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“When was that established?”
“You don’t think this exchange will be distracting to your teammates?” He changes tactics.
“I’m only answering the questions you ask.” I hold my hands up like I’m innocent.
“You’re not answering, you’re evading.”
“Ask me a question about hockey and I’ll answer.”
“This team fell short in the playoffs last year and is already four games out of first. Can you turn things around?” He studies me critically.
“Considering we just won today, I’d say so.”
“That’s only one win.”
“I have faith in us.”
“Why?”
“Because if we fall seven times, we’ll get up eight.” I wink, just for Tripp, who I know is watching.
Later that night, my phone beeps with an incoming video call, and before I can even say hello, Tripp bombards me. “I don’t know a Preston. Is that customary? Statistically speaking. Omigod I about came in my pants. You make one sexy brat.”
“Well, I learned from the best.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Damn right. Now flip the screen and show me your gorgeous cock. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen it.”
“You saw it yesterday,” I remind him while doing what he says.
“Exactly. That’s entirely too long.”
Epilogue
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I grumble, wincing as the tattoo gun hits my skin.
“Oh, come on, it’s not that painful. I’m sure you’ve taken a puck that hurt worse.” Tripp rolls his eyes.
“It’s not the pain I’m complaining about.”
“You don’t like my artwork?”
“I love the artwork. Or I did until you told me about its alternative meaning.”
Despite having rings that say we belong to each other, Tripp wasn’t satisfied with something that could be removed, so he talked me into matching tattoos. He drew up a design with two hockey sticks framing a skateboard like a heart, and our initials in an elegant old English-style text. Then he shaded it to look sort of vintage.
“I mean, it’s not inaccurate.” He smirks mischievously as the second hockey stick gets inked onto my skin, crossing over top of the first.
“The rings on our fingers already say we’re crossing swords. We don’t need a literal picture of crossing swords on our arms.”
“Technically it’s crossing hockey sticks.” Tripp points to the blade as evidence while Jim tries to hide his laughter and ends up snorting instead.
“Did you know he was sneaking hidden meanings into the design?” I ask the man who helpedTripp get off the streets.
“It’s Tripp.” He shrugs as he gets more ink on the needle. “I sort of assume there’s always a double meaning to anything he does.”
“The guys are never gonna let me live this down.” My head thunks against the back of the chair as I try to remind myself that I asked him to marry me because I knew life would never be boring.
“We could’ve put them on our asses, like I first suggested,” Tripp unhelpfully says.
