Page 97 of Put a Rink on It

I’m doubting this doesn’t last forever, especially since she mentioned something about a wedding date. That’s a good sign. She’d be well justified to prolong choosing a date. Probably a lot easier for a clean break if we don’t go through with the wedding. Less mess to clean up.

My heart twists at the thought.

Somehow, between her agreeing to this farce and now, we’ve fallen into a routine that works. The longer she’s in my space, the more I enjoy having her here, and I don’t want to see this end.

Except that’s not fair to her. She wants a family.

Even when I retire, I’m not sure kids are in the cards for me. I could never give Marina a family like the Keeleys. I didn’t grow up with that kind of closeness. Outside of my job, I like the freedom to do what I want and not having to worry about anyone else’s schedule. I’m too set in my ways for a baby, let alone toddlers and older. I’m a horrible babysitter. Ask any of my old teammates how much they don’t trust me to watch their kids.

The same goes for why I haven’t settled down with a woman. First, the schedule wouldn’t be fair to her. I travel half the season, live out of hotels, spend way too much time with grown men without the best manners.

Second, I’d want someone who’s into me for my personality—quirks and all—not someone who wants me for my hockey ability and money. It would be hard to trust someone I meet to know if they were with me for the right reasons.

Third, I don’t let others get too close.

But you let Marina in, a whisper from my brain pipes in.

Rather than argue with myself about how she’s self-sufficient and an adult, I check the steaks, remove them from the grill, and turn it off. I make a mental note to close the grill lid when it’s cool.

In the kitchen, there are two plates, a baked potato and string beans on each. She went all out, even selecting my favorite vegetable.

Should I feel bad I didn’t think of initiating a date myself? Am I selfish for not treating her the way she deserves to be treated? By wining and dining her, taking her out on the town. Which reminds me of the galas she’s been my “date” at. Do those count? The invites were purely friendly, so she’s right to dismiss them. Not even worth mentioning.

I place a steak on each plate, leaving the dirty platter on the counter for later. Since she went to all this trouble, the least I can do is clean up the kitchen.

After sex.

Balancing the plates in my hands, I head for the living room, stopping at the edge at how she’s gone all out.

A fancy runner on the coffee table, two place settings next to each other in front of the couch.

Two glasses of red wine, the bottle off to the side.

Dimmed lights.

Marina herself, sitting on the couch, her light the brightest of all. Why did I spend all these years fighting my attraction to her? It’s not her beauty, but her soul. Who she is, the essence she exudes. I nearly drop the plates staring at her.

I pull myself together and stride toward the setup, laying down one plate at a time.

“String beans. Nice touch.”

Her smile brightens, and she taps the couch next to her. “Had to go big for our first date. Here’s me admitting the black card comes in handy.” A hearty chuckle releases, the sound enhancing the elegance of the night.

I relax into the couch, my mind—and emotions—on overdrive. Maybe worse than an overtime shootout. How can the feelings be so real?

“Got your notebook and calendar?”

“Oops. Let me grab them.” I hurry from the living room, swiping them off the counter where I left them. “Should we pick the date first so it’s done?” I inquire upon my return. I retake the seat next to her, downing a sip of wine to settle my unexplained nerves.

“First, we’re going to dig into the steak so it doesn’t get cold, then we’ll talk dates. I have a few in mind, but I only have your schedule until the end of the season. Do you currently have any plans for the offseason?”

“Besides marrying you?” The question leaps from my mouth before I can pull it back, but thankfully, she’s not deterred.

She slices into the steak, watching as the knife slides easily through it. “Yep. Ettie’s wedding is the end of April, and Walsh’s is in the fall, so June should be good. I want to avoid the July fourth holiday, which might be pushing it if the team makes the finals.”

“When,” I correct. It’s automatic and probably highly unlikely, but call me superstitious. I’m used to it.

She nods, going along with my idea. “When.” She stabs a piece of steak. I shift my body toward her, my eyes stuck on her every movement until the bite is hidden away, her eyes closing as the flavors hit her tongue. “Fuck, that’s delicious,” she moans, the sound a direct link to my aching cock. After swallowing, she glances at me. “Perfect grill job. Try it.”