dinner tonight?” Brody asks, overhearing. “New place downtown.”
“Can’t. Road trip starts tomorrow, so I want to spend tonight at home.”
“Home,” Brody repeats with a grin. “Listen to you, all settled and domestic.”
“Shut up,” I tell him, but I’m smiling. Because he’s right—I am settled. I am domestic. And I fucking love it.
The road trip is a nightmare.Not the hockey part—we’re advancing well in the playoffs. But being away from Goldie and the kids for four days feels like torture. We text constantly, send pictures, talk on the phone every night after the kids go to bed.
But it’s not enough. I want to be there for Tyson’s math test and Blythe’s school play rehearsal. I want to wake up next to Goldie and make coffee while she packs lunches. I want the mundane, everyday moments that I never appreciated before.
“You’ve got it bad,” Rodriguez observes on the last morning.
“Got what bad?”
“The domestic thing. You’re like a lovesick teenager, checking your phone every five minutes.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You literally just sighed because you got a picture of them eating breakfast.”
