Page 77 of Put a Rink on It

“Your talent in hockey knows no bounds, Nero,” I state. With a front-row seat to his career, he’s accomplished so much during his time with the league.

“Giving back to the hockey community.”

“Another check. How about personally?”

“I figure one day there might be a woman who’d put up with me enough to settle down. Maybe if I’m lucky. Though I’m not sure kids are in my future. For various reasons.”

I turn away from him so he can’t see my reaction to his “maybe.” These feelings are stupid. What he wants for his life has no bearing on mine. We’re not destined to end up together. If he’s wishy-washy on the kids front, that’s for some other woman to deal with. That won’t stop me from pursuing my dream of a family.

I wasn’t lying when I told him I’m happy here. Sure, it could be because it’s temporary, I’m helping him out, or it could be all the orgasms. Not only were they missing from my life, but specifically the kind of orgasms Nero provides. My thighs rub together at the mere thought. Between our schedules, it’s been a few days. I went so long with only self-induced ones, but one taste from him, and I’m wanton for more. As many as he’ll give me.

I don’t realize he’s still talking until he says, “Become a coach,” piquing my interest.

“Oh, really?” He’d make an excellent coach at any level, but I wasn’t aware coaching was on his radar.

“Totes, Ships.”

“Is it scary to think you’re closer to retirement than not?”

“In a way. I’m not sure who I am without hockey. Good thing I’ve still got some time to figure it out.” He stretches his neck from side-to-side. “Scheduled a massage for tomorrow.”

I assess him as he rolls his shoulders. “Your shoulders seem more tense than usual.”

“I’m not getting any younger. I’m like the old men of the sport I used to make fun of when I first started. How did I become one of them?”

“Time snuck up on you while you were having fun scoring goals and pushing opponents against the boards.” My chortle fills the kitchen, helping to ease the tension from the conversation. “Ready to make cookies?” I set my phone on the counter, hoping this isn’t an epic failure.

Two hours later, the kitchen’s a disaster, but it smells delicious, notes of sugar and caramel tantalizing my nostrils. The dough was a little finicky at first, but we made it work. Nero sat at the counter “overseeing” the operation but really jotting things in his notebook. I’ve always wondered if his notebooks are his version of a diary, but the one time I asked, he denied it.

“What day would be good for the movers to come?”

“How about Monday? Saturday morning is Lennon’s game and then lunch at my parents’ house, which will give me time Sunday to go through some things, make piles, decide what to do with all the stuff I don’t need.”

“Okay, I’ll see who I can find for Monday.”

“I’ll drive up Thursday to get a head start on things.”

He looks up from the paper. “Then we’ll each have to drive both ways by ourselves and have two cars to drive home. I don’t like that plan.”

I catch my laughter from exploding at the way he’s like a toddler being told he can’t have his favorite toy.

“Let me hear your plan.”

I place a plate of cookies in front of him, and he grabs two, immediately biting into one, moaning as he swallows, my arousal igniting, needing a swift remedy to combat it.

Or satisfy it.

“Scratch that,” I amend. “Orgasms first, moving plan later. That seems doable, right?”

His eyebrows rise, and he clears his throat. “Is this how it’s going to be when you live here permanently? Sex at any time of day when you’re in the mood?”

“If you’re not complaining, yes. If you are complaining, yes. Besides, is there a time of day more appropriate for sex than others?” He opens his mouth, but nothing emerges. “Thought so. Want to follow me to the bedroom?”

I’ve never felt as comfortable in my body as when I’m with Nero. Never been so bold than when he’s my partner. I can’t explain what comes over me, why I have no qualms asking for—and taking—what I want.

“I want you on the couch.” His statement is a growl, a demand, and fuck if my panties don’t dampen. “That seems doable, right?” He parrots my words from moments ago, but his are so gravelly, so needy, so not in a way to argue.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. I started this game, but I wasn’t prepared for him to change the rules.