Page 23 of Mother Pucker

He unwraps his arms from me. “What?”

“Rowan Parker gave us tickets to come to his home game on Tuesday.”

“Wha–” Kai’s shocked response is muffled when Beckett’s voice booms from behind us.

“And guess what else, IceMan,” Beckett addresses my son. “He asked your mom to come along with him to his away games in California next weekend.”

Oh, this weasley asshole.He knows letting that tidbit slip in front of my son will only put more pressure on me to say yes.

“Oh my god, Mom!” Kai grabs my shoulders urgently. “You have to go!”

I throw fire-tipped daggers at Beckett with my eyes before turning to my son. “I haven’t said yes because I don’t know if I’m ready to spend three nights away from you. What if . . . what if something happens to you while I’m gone?”

“Mom, nothing will happen to me. I promise.”

That familiar anxious feeling twists my gut. “I don’t know . . .”

“Hey, Shayla?” Beckett’s voice pulls me out of my daze as he wraps his arms around Liv’s waist with a sly grin on his face. “Doesn’t my wife look like asmoke showtoday?”

My eyes connect with his and the message is as clear as his evil smirk. The piece of shit is blackmailing me for my consent on the away games by using that very specific and very obvious word.

Pity. I was just starting to like him, too . . .

“Doesn’t she looksmoking-hot?” He throws a wink in my direction, making sure Liv isn’t watching.

Liv turns to look up at him. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What?” He smiles at her innocently. “It’s not like I’m blowingsmokeup your ass, Livy. You really are the hottest woman I’ve ever met. Hotter than a blazing inferno. Hotter than the cherry tip of a cigarette.”

“Those are really weird comparisons,” Liv mumbles distractedly.

Beckett’s devious grin finds my face, and my hands fist at my side. I swear, I’m two seconds from giving his smug billionaire face a high-five with my fist.

“Fine! I’ll go to the away games!” I roar, reminding myself to add castor oil or a stronger laxative to his coffee.

I’m only halfway down the steps when I hear Liv ask, “What’s gotten into her?”

eight

rowan

I release a short breath,willing myself to ignore the burn in my thigh. It isn’t as bad as it was a few days ago, but I’ll have to be careful with my strides today. I already know I won’t be as fast as I usually am on the ice. I can feel that, even as I do the pre-game warmups.

But hell if I’ll ride the pine on the bench. I’ve already been off the ice for almost two weeks, and each day that I’m not with my team, I feel like I’m letting them down. I didn’t work my ass off for years trying to get here–winning not one, but three Norris trophies–only to sit out during the start of an important season.

I’m not just the player with the booming slapshots and smart passes; I’m also the player my team relies on to help set up bigger offensive plays and coordinate defensive strategies. I’m known for relying on my gut, anticipating the opposing team’s plays before anyone else. It’s not a skill that can be taught, but I’ve honed my instincts over the years–going after what feels right, even if it’s risky.

I suppose I can attribute that to things off the ice as well. Like a certain spitfire physical therapist who packs one hell of a personality in that short, fit body of hers.

Though I emailed her through her work email address–because the woman refused to give me her number–I never did get a response as to whether she and her son were going to be at the game tonight.

I look up at the stadium as it fills up, trying not to feel deflated when I notice their empty seats.

We’re down during the first period, Tampa taking the lead in goals and assists, but even with my thigh feeling tight, I’ve made some decent passes and still feel optimistic about winning this game. Why? Because while the opposing team might be up 0-1, I can already tell they’re making the same mistakes–not guarding the corners and trying to make predictable plays. They’re also getting sloppy, and that’s great news for us.

We take an intermission, and my eyes fly back up to the stands, scanning the audience for the woman I’m looking for. At first, I don’t see her behind the large man in front of her, but it’s when he leaves his seat that my gaze connects with hers.

A smile forms on my face and fuck, my heart hammers for reasons that have nothing to do with the sport I’m playing.

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