Chapter 35

Coleson

While the warm weather of California is a nice change from the winter blast back in Tennessee, the temp in an ice rink is the same all over. Even with the chill, I am sweating balls as I haul ass up the ice with the puck, ignoring the roar of the home team’s crowd. They are loud here in Cali, and I love it. Even if they’re screaming at me to get hit rather than to score. Since I’m wanting the latter, I dig in, putting on the gas to get around a defenseman before sending the puck to Evangelina. He cradles it with his stick, carrying it over the line as I head toward the goal. I don’t know where Andrews is, but I have started playing as if he doesn’t exist. As far as I’m concerned, it’s only Evangelina and me on the ice, and it’s been working well for me.

I stand my ground, fighting the defenseman who is trying to move me out of his goalie’s way, and watch as my teammates pass the puck, looking for an opening. We’re down by two, but I’m not worried. The third period is when we shine. I don’t know why that is, but until the second period, it’s like we have forgotten that we wear skates to play on ice and don’t know a stick from a puck. It’s a pain in the ass coming back, but hey, we’ve done it the last couple weeks, and it’s becoming the norm for us.

Evangelina sends the puck to the blue line before Sellner, one of our defensemen, moves it back and forth on his stick. His eyes do the same while he tries to find a way to get the puck to the back of the net. He moves in, and when one of the other team’s players comes for him, Sellner sends the puck across the ice to his linemate Winters. I dig my shoulder into my guy, with my stick more to the ice in case they pass it to me for me to redirect to Andrews or Evangelina. Sellner calls out something, but I miss it until Winters sends the puck to him, and he shoots it hard toward us. I try to get out of the way, but it hits me in the side. Before I can even register the pain that is burning up my ribs, I slam the puck toward the net. To my delight, even though it’s a sloppy shot, it goes over the goalie’s left knee pad.

The goal horn sounds, and I grin like a fool.

But once I get up, I feel every bit of the sting from where the puck hit me in a spot where I’m not covered by a pad. I celebrate with the guys and wave Sellner off when he checks on me. “I’m good. Let’s get two more.”

He nods, tapping his blade to my shins before we head to the bench. When I sit down, Coach grips my shoulder. “You good?”

“Fine,” I say with a nod and then wave off the trainer.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” I lie as the pain radiates along my ribs. I’m pretty sure something is either bruised or broken, but I refuse to let that slow me down. Or show on my face. I have goals, and I will not allow them to make me stop playing. Not only will that look bad for my game, but it’ll worry the hell out of my wife. I know she is watching, as she always does. She hasn’t missed a game, home or away, and my need to impress her can sometimes be a bit overwhelming. I love how proud she is of me, how she squeals when I score, and how big her grin is when I call her after an away game. I’ve never experienced such support; even Coach doesn’t lift me up the way she does.

She’s pretty damn perfect.

We’ve fallen into one hell of a rhythm. It fills me with pride, knowing that I’ve kept my word, and that this has gone exactly how I wanted. Or at least, she makes it easy. As long as I don’t mess up anything she organizes, make drinks the way she wants, and clean up after myself, my wife is the sun. Shining such light into my life. Now, if I mess up, and I do, she loses her mind. For some reason, I cannot bring myself to clean my sink every time I shave. I’d rather do it at the end of the week, and boy do I hear it. She gets so mad, it’s fucking cute, and then I’m trying to distract her with my tongue. God, I desire my wife, every second. But make-up sex? Yeah, there is something pretty fucking special about it.

To my surprise, it’s been hard to be on road trips because it means I’m not with her. I crave her closeness. Life is better when my wife is grinning at me, laughing with me, when we’re teasing each other…just being with her. She has become such a pro in the coffeehouse, even while still helping at the bookshop. She’s not there as much as she was since Louisa and Ciaran bought a house halfway between the shop and Nashville. It’s still an hour and a half for each of them to get to the other, but they seem to be making it work.

Meanwhile, I’m riddled with jealousy. I have gone back and forth with myself, wondering if I should ask the same of my wife. I would drive four hours a day just to see her after my games, to have her hold me and gush over how she loves watching me play. Hell, she gushes about everything when it comes to me. I cleaned up my beard hair the other day, and she gave me a blow job because, “I didn’t have to remind you.” Just the thought of her on her knees, my cock so far down her throat, looking up at me like I hung the moon, still has my stomach clenching.

I fucking like her. A lot.

Way more than a fake wife and more like a real wife. Something I assumed I could never do. I didn’t have the best example of how to love a spouse, but… Fuck, it’s so easy. Not that I’ve told her or even accepted how I feel.

I don’t know how to go all in, tell her that she means the world to me and I don’t want this to end after a year. That the mere thought of her not being in my corner or, shit, loving me, wrecks me. I don’t know what to do, and since I don’t, I just ignore it all. Not healthy, I know, but the alternative is to fall headfirst for Eliza Katz and keep her forever.

And the nagging feeling that I’m not good enough keeps me from doing just that.

So, I ignore everything and just enjoy the fact that when I call, my wife will answer.