Page 28 of Puck Love

Eli picks up the invoice from my purchase and whistles. “That’s an awful lot of money to blow on a girl you justmet.”

“No, it’s not. I make more than you.” I shrug and snatch the receipt. A younger helper comes over and hefts the case off the counter, handing it tome.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him and hurrying toward the door before he can ask if I’m Van Ross. I get it, it’s cool when hockey fans see their players out and about in Calgary, and I normally always take the time to talk to them and sign something, but sometimes getting even the simplest shit done becomes impossible because one overzealous fan attracts more, and then you’re surrounded in a grocery store by people who probably don’t even watch the game but want your autograph anyway so they can tell their friends about that one time that they met so and so. Like it actuallymatters.

Eli looks askance as we head out to the Hummer. I place the guitar on the floor of the backseat. He climbs in, and I jump behind the wheel and start the engine. We’re halfway down-town before he opens hismouth.

“Don’t,” I say, too loud in the cab of mycar.

“Don’twhat?”

I shoot him an irritated look. “Don’t ask me anymore aboutit.”

“Wasn’tgonna.”

“Bullshit. I knowyou.”

“And I know you.” He smirks. “The Van Ross I know doesn’t keep secrets aboutgirls.”

“Well, maybe I’m turning over a newleaf.”

“Jesus Christ. You really are whipped.” He makes kissy faces atme.

“Cut itout.”

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re mad.” He chuckles. “You know it’s only a matter of time before everyone finds out, right? You can’t keep it a secretforever.”

I sigh. I feel my exhaustion right down to the marrow of my bones. He’s right. Sooner or later it will come out that a country star is staying at my house, and then I’ll have to let her go back to Nashville, back to her life on the road—a life without me. I’m not ready for that. I’d be happy to keep her to myself for a while longer. It’s why I let her stay in the first place. I saw how desperate she was to escape it all, and I know that feeling well. The fame is a side effect of what I do. I couldn’t play in the NHL without it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. That’s why I live all the way out in the sticks, because I wanna come home and just be me, free of reporters and fans, just be a guy who happens to play the greatest game in the world, and who gets to pay the bills from it. For the longest time, it’s just been me and Emmett, and aside from a couple of quickies at parties or fucking a couple of puck bunnies here and there, that’s the way I’ve always wanted it. But having Stella in my house these past couple of days? It’s nice, and I’m not ready to let her goyet.

I pull up to thedrive and stare at the house. It’s quiet, and I wonder what she’s been doing all day. Visions of her naked and diddling herself on my couch dance through my head, and I have to readjust my dick before I pull the guitar from the backseat and walk inside. “Honey, I’mhome.”

Stella’s on my couch, alright, but she’s definitely not buffin’ the muffin. She’s sound asleep, and what’s more, she’s dressed in one of my flannels and a pair of tights that Em and I picked up from the mall in Calgary after practice on Tuesday, along with some tank tops, bunny slippers—because I couldn’t resist the joke—and bras and panties from Victoria’s Secret. We got some pretty weird looks in that store, but once I’d been made, I was asked to sign several pairs of panties that I have no doubt will wind up oneBay.

Stella’s hair is pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head, her face free of makeup, and she’s so damn beautiful it makes my chest hurt. She’s surrounded by pieces of wadded up paper, but one of them rests on the coffee table. It’s a song. I stare down at the lyrics, and a smile creeps over my face. I can’t believe she can create something likethis.

I don’t create. I don’t make anything. I hit a piece of volcanized rubber around the ice with a stick, and I get paid a cool twelve-mil a season to do it, but I don’t create. I’ve never made anything a day in my life. It makes what she does for a living pretty awesome. It also makes me realize that though she might not want to go back right this second, she will soon. I can tell how much she misses it. I’d go fucking crazy if I couldn’t play hockey every fewdays.

I quietly set the guitar case on the table, brushing the few flakes of snow off that haven’t yet melted, and I grab the afghan from the couch opposite and gently lay it over her. She doesn’t stir, so I stoke the fire, which has almost gone out. As quietly as I can, I put another log on and get it crackling. Then I stretch out my aching muscles and sit on the couch beside her. There’s a whole other sofa across the room, and another couple armchairs, too, but her feet are freezing, so I pull them into my lap and rest my head against the soft leather. I have no intention of dozing off. I should get started on dinner, but I like being this close to her, and I don’t wanna walkaway.

I stare at her sleeping face, lit by the glow of the fire and the dying light from the window. This is the first time we’ve been alone in my house. Emmett works Thursday nights and Friday mornings at the Calgary Hospital on the children’s ward filing paperwork, and lunch is spent with his social group outings, so he stays with our mom in Calgary on Thursdays. He hates it. He hates the social stuff, too, but it’s good for him, I think. Emmett doesn’t feel like a dude with Down syndrome, and he hates being forced to take part in group activities with people his age who have disabilities, but he goes anyway. I think because he knows people can be assholes, and girls won’t talk to him outside of that group. Unless, of course, they happen to be puck bunnies. Those girls only acknowledge him because they think it will impress me.Because talking to my adult brother as if he’s a fucking kid is super impressive. That doesn’t make either one of us happy. It just pisses both of us off, and ensures I’ll never give those bunnies the time ofday.

Emmett’s a regular guy. Sure, he sometimes reverts to a bit of childlike behavior when he doesn’t get what he wants, but he’s the coolest guy I know. He’s my best friend, my world, and more important to me than any puck-fuck could ever be. Stella’s never treated him like the other girls do. She doesn’t talk down to him, she doesn’t seem uncomfortable around him, and she actively involves him in the conversation. I respect that about her, somuch.

I don’t care that staring at her while she sleeps makes me a total creeper, and I don’t know when I’m going to ever get this chance again, so I slide my phone from my pocket, turn it to silent, and snap a pic. It makes a stupid rapid-fire clicking noise anyway, as if I’m supposed to believe there’s an actual shutter on my iPhone, and I wince because I don’t want her to wake. She stirs, but snuggles farther into the couch, and a chuckle escapes me. If I could carry her without fucking my shoulder even more, I would. I’d take her up to my room and lay her down in the bed, and just watch her sleep. Though she’d likely wake up, wonder what the hell I was doing, and start attacking me with my electric razoragain.

Instead, I fall asleep with her feet in my lap, as if we’re an old married couple, as if we do this every day, and it’s the best sleep I’ve everhad.

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