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Hearing both options laid out without any sugarcoating briefly cuts off my ability to breathe.
“Brendan Anders Brickley, do you or do you not wanna stay with this team?”
“I loathe the fact that you even have to fucking ask.”
“Well, I do.” Her chin kicks up higher. “And I want an answer.”
“Of course, I wanna fucking stay with this team,” my finger frantically gestures between her, me, and her stomach. “I’m not looking to make a trade or to hang ‘em up. I’m just gonna need a little more slack cut my way.”
Harlow’s mouth lowers to argue prompting me to rush the rest of my sentence.
“Whether you like it or not, I’m still a rookie, baby.”
The hockey reference relaxes her shoulders.
Her face.
“I’m still out here learning all this shit. And I’m gonna fuck up because, that’s just life, and we fuck up and we keep going, but I promise…I fucking promise to always do my best. To always give this shit everything I’ve got. And to try to learn from my fucks up.”
A smile finally crosses her lips.
“I’m also gonna need you to not yell.”
“Was I yelling or shouting?”
“That’s not a hockey phrase. You know those are the same fucking thing.”
An unmistakable twinge of guilt can be seen in her brown gaze.
“I need you to talk to me not at me even when you’re pissed. Talking to me makes me feel like we’re equals, like we’re on the same team, like we want the same shit at the end of every day. Yelling at me makes me feel like I just got my driver’s license and am skipping last period to fuck a chick in the backseat of my car.” My hands curl around the edge of her desk for support. “Yelling at me makes me feel that age problem shit.”
Harlow’s face yet again softens as she quietly concedes, “Understood.”
“And?”
“And that’s as good of an apology as you’re gonna get,” she sassily proclaims. “Now, Bricks, take your hurt ass down to medical. I’ve got calls to make.”
“Yeah, I’m not leaving without a kiss goodbye to my wife.” I playfully shrug. “I know I’ve fucking earned that shit.”
“For winning that tilly against Page?”
“For defending your honor against Page.” Dramatics drip from my tone. “For riding into battle and slaying that dragon.”
“Your dad puns are getting worse and worse. Don’t make me ban you from talking in front of the twins so they don’t chirp like you.”
Laughter leaves us both prior to me leaning over to lightly press my lips against hers.
Pain is immediate but so is relief.
Relief in knowing I still have a wife.
A family.
A team as she prefers to call it.
Harlow separates us on a pleased hum, gives my leg a small pat, verbally pushes me out. “Wheel, Bricks.”
Another light chuckle slips loose on my way over to the door. Upon my opening it, Margot saunters in with lunch in hand. “Mediterranean salmon with a kale salad and a side of lemon olive oil dressing.”
“I didn’t order that.”
“No, your husband did,” she offhandedly informs while placing the items on the desk. “Get the Lysol wipes out of your top desk drawer. I need to wipe down this space before you even think about eating in it.”
My attention swings to the woman I love one last time, and I shoot her a cocky wink.
Maybe I don’t always get everything right.
But I damn sure don’t always get everything wrong.
And hopefully, above all else, the one thing she knows without a doubt is that she can always count on me for the assist she needs most.
Harlow
Game day.
Actual. Fucking. Game. Day.
This shit is always stressful.
For everyone.
Add in the fact it’s the first of the whole fucking season, the first in our barn, the first with me as the owner, first with me as the GM, first with Blanc as the coach, first with practically a brand-new team, and what you have is no longer a typical game day level of stress, but a nuclear one.
And my poor husband is learning front and center just how fucking nuclear from two different ends of the rink. It’s an all-hands-on deck sort of situation with the boys because everything for everyone from first line to last line to ice girls needs to be ready to go. Skates sharp as fuck. Sticks in the right spots. Sweaters hung up. Logo fucking shining. He’s been at work since four thirty this morning doing whatever Craig and Bryant—the other equipment assistant we hired around the beginning of training camp who’ll be Craig’s second in command due to his willingness to travel and multiple years of experience—needed done. Around their needs, he’s been rushing to meet mine. He knows Margot has me covered—it’s literally her job—yet still texts to check if I’m hydrating. How I’m relieving the built-up anxiety. To remind me to stop pacing the office and get off my slightly swollen feet. Not to eat because they need to run tests today at the doctor.
